A Season Inside

by John Feinstein

  He sips the coffee and stares glumly ahead. It is almost seventy degrees as the sun sets, delightful for February but a reminder of the summer months ahead. “Whatever happens,” he says, “at least I found out I can coach.”

  To basketball people, Abatemarco has been a revelation as a head coach. Brad Greenberg, chief scout for the Portland Trail Blazers, is in town to scout New Orleans’s Ladell Eackles and Lamar’s James Gulley. He has seen Lamar earlier in the season.

  “I like Tom and I was really concerned the first time I saw them play that they would look really uncoached, as if they didn’t know what they were doing,” he says. “I was so impressed by what he was doing I wrote him a note and told him so. He’s done well.”

  Abatemarco’s teams mirror many of the things Valvano does, but it is common for an assistant to do the same things his old boss did. What is most amazing is to stand in the locker room before the game and listen to Abatemarco talk to his team. Close your eyes and you will swear you are hearing Valvano.

  “You see that number on the board?” Abatemarco says, pointing to where he has written a ‘1,’ and circled it just like Valvano would. “That is how many games you need to win to get into the NIT. One. Get this one tonight and you’ll be in the NIT.

  “Okay, do we understand? Are we ready to go get this club? Okay, let’s go!”

  As the team heads for the floor, forward Anthony Bledsoe pauses long enough to take his earrings out. Abatemarco won’t tell him not to wear them but won’t let him wear them on the court. College basketball is a different game in 1988 than in the old days.

  The crowd is one of the largest of the season, 7,504, and the game is a good one. Lamar trails 39–32 at halftime and Abatemarco is so wound up his assistants have to calm him down. “The only good thing,” he tells his players, “is that you’re playing terrible and only down seven.”

  Carwell, the SMU transfer, is screaming at his future teammates. “Enough of this shit! Enough! Let’s go back out there and kill those suckers!”

  They try. They lead briefly but can’t hang on against New Orleans’s consistency. The final is 75–69.

  Abatemarco is disconsolate. He tries to be calm—“Keep your heads up, okay?” he tells the team initially. “I saw some good things out there. Now we have to beat Southwest Louisiana to get into the NIT.” Finally, though, he explodes.

  “Goddamn it, how could you let them come into your own house and beat you! You just played yourselves right out of the NIT!” He takes the six markers sitting on the board and hurls them across the room. “You could have had ten thousand people here Saturday. Now you’ll have five thousand. I wouldn’t come to see you play either.”

  He starts scribbling numbers all over the board à la Valvano and finally says, “Practice is at three-thirty. Anyone who is one minute late doesn’t play Saturday. It’s time we get some fucking discipline on this team.”

  He walks into his office and opens a beer. “I wonder,” he says, “if V would take me back.”

  He is joking … sort of.

  February 27 … Columbus, Ohio

  For a man who is doing perhaps the best coaching job of his life, Gary Williams looks exhausted. Somehow, with a team that really isn’t ready for prime time, he has entered the last two weeks of the season fighting for an NCAA bid. Ohio State has beaten Michigan, Iowa, and Illinois and, with five games left in the season, has a 14–9 record, including 7–6 in the Big Ten. Before the season began, Williams thought he had no chance to finish at .500 in the league.

  But today is a Big Day. A game the Buckeyes must win to stay in contention for the NCAAs. Michigan State is in town, and though they are one of the league’s doormats this season, they have the kind of athletic talent that gives Ohio State trouble. In East Lansing four weeks earlier, they had beaten the Buckeyes rather easily.

  After today there are home games left with Minnesota and Purdue and road games at Indiana and Michigan. Realistically, the best Williams can hope for is a split of these four games—and that is being optimistic. So if Ohio State is to get the seventeen victories Williams figures will lock up an NCAA bid, it has to beat Michigan State.

  It has already been a hectic week for Williams. His wife, Diane, has been away visiting her parents for a few days; he and his seventeen-year-old daughter Kristen have been keeping house. In truth, it means Kristen has been keeping house.

  “Hey, Kristen,” he yells, pulling frozen orange juice from the freezer on game morning, “do you know how to make this stuff?” Kristen, who is blond like her mother and fortunate enough to have inherited her looks, knows how to make the juice. And coffee. Williams sits in the living room, glances at skier Alberto Tomba on his television set, and worries.

  Williams has been going in three different directions all season. He has tried hard to focus on this team, not wanting to shortchange his seniors, trying to get the most he can from this group. That’s why he was so excited that they still had a chance to get into the NCAAs; at the start of the season he honestly thought a losing record was all too possible.

  At the same time, Williams has been looking ahead. For the second straight season he has put together what he thinks is an excellent recruiting class. Four players, three of them from Ohio, are signed while a fifth will sign in the spring. Two of this year’s freshmen are sitting out as Proposition 48 victims. When he assembles his team in October of 1988, Williams will have seven new players to work with. That is a lot of turnover—and a lot of inexperience.

  “But also a lot of talent,” Williams says. “I’ve been a head coach ten years now [four at American, four at Boston College, two at Ohio State] and people have always said my teams have overachieved. Well, that’s nice, it’s a compliment to me. But I’ve always wanted to see how I could do with a lot of talent.

  “Sure, we’ll make mistakes next year, but we’ll do a lot of good things too. And, if I am any good, we’ll get better. We’ll be pretty good by the end of next year. The year after that we should be very good. And, if we add Jackson to the group, then, well, we can be what I really want to be—a national contender.”

  Jackson is the third direction that Williams’s mind has been going in this season. James Jackson is a 6–6 high school junior who lives only a little more than an hour from the Ohio State campus. He has also become a big name in the basketball cult world, considered a “franchise” player. Rudy Washington, an Iowa assistant coach who is vigorously recruiting him, describes James Jackson this way: “A-Men. James Jackson is A-Men.”

  That’s amen—as in the last word.

  Gary Williams knows the recruitment of James Jackson will be more intense than any he has ever been involved in. Already, the games are starting. Jackson’s coach was invited by the Iowa state high school coaches association to speak at their annual banquet; he was flown out there in a private plane. “Just a coincidence,” Washington says, grinning.

  Everyone will be involved. North Carolina, Michigan, Illinois, Kentucky—and others. But Williams thinks he has a chance. Jackson is from Ohio and so far, early as it is, the vibes he has gotten have been positive.

  “Put him with what we’ve got and I could really have a good time,” Williams says, almost daydreaming. He soon snaps back to reality, though—which is a gray February afternoon and a game that promises to be difficult.

  He meets before the game with his staff to go over Michigan State. He also checks with assistant Fran Fraschilla on Fraschilla’s trip to Dayton that morning to see Mark Baker play. Baker will be Ohio State’s point guard next year—if he qualifies academically. Chris Hall, another recruit, is going to be in the stands today with the rest of his high school team. Always, it seems, the present and the future are crossing paths here.

  The present is Michigan State. On the blackboard before tip-off Williams writes three keys to the game—ball movement, rebounding, and transition defense—and below them he writes, “better team.”

  After going through the basics he points to the last two
words and says, “Who is the better team, us or them? They got us last time. What you need to do today is go out with a lot of confidence and show them right away that you’re better than they are. Why are we 14–9 and they’re 9–14? We’ve beaten Iowa, Illinois, and Michigan. Who have they beaten? Right now, they got us the one time. But they aren’t in contention for an NCAA bid, we are. Why is that? I think it’s because we’ve worked harder than they have and we’ve done a better job than they have.

  “We need to go out and show them that. Show them why we’re better. Show them some pride and walk off the court feeling proud of what you did today.

  “If I were playing on this team, I would want to play in this game more than any other since we last played them. I’d want to get back—and that thought would have been in the back of my mind ever since then. Now, it’s four o’clock on Saturday and we have a chance to go get these suckers again.”

  The team headed for the floor. Williams turned to his assistants. “You see the way they go out there,” he says, a little despondently. “No one wants to break the damn door down and charge out there. They just trot out. We haven’t got that kill-those-bastards kind of leader we need yet.”

  Williams’s hope that Ohio State will assert its superiority quickly goes by the boards quickly. Michigan State jumps to a 6–0 lead in the first ninety seconds, then leads 25–15 after twelve minutes. Williams is not happy and, as always, it shows. He is as animated on the bench as any coach in the country, working from a crouch in front of the seat he never uses. Williams is up and down, arms flailing, face turning red, right in the heat of the battle for forty minutes. Friends often wonder how he can stay so intense for forty minutes every night of the season. His answer is simple: “You don’t get that many chances to compete every year.”

  This game is as competitive as it gets. The Buckeyes rally in the last few minutes of the half, getting even at 35–35 before Steve Smith gives Michigan State a 37–35 lead at halftime.

  No one takes control in the second half. The Buckeyes always seem to be going uphill. They fall behind by five and get back to within two. The lead goes back to five and they tie it. They finally take their first lead of the entire game when freshman Perry Carter powers inside for a layup that makes it 67–66 with 3:13 left.

  Nothing is easy for this team. Jay Burson is the only real outside threat and he is so small at six feet and 145 pounds that he often has trouble getting a shot. None of the inside players is quick enough, big enough, or strong enough to dominate. Carter may get there, but he is still only a freshman.

  Ed Wright puts Michigan State back up at 68–67 with a jumper and they scrap back and forth for the last three minutes, Curtis Wilson’s free throw the only point either one scores. That ties it at 68–68.

  Ohio State has the last chance to win. With time running out, Wilson misses a jumper. The rebound is back-tapped. Burson grabs it and, as time runs out, goes up to shoot. He has no chance to get the shot off though because Smith jumps into him. The three officials, Gary Muncy, Mike Stockner, and Ted Valentine, look at the play, see the contact, watch Burson go flying and do not blow their whistles. Time runs out. Overtime.

  Williams is almost hysterical. He understands that officials are reluctant to call a foul with the game on the line. But this one was extremely obvious. Burson had been creamed and there was no call.

  They go to overtime. Ohio State leads by four early but Michigan State comes back to tie. The Buckeyes are patient though and, with eighteen seconds left, they hold a 78–77 lead.

  Michigan State calls time. The game will be decided by one possession. In the huddle, Williams reminds his players to jump straight up in defending so there can be no foul called. The Spartans get the ball to Smith. He starts left of the key and dribbles to the right, Wilson right with him. Finally, with time running out, he goes up. Wilson goes up with him. There is contact, but not nearly as much as there had been on the last play of regulation. Wilson has played excellent defense.

  The shot is way off. However, as the ball is in the air, Muncy’s whistle blows. Having ignored an obvious foul on Burson at the end of regulation, he now calls a highly questionable one on Wilson with one second left in overtime. St. John Arena is stunned into silence. Williams stands in front of his bench simply pointing to the spot where the Burson nonfoul occurred. He doesn’t say a word but his message is clear: If you didn’t call that one, how can you call this one? It is a good question.

  Smith makes both free throws. Michigan State wins, 78–77. Williams can’t deal with losing this way without getting a last word in at the officials. As they run off the floor, he runs after them. He is intercepted by a security guard who pushes him. Williams pushes back, then calms down and walks off the floor, hurt and disgusted.

  He is angry with the officials but unhappy with his team. “I can’t believe we came out like that against this team. I’m as disappointed as I’ve been all year.”

  In his press conference Williams is calm, but blunt. “This is arguably the best league in the country,” he says. “I don’t think the officiating measures up to the play. I didn’t think the players decided this game. One of the officials told me there was no contact on the play with Burson. He might say to me he didn’t want to call a foul but how can he possibly say there was no contact?”

  Williams stays to answer everyone’s questions. He spends some time in the locker room with Chris Hall and his high school teammates. Finally, still stewing, he retreats to his office. He looks at the tape of the two key plays and becomes angry all over again. He picks up the phone and calls Big Ten Supervisor of Officials Bob Wortman. He isn’t home. Williams leaves a message.

  He pulls out the book that lists all the Big Ten officials, their background and experience. “Gary Muncy,” he reads. “He’s been refereeing in the Big Ten since 1970. During that time he’s been chosen to work the NCAA Tournament one time. Hmmm. If a guy only gets to the NCAAs once in eighteen years, he can’t be very good, can he?”

  Unfortunately, the night isn’t over for Williams. He can’t go home and brood. He has to attend a party being thrown by a friend (who is a big booster) and then he must do his weekly TV show. The show is televised live every Saturday night at 11:30 with a live studio audience—a first for a coach’s show.

  At the party, Williams’s mood has mellowed. When a taped replay of the game shows his run-in with the security guard, Williams says to the assembled group, “I asked the guy who the hell had hired him.”

  The only sour note at the party is struck by Ohio State Athletic Director Jim Jones. Jones became athletic director in November in the wake of the Earle Bruce firing fiasco. Athletic Director Rick Bay, the man who had hired Williams, had resigned in protest of Bruce’s being fired by OSU President Edward Jennings.

  Into the breach stepped Jones, who had first come to Ohio State as an academic counselor. Jones is one of those men who walks into a room and sends people scurrying for the door. He is humorless and, to him, being clever is saying something like, “We’ll get ’em next time, guys.”

  As Jones gets up to leave, in a room full of Buckeye boosters, he says in a loud voice to Williams, “Now you behave yourself tonight.”

  The reference is to Williams’s TV show. The tone is one that would be used on a child. Williams, showing great self-control, says calmly: “I’m fine. But you know something should be done about the officiating in the league.”

  Jones turns around, points his finger and says, “You just worry about coaching and let me do my job.”

  That’s it for Williams. He gets up, finds his wife, politely says good night to his hosts and walks into the cold night. “Unbelievable” is all he says about Jones’s behavior. “I guess he doesn’t think bad officiating affects my coaching.”

  The television show is relatively painless. The crowd is supportive, Williams “behaves,” and the tape of the last two plays is the same: Burson gets creamed, Smith gets brushed, and the officials make the same call. Ohio St
ate loses again.

  When it is over, Williams, Diane, his business manager, Jack Schrom, and his wife Kathy go out for a beer. Williams stares at the beer for a moment, looks back on the long day, and holds the glass up. “To next year,” he says softly. A moment later, the glass is drained.

  14

  SEVEN DAYS IN MARCH

  March 1 … Fairfax, Virginia

  At last it was March. Perhaps no team in the country had looked forward to this month more than George Mason. Anytime a season begins with four-a-day practices in October, you are going to look forward to the climax—under any circumstances. But now they were also playing for an NCAA bid.

  All the work and emotion and heartache had come down to seven days. The Patriots were 17–9 and they were coming off a loss at American, which was the hottest team in the Colonial Athletic Association. In front of them was the regular season finale against Navy—a team almost as hot as American—and then the CAA tournament in Hampton, Virginia. One team would come out of that tournament with an NCAA bid. The final would be Monday night, March 7. Rick Barnes’s goal for this team was to play in that game—and win it.

  “I’ve probably only said this twenty-seven times, but this one is real big,” Barnes said, relaxing in his office shortly before the Navy game. “We’re not that far from being right where we want to be going into the tournament. Losing to American didn’t even bother me that much. They’re playing really well and they were bound to get us sooner or later. I’d rather it be now than in the tournament. But we need to win tonight to be confident. I don’t want them having any doubts playing that first-round game.”

  The first-round game would be against James Madison. That was locked in, regardless of tonight’s outcome. Richmond, after beating George Mason two weeks earlier, had locked up the top seed. American, with its late rush, was second, and George Mason was third. That was why the loss to American hadn’t shaken Barnes that much. He expected to have to play the Eagles in the tournament semifinals; in some ways, having lost to a team earlier often made it easier to play them a second time. The losing team often had an advantage in the rematch.