by Steve Beaven
After the air ball, UE guard Murray Lendy misses a jumper, Johnson travels, and Leaf loses the ball on his way to the basket. A few seconds later, he loses it again. Marquette responds to this sudden spasm of ineptitude with twelve points in a row, including two free throws from Dean Marquardt. Evansville trails 27–15. The Aces are playing as if they’re underwater, the crowd noise muffled, their legs heavy and slow. Larry Calton is glum. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen any basketball team go as cold as the Aces have here in the first half.”
Evansville endures nine minutes and fourteen possessions in a row without a basket. There will be great debate about how this happened, whether it was a self-inflicted wound or a canny scouting report. Either way, Marquette leads 29–20 at halftime and Leaf trudges off the floor after hitting just one of his twelve shots.
At Ensor’s, Junior Fisher is pissed.
“They got to get the lid off the basket,” he says. “Walters, get your shit together.”
But Junior is more hopeful than Lloyd Titzer. Lloyd is ready to give up. Why hold out hope for the second half? Unlike the students at Harper, the men at Ensor’s have endured their share of failure and regret. Better to throw in the towel early than be disappointed at the end.
“If Leaf’s off,” Titzer says, speaking to no one and everyone at the same time, “it’s all over.”
The most astonishing story for Marquette tonight is not Dean Marquardt’s scoring. Marquardt is big enough to force his way to the rim, and he’d always had a nice jumper. But that isn’t the miracle of the evening. The miracle is the fact that Marquardt is even in uniform, that he is even alive.
Marquardt was a high school senior in 1978, a big kid from Milwaukee and one of the top recruits in Wisconsin. His long list of college suitors included Kentucky, Minnesota, and Cincinnati. But in the end, it came down to Marquette and Wisconsin. Marquardt had cheered Al McGuire’s national championship team in 1977 and worked on his game at McGuire’s summer basketball camps. When he chose to play for the Warriors, Hank Raymonds called it “a beautiful day for Marquette University.”
Marquardt played well enough as a reserve in his freshman year to start at center as a sophomore. He spent the summer of ’79 shoveling gravel on an asphalt crew and playing basketball every night. He’d gained thirty pounds and felt stronger and more confident as the summer ended. But early on a Sunday morning that August, less than two months before the start of practice, his car collided with a pickup at a Milwaukee intersection. A couple who happened upon the crash tried to provide first aid, but couldn’t get into the car. Firefighters on a nearby call had to pry one of the doors open to pull Marquardt out. The crash killed a passenger in Marquardt’s car and left him with fifteen broken ribs, a broken collarbone, and a collapsed lung. His left arm was shattered, and he lost twenty to twenty-five pounds after three weeks in the hospital. Back at his parents’ house, he couldn’t tie his shoes or shower by himself. A walk down the driveway and back to the house left him exhausted. Doctors told him it would take a year, at least, to fully recover. But he couldn’t give up on basketball. In the months after the crash, he needed it more than ever. He started physical therapy that fall. He was playing again by the end of the year, slow and sluggish, with heavy braces on his chest and arm. His averages of 1.4 points and 1.6 rebounds that season were cause for celebration.
Marquardt was an excellent passer and a consistent shooter from fifteen feet. But he was planted in the post for most of every game. Raymonds didn’t run plays for his big guys. With Wilson and Rivers at guard, he didn’t need to. So Marquardt rebounded, set picks, played defense, and scored when he happened to find himself with the ball beneath the basket. He’d never scored more than seventeen points at Marquette.
But at halftime at the Mabee Center, Raymonds gives Marquardt a new role. After he noticed that the Aces’ 1-3-1 gave Marquette room along the baseline, where Theren Bullock has to run from one corner to the other, Raymonds tells Marquardt to drift out from beneath the basket and fire away. It’s a novel strategy, counterintuitive, sending your center out to shoot from long range. With Nyenhuis in control beneath the basket, however, Marquette can afford to leave Marquardt in the corner, all by himself.
Steve Sherwood sits at the end of the bench tonight with an ankle so swollen that he couldn’t fit it into a normal shoe without removing the laces. He won’t play at all.
But at Harper Dining Center, Sherwood’s fan club fills the first row and their hero’s injury doesn’t dampen their spirit. Geek’s Guerillas was hatched in a double dorm room they called the Jungle, which is decorated with a plastic palm tree, piles of dirty laundry, and a drink machine that dispenses pure grain alcohol. Sherwood doesn’t even live there. But the guys are engineering and business majors who adopted him as one of their own and borrowed his nickname to create T-shirts with “Geek’s Guerillas” on the front and his number—54—on the back. A dozen or so guys came to home games that season and whipped the small student section into a frenzy. They had plenty to cheer about. Sherwood had advanced in four seasons from a little-used walk-on to a solid sub and campus cult hero. Geek’s Guerillas could count on their man to score a bucket or two and grab a couple of rebounds each game, giving Emir Turam and Kenny Perry a breather and providing Walters with a brawny center who relished his all-grit-no-glory role.
Sherwood’s ankle injury is a bummer, and not just for Sherwood and his buddies. Turam and Perry might as well be in street clothes tonight, given the way Marquardt and Nyenhuis are playing. Sherwood could, at the very least, rough up Nyenhuis for a few minutes, maybe draw a couple of fouls and change the tenor of the game.
Anything would help. Trailing by nine after twenty minutes, the Aces desperately need a jolt of energy.
Brad Leaf jogs from the locker room, unbowed. He cannot explain the first half. The open jumper from the right wing? The air ball? This has never happened before. He’s at a loss. Could it be that he’s stuck in a moment that is simply too big for him, that he’s overwhelmed by the pressure to audition for the scouts and the bottomless obligation he feels to Evansville?
Hank Raymonds would dismiss such questions as existential gibberish. He can easily explain Brad’s lousy first half. In preparing for the Aces, Marquette’s coaches noticed that Leaf needed an extra second or two before he set himself to shoot. He did more than merely flick his wrist. Leaf’s form was deliberate, and Raymonds believed Marquette could disrupt his rhythm by going at him belly to belly. So he ordered Wilson to get in Leaf’s face at every opportunity. Cut him off, don’t give him the time or space to get set.
It looked like a brilliant strategy for those first twenty minutes. But shooters shoot. It’s the only way to break a slump. And Leaf is one of the purest shooters in the country.
It takes him a few minutes to get warmed up in the second half. But he’s not panicked. He doesn’t fling the ball to the rim every time he touches it. Instead, he waits, looking for a seam in the defense, empty space he can claim as his own if only for a split second. With nearly five minutes elapsed, Leaf moves in a broad arc from the top of the key to the baseline, taking a pass from Eric Harris.
“Eric from long range,” Calton says, “into the right corner to Leaf. Brad maneuvers in, puts it up. And it is good! Maybe that will get Brad started.”
Indeed, it’s as if a dam has broken and now the shots fall from all angles: drives in the lane, jumpers from the corner, free throws. It is a relief, yes, finally. This is what Brad expected all along, what his teammates had seen the entire season, at Carson Center, Roberts Stadium, and all the other gyms they’d passed through during this remarkable four-month run, twenty-eight games, twenty-three victories, barely hanging on for number twenty-four. This is what Jerry Leaf had prepared him for, all those summer nights in the driveway, charting his shots: fifty free throws, fifty from the corner, fifty from the top of the key. Brad was built for moments like this.
But nearly every time he scores, Marquardt answers. No one exp
ected a shootout between Brad Leaf and Dean Marquardt. And yet, they trade baskets seven times in the second half. No one expected much from Brian Nyenhuis either. And yet, he’s making sport of Evansville’s big men. Marquette leads 47–34 midway through the second half, and Hank Raymonds looks like a genius.
Evansville’s run starts with seven minutes to play, Marquette up by ten. Harris drops two jumpers from twenty feet. Leaf sinks two free throws. He has fourteen points. The Marquette lead is now four, and Larry Calton is shouting into the mic, which is not unusual for him.
On some nights, his booming voice misses the mark and overwhelms the action. Pedestrian plays gets swallowed up and exaggerated. But tonight his delivery is spot-on, pitch-perfect for this moment, and exactly what his listeners back in Evansville want to hear. Because they’re shouting, too.
“Bullock on the left side, comes to the top of the key, gives it to Leaf. Brad goes to the right. Still dribbling. Now down the middle, Leaf stops. Puts it up in traffic . . . It’s good! Oh what a shot! Sensational shot by Brad Leaf! And it’s 51–49!”
In Boonville, the guys are chanting and, for a few seconds at least, the small crowd at Ensor’s First and Last Chance doesn’t sound much different from all the kids at Harper Dining Center: “Aces! Aces!”
The load he’s taken on in the second half has left Leaf exhausted, dragging. He’s spent so much energy bringing the Aces back, running past screens, enduring elbows and hip checks in the lane, that when Walters pulls him for a breather, he slumps into his seat on the bench, head hung low. He’s scored sixteen. Bullock has seventeen. Harris has come around, too. The seniors, carrying the Aces again.
But they’ve received little help. Turam, who’d come so far this season, who had transformed himself into a true Division I center, fouled out early after missing all three of his shots. Kenny Perry, his replacement, who turned down UCLA and the good life in Southern California, hasn’t scored either. Two years ago, Walters envisioned twin towers with complementary skills, Perry’s smooth jumper a potent contrast to Turam’s dominant inside game. Tonight, though, UE’s vaunted big men have been humiliated by two guys who barely showed up on Evansville’s scouting report.
Marquette, 55–49, less than four minutes to go. Walters has no choice, no time to waste. He summons his leading scorer from the bench.
Soon after reentering, Leaf is fouled and steps to the free-throw line. This is a boon for Evansville. The clock is stopped. The Aces get a moment’s rest, and their best free-throw shooter is at the stripe. The first goes down easily. The second is long, but falls.
Doc Rivers responds, slicing down the middle, shoveling a pass to Marquardt, who waits patiently on the right side and sinks yet another. He now has twenty-one, a career high. Leaf, like a punch-drunk fighter staggering forward, flailing away, blood in his eyes, knocks down a jumper from the left side, his sixth basket in seven attempts since halftime, giving him twenty.
Marquette by four.
The final minute passes slowly, the Aces again pushing the boulder up the hill, step by agonizing step. Walters chooses a particularly ugly strategy to buy time, hacking Nyenhuis to stop the clock, hoping he’ll buckle at the free-throw line. The fluid give-and-take between Leaf and Marquardt is replaced by a stop-motion series of fouls and free throws. It’s not a novel approach, but it works. When McKinstry fouls Nyenhuis, the big man blows the free throw.
“Bullock on the backboard. With fifty-four seconds to go. It isn’t over yet. Harris to Richie Johnson. Johnson down the middle. Puts it up and in!”
Marquette, 61–59.
Forty seconds remain and the arena is nearly full now, more than eight thousand people suddenly caught up in the back-and-forth, roaring for the upstarts from southern Indiana, happy to forget about the Houston game for the moment, hopeful for a Cinderella moment, even if it comes during the undercard, even if it’s ugly.
“Nyenhuis fouled by Leaf. Nyenhuis going to the free-throw line again . . . If he misses, the Aces have the ball, thirty seconds to go, they’d be down by two. Big, big free throw for Nyenhuis. Twelve points in the game. Hitting only 55 percent.
“Free throw”—and here Larry Calton’s voice drops an octave, dripping with disappointment verging on suicidal despair—“good . . . Second one coming . . . Nyenhuis back to the free-throw line . . . the second free throw is in the air and it is . . . off the rim . . . good. He hit them both.”
Marquette, 63–59, thirty seconds left.
Aces’ ball. No need to panic. Not yet. Plenty of time. But the options grow more limited as each second slips away. There’s no three-point line in college ball. So the Aces need two baskets and a stop to force overtime. Or UE can hack Nyenhuis again to kill the clock and hope for the best. Either way, Evansville needs at least two possessions and maybe a lucky break.
“Here comes Leaf into the front court. Left corner to McKinstry. Rick fakes, and it’s going to be a foul on Marquette! A foul on Marquette! And McKinstry . . . will go to the free-throw line.”
Raymonds calls time-out. McKinstry heads to the bench, holding the season in his unsteady hands. He shoots 32 percent from the line.
“Well, we have twenty-four seconds remaining, twenty-four seconds to go, Evansville trailing, 63–59. Obviously, McKinstry must hit the free throws . . . The last time he went to the line, the first free throw went off the backboard and down. The second one he missed.”
Rick McKinstry will look back many decades later and marvel at this time in his life, at this team, this group of guys. He’s a middle-aged man now, a family man, working for IBM in Texas, and the fond feelings he has for Brad Leaf and Theren Bullock—all of them, really—have not faded. It’s almost too much to put into words. These Aces had a rare bond. They were a true team, greater than the sum of their parts, like family, like brothers, all of the clichés, held tight by their captains. Brad, so open and genuine and guileless. And Theren, charismatic and exacting. Everyone following his lead. Their time together was fleeting, only seven months from the start of classes till this final game. They left school and scattered all over the world. Most of them lost touch. But this season left them with powerful memories, even as their hair turned gray and their children grew up, long after the sting of their losses had faded.
The time-out ends and McKinstry walks solemnly from the bench. The referee hands him the ball. Marquette by four, twenty-four seconds to play.
“Here at the free-throw line, it’s McKinstry . . . It’s no good. The rebound goes to Marquette.”
Now just fifteen seconds remain. The Aces need two baskets while holding Marquette scoreless.
“It’s not impossible. But it’s going to be very, very difficult.”
Michael Wilson inbounds the ball and Richie Johnson fouls Marquardt before any time comes off the clock. It’s a brilliant move, perfectly timed, and it sends Marquardt to the free-throw line. As amazing as he’s been tonight, emerging from near anonymity in the paint to sink jumpers from the corners, Dean Marquardt is no sure thing from the line.
When he misses and Bullock grabs the rebound, Evansville briefly finds itself with one final miraculous opportunity. A quick score. A steal on the inbounds play and another basket and suddenly: overtime.
But Theren can’t hold on to the ball and as he loses it, he overcompensates for his mistake and commits his fifth foul. The lanky kid from Blue Island, Illinois, the beating heart of this team, is finished. Bullock walks slowly to the bench and takes a seat, his head down, no doubt now about how it all plays out. Marquette will play Missouri. The Aces will go home.
The scoreboard says Marquette 67, Evansville 62.
The Evansville locker room is funereal, crowded with young men unaccustomed to failure, tears welling in their eyes. Walters takes a long look around, feeling protective, and closes the doors, barring the media. Nothing he can say will ease their disappointment. They had come so close, scratching and grasping, playing for far more than a trip to the second round.
“I
feel like tomorrow should be practice as usual,” Eric Harris says as he dresses at his locker. “I never wanted it to end.”
The regulars at Ensor’s First and Last Chance Saloon offer a clear-eyed postmortem, as if they knew all along that it would never happen, that the Aces were just lucky to be in the same gym as Doc Rivers, Brian Nyenhuis, and Dean Marquardt.
“Five minutes of the first half is what killed them,” one fellow says, though the first-half drought lasted nearly twice that.
Now, however, is not the time to quibble. It’s over. Maybe one more beer and head home. Work tomorrow morning.
Behind the bar, Stan Ensor takes the long view, summing up the past six months, speaking for all of southern Indiana. “Hell,” he says, “they had a super season.”
At Harper Dining Center, it takes a moment to sink in. Is it really over? UE was supposed to win this one and then prepare for the next round. And then, who knows, right? Right?
Now a guy stands up in the front row and turns around, rousing the crowd from its stupor, summoning one last burst of school spirit.
“Come on, you deadbeats. Fire it up.”
And they all join in, because there are no cynics in this crowd.
“Aces! Aces! [clap-clap] Aces! Aces! [clap-clap]”
This is not the celebration they’d expected. They smuggled bottles in beneath their coats to cut loose, because kids at other schools around the country do this every year, knock back a few beers, toast the victors, and run outside screaming for joy in the cool, dark evening, jumping into fountains and on top of cars, defacing statues, kissing strangers. There will be no toasts for UE fans tonight. No storybook ending.
