Last Shot

by John Feinstein

  “Non-basketball columnist?”

  “The guys who don’t cover basketball all year and then show up at the Final Four. Listen in the Minnesota State press conference. You’ll know who they are. They’ll be the guys who ask questions like ‘Chip, what’s it like to play for your dad?’ As if he hasn’t answered that question a couple thousand times since October. They’re what we call ‘event’ guys. They come because this is an event, not because they know anything about basketball.”

  Stevie certainly didn’t want to be an event guy. Especially at his first event.

  “I think I’ll write about someone else,” he said.

  “Good thinking,” Weiss answered.

  When the buzzer went off, signaling the end of Duke’s time on the court, a lot of the writers and camerapeople who were courtside began making their way back under the stands. Krzyzewski and his players were waving at the cadre of Duke fans as they walked off; the managers were gathering up towels and water bottles in the players’ wake. Weiss stood up, signaled Stevie to follow him, and they began walking toward the tunnel, where they were joined by Bill Brill and Susan Carol Anderson.

  “Wasn’t that great?” Susan Carol panted.

  Stevie had to admit—to himself—that it had been pretty impressive. There must have been ten thousand people watching inside the massive Dome, and he had been sitting a few feet from the court watching a Final Four team practice. Even if Weiss insisted it wasn’t a real practice, it had looked pretty real to him—especially the dunking contest the players had put on at the end.

  “It was just a practice,” he shrugged, trying to sound as casual as possible.

  For the first time since they had met that morning, Susan Carol got a look on her face that indicated something other than complete pleasure. “I guess in Philadelphia you get to watch college teams practice all the time,” she said, with a little bit of sarcasm in her voice, even though “time” came out of her mouth as “taam.”

  “No,” he said, more defensively than he would have liked. “I’m just saying, it was only a practice.”

  “I’ve had coaches tell me that one of their great thrills is walking on the floor for Friday practice at the Final Four,” Brill said. “There are practices and there are practices.”

  “And then there are Coach K’s practices, right, Brill?” Weiss said.

  “Well, yeah, of course,” Brill answered, smiling.

  They walked underneath the stands and followed signs directing them to the interview room. Like everything else he had seen so far, the interview room was about ten times larger than Stevie could possibly have imagined. The interview room in the Palestra was slightly larger than his bedroom at home. But this wasn’t even really a room; it was a gigantic open area with blue curtains running down each side to give the impression of being a “room.” It was longer than a football field, with giant TV monitors in several places around the room so that those in the back could see.

  “Goodness,” Susan Carol said when they walked in.

  “Yeah,” Stevie said, forgetting that he was being cool.

  “Just like the Palestra, huh, Steve?” Weiss said.

  Stevie grunted in response. Up front, a moderator was droning on about the schedule for the afternoon. No one from Duke had arrived yet.

  “Once we get started,” the moderator said, “we’re going to take questions first for the student-athletes from Duke. The student-athletes will answer questions for fifteen minutes and then will return to the locker room. Once the student-athletes are dismissed, the coach will take questions for fifteen minutes. While he is answering questions, the student-athletes from his team will be available in the locker room to answer questions there. Please do not attempt to interview any of the student-athletes while they are in transit from the interview room to the locker room.”

  “I got four,” Brill said.

  “Think you missed one,” Weiss said. “I had five.”

  “What are you guys talking about?” Stevie asked.

  “ ‘Student-athlete’ references,” Weiss said. “The moderator has strict marching orders from the NCAA to always refer to the players as ‘student-athletes.’ It’s in the official handbook that they have to read beforehand. Most of the moderators are such puppets that they go crazy with the ‘student-athlete’ references. This guy is off to a flying start.”

  “Who is that guy?” Brill asked.

  “I think it’s Tim Schmink from the Hall of Fame. Apparently he gave a blood oath to say ‘student-athletes’ no fewer than a hunderd times before the end of the weekend.”

  “Only ninety-five to go,” Susan Carol said, surprising Stevie. In five minutes she had shown a hint of sarcasm and now humor.

  Krzyzewski was walking onto the podium, followed by two of his players, J.J. Redick and Shelden Williams.

  “Okay,” Tim Schmink said. “We’re now ready. Coach Krzyzewski is here with student-athletes J.J. Redick and Shelden Williams. We’ll take questions for the student-athletes first.”

  “Ninety-three,” Stevie and Susan Carol said together.

  They both laughed. Damn, Stevie thought, she’s really kind of pretty. He wasn’t pleased with himself for thinking that.

  5: ROAMING THE HALLS

  SIX “STUDENT-ATHLETE” REFERENCES and fifteen minutes later, the Duke student-athletes were dismissed. Each had used the phrase “step up” twice. Both were really happy to be here and Redick vowed to give “a hundred and ten percent.” Stevie remembered reading a funny column somewhere pointing out that giving more than one hundred percent was, in fact, impossible. He was tempted to steal the line, but Susan Carol had such a dreamy look on her face that he decided to skip the wisecrack.

  Stevie was getting restless by the time Redick and Williams left. But Krzyzewski was, he had to admit, more interesting. There were no references to stepping up or giving a hundred and ten percent. Clearly, Krzyzewski had done this a few times. He even called his student-athletes players. Stevie wondered if that might be more than the moderator could bear.

  St. Joe’s came in next. Glancing at a printed schedule that he had picked up out on press row, Stevie could see how the system worked. Since UConn was on the court between 1:00 and 2:00, St. Joe’s came into the interview room at 1:30. UConn would come in at 2:00, when its practice was over, and St. Joe’s would take the court. Minnesota State would come in to be interviewed at 2:30, before its 3:00 practice.

  The St. Joe’s press conference wasn’t much different than Duke’s. The official “student-athlete” count soared to twenty-one by the time the Hawks players left for their locker room. Phil Martelli, the coach, filled a lot of notebooks with one-liners. By the time UConn came into the room, Stevie was getting seriously antsy. Weiss had clearly been right—nothing terribly interesting was going to come out of these press conferences. As Jim Calhoun and his players were sitting down and the moderator was giving his “student-athletes” speech again, Stevie decided his first story idea was probably his best bet: a day in the life of a kid reporter at the Final Four. He could write about Vitale and Krzyzewski and even Big Tex. He’d get a final tally on the number of “student-athlete” references—now at twenty-six as the questioning of the UConn players began. He needed to get out of here, though, and see what the scene looked like in the locker rooms and around the rest of the building. What he most wanted to do was see what it was like to be Chip Graber, even if it meant standing on the outside of the circle while people tried to talk to him in the locker room after his fifteen minutes in the interview room.

  “I think I’ll go for a walk around the building,” he said to Weiss, who was scribbling notes while Rashad Anderson was talking. “I want to check out the locker rooms.”

  “You okay on your own?” Weiss asked.

  “Sure. As long as I have my pass, I can get wherever I need to go, right?”

  Weiss nodded. “I’ll be here until Minnesota State is finished. Then I’ll be back in the working area.”

 
“Okay, I’ll meet you there.”

  Stevie stood up.

  “Can I go with you?”

  Surprised, Stevie saw Susan Carol standing up, too (he’d been a lot more comfortable sitting next to her than standing next to her), with a shy smile on her face.

  Stevie had been about to ask her to get him a final count on the “student-athlete” references. “Um, well, yeah, sure, I guess. I was going to try to find something to write about, and you’re already done. I was hoping you might keep track of how many times the guy says ‘student-athletes’ between now and the end of the last press conference for me.”

  “What’s the count now?” Weiss said.

  “Twenty-six,” they both answered. Stevie had to admit he was impressed that she’d been keeping track, too.

  “I’ll do it for you,” Weiss said. “In fact, it might make a funny little note.”

  “So, it’s okay then?” Susan Carol said.

  “Yeah, sure,” Stevie said. “But let’s go. I want to see some of the place and then be in the Minnesota State locker room at two forty-five when they bring Graber back in from here.”

  “You’ll never get close to him,” Weiss said.

  “That’s fine. I don’t need to get close.”

  Weiss gave him a funny look, but Stevie decided there wasn’t time to explain. Once they were out in the hallway, Susan Carol said, “This is a good idea—I was bored to death in there.”

  “You didn’t look bored when Coach K was talking.”

  “What exactly is your problem with Coach K?” she said. “He’s a great coach, and you just saw what kind of person he is. You know, if you’re going to be a reporter, you’re going to have to put your biases aside.”

  “What about your biases?” Stevie shot back, relieved that she had given him an opening. “You don’t think he can do anything wrong. That’s just as much a bias as mine.”

  “You’re right,” she said. “But if he ever did something wrong, I think I’d be disappointed, but I’d admit he was wrong.”

  “Has he ever done anything wrong?” Stevie asked.

  She thought about that one for a minute. “Well,” she finally said, “he is a Republican.”

  “I thought everyone from the South was a Republican.”

  “Oh yes, and we’re all good ole boys and Southern belles, too. I do declare, Steven Thomas, you are just full of misconceptions.” Susan Carol’s voice was dripping drawl.

  This girl was really starting to get on his nerves. Mostly because she was right so often.

  “Well, how lucky I am to have you to correct me then.”

  They had now reached the hallway that led to the locker rooms. There were signs directing people to the four team locker rooms and to just about every other place one might want to go. There was also a security guard very carefully checking credentials as people approached the hallway. The guard glanced at Susan Carol’s pass, nodded at her, and then put up a hand to stop Stevie.

  “Whoa, fella, this area’s restricted. Working media only.”

  Stevie looked down at the credential dangling around his neck. It was no different from the one Susan Carol was wearing or, for that matter, the ones that Dick Weiss and Bill Brill and all the other writers had been wearing. It had his name on it and “USBWA” and “media.” It was, he thought, pretty clear-cut.

  “I am working media,” Stevie said, pointing to the word on his credential and attempting to step around the guard so he could get this over with sooner rather than later. Susan Carol, a few steps ahead, had stopped and turned around to see what was going on.

  “Look, son, I don’t know where you got that pass or how, but if you don’t turn around and walk back in the other direction right now, I’ll put in a call to security and then whatever little game you’re playing will be over for the day. So get going.”

  Stevie felt himself flush with anger. His first thought was to ask why the guard had let Susan Carol pass and not him, but the answer was obvious: He looked thirteen; she could easily pass for eighteen. Before he could say something he would undoubtedly regret, Susan Carol stepped up next to the guard and said, “Sir, I understand your confusion. But we’re both winners of the USBWA student writing contest.” She opened her notebook and pulled out a piece of paper that Stevie recognized as the letter informing them that they had won the contest.

  “Here’s the letter we got from the USBWA,” she said. “You see the two names? I’m Susan Carol Anderson and he’s Steven Thomas. You see what the letter says: that we’ll be fully accredited media at the Final Four.”

  The guard looked at the letter—Stevie was relieved when it became apparent that he knew how to read—then looked at the names on their credentials. He looked at Susan Carol again. “So you two are in high school then?” he said.

  “Junior high school,” Susan Carol said, smiling. Clearly this wasn’t the first time someone had mistaken her for older than thirteen. “We’re both eighth graders.”

  The guard was clearly put out by the whole thing. He handed the letter back to Susan Carol. “Okay, if they want to give passes to eighth graders, that’s their call. You can go on ahead.” He looked Stevie over again. “But don’t get in anyone’s way back there, understand?”

  “I think ‘I’m really sorry for accusing you of stealing’ was what you meant to say.”

  “Listen, kid, don’t get smart with me. I can throw you out of here, pass or no pass,” the guard said.

  Stevie was about to say something about the need for one of them to be smart, when Susan Carol grabbed him by the arm, practically shoving him in front of her and away from the glowering guard. “Thanks for your help,” she said, then gave Stevie an extra push to make sure he didn’t try to get in a final verbal swipe. Stevie stumbled but regained his balance before falling.

  “What was that about?” he said as she pulled up even with him, one hand on his back to keep him moving forward.

  “That was about avoiding trouble,” she hissed. “Is it a guy thing or a Northern thing to always have to have the last word? He’s letting us by. If he wants to say something to make himself feel better, just let him say it.”

  “Easy for you to say—you’re not the one he stopped.”

  “No, I’m not. I’m the one who got you past him without a big scene.”

  She had him there.

  “Why are you carrying that letter around?”

  “Because I thought something like that might happen. That someone would look at me and think I’m too young to be a real reporter.”

  Stevie laughed. “Apparently that wasn’t a problem, was it?”

  She blushed a little, which pleased him. “Yeah, for once being tall worked for me. Turns out it was a good thing I had the letter, though, right?”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Stevie was glad no one was keeping score on their exchanges, because he had the sense he was in a deep hole.

  The hallway was crowded. The first locker room they came to was marked SAINT JOE’S. There were several more guards milling around outside the door, which was open. Stevie was convinced they were all eyeing him suspiciously. He leaned around one of them to look into the locker room and saw it was empty. That made sense, since the Hawks were on the court practicing. Stevie felt slightly guilty that he wasn’t out there watching his team, but he had work to do. He glanced at his watch: it was 2:12. That meant he had about thirty minutes to scope the place out before the Chip Graber circus began.

  The Duke locker room, which they came to next, was just as empty as Saint Joe’s. The Blue Devils had left the building, their practice and press conferences long over. Most of the action was outside the Connecticut locker room. As a Big East fan, Stevie knew that UConn was covered by more reporters on a regular basis than any team in the country. The UConn media was known as “the Horde.”

  As Stevie and Susan Carol walked up, they could see someone being interviewed outside the locker-room door who wasn’t a player. He looked to Stevie like a coa
ch but he knew Jim Calhoun was still in the interview room.

  “Who is that?” he asked Susan Carol.

  She shook her head, then tapped one of the reporters standing on the outside of the circle and said, “Excuse me, sir, who are you fellas interviewing?”

  The reporter looked over his shoulder and said softly, “George Blaney.”

  “Who’s that?” Stevie said.

  The reporter looked at him as if he was a kid who didn’t know anything—which, apparently, he was. “He’s the number one assistant,” he hissed, then returned to listening intently to what Blaney was saying.

  “Whoo boy,” Stevie said to Susan Carol. “These guys must be pretty desperate, fighting to get a quote from an assistant.”

  “At Duke, Johnny Dawkins gets interviewed all the time,” she said.

  “Yeah, like I said,” Stevie said. “What do Duke and UConn have in common?”

  “Great basketball teams?”

  “And they’re both in places that don’t have pro teams, so they’re the only game in town for the media.”

  She shook her head the way his mother sometimes did when he was being obtuse. “There are three pro teams in North Carolina,” she said. “Hockey, football, basketball. Plus, the University of North Carolina is bigger than Duke in the media there because most people in the state are Carolina fans. Duke isn’t even close to being the only game in town. I’m sure you think that Philadelphia is the world’s greatest sports town, but North Carolina isn’t exactly Nowheresville.”

  Stevie sighed. “I stand corrected—again.”

  She smiled. “You want to go in here and try to talk to some of the players?”

  Stevie wasn’t sure. He was thinking he could write about the Horde and their quest for quotes from George Blaney as part of his story, but he didn’t need a quote for that. He spotted a sign on the wall that said MINNESOTA STATE LOCKER ROOM with an arrow pointing farther down the hallway and CBS COMPOUND with an arrow pointing in the same direction. That gave Stevie an idea.