The SEC conference regional was held at the end of February, and we played three more games. Since we had a perfect record, and since we’d played all these same teams in our conference at least once before, there wasn’t much to worry about in the SEC regional—although twentieth-ranked Alabama played us tight in the final. And since so many of our games had been blowouts, you might think it was good for us to play in a closely contested game right before the tournament. But we simply played slow and were lethargic on the boards. What’s more, Alabama may have given the rest of the country some idea about how to beat us—slow us down with tight, physical play. Whatever. We made our foul shots down the stretch and won by four.
With the SEC conference wins, our record was an incredible 33–0. Not that we needed to talk up that record any, but two things were sometimes overlooked. One was that we had reached that record by playing what was considered one of the toughest schedules in women’s college basketball that year. The other was that we were a team that played the majority of our underclassmen; we regularly went up against teams that started three or more seniors, players with extensive court experience.
Chalk it up to the freshman talent; give a nod to Pat for awesome coaching; make a bow toward Mique, whom Nancy Lieberman was calling the best player in women’s basketball. No matter how you looked at it, our 33–0 record was remarkable.
A media frenzy swirled around the team the week before the tournament brackets were announced. A documentary film (about the previous year’s team) premiered. Pat’s new book—Reach for the Summit—strategically launched in early March. I remember that some of us, while shopping at the mall, were stopped for autographs. We were living the life, and I remember thinking to myself, If this is how it’s going to be for the next four years, I don’t want it to ever end. Our hard work was paying off, and through all the blood, pain, and fight this team had given, we were being rewarded both on and off the court. These moments were truly a dream come true.
We had about a week and a half between the last regular season game and the first game of the NCAA tournament. That allowed us to catch up on studies, take exams, and most importantly—do laundry.
When the brackets were announced, we were the number one seed in the Mideast region. We’d play Liberty in the first round. Liberty also boasted an undefeated season, albeit in a less competitive conference. Still, they featured a couple of star players—twins—Sarah and Sharon Wilkerson, guards who excelled at outside shooting. They had been instrumental in rejuvenating the basketball program at the small Christian college founded by Jerry Falwell.
The Road to the Final Four would start with our first two games in Thompson-Boling, which was a customary venue for one of the regions in the tournament. The regional rounds would be hosted in Nashville. And, ultimately, the Final Four would be played in Kansas City.
Coach practiced us during the break, though practices were light. There was nothing new we needed to learn at this point. Mostly we needed to rest, stay healthy, and keep in shape. One of the team rituals before the NCAA tourney was to watch a highlight video that had been prepared for us. It was invigorating to watch it, and also in a way humbling. It showed us how good we could be. But we also knew we sometimes didn’t play to that level.
Another pretourney ritual Pat had was writing each of us personal notes, something specific about each one of us. Encouragement. I know she was trying to bolster our confidence and relieve any jitters we each might have, but it was also genuine, how she really felt. It meant a lot. Her note to me read, “Dear Tamika, I want you to know and believe that no one in America can stop you . . .”
The game with Liberty wasn’t close; most number one to number sixteen matchups aren’t. Both Chamique and I wound up with double-doubles.
We won, getting us one step closer to our ultimate goal—the championship.
The bracket system of NCAA basketball is set up to run four regional competitions simultaneously, each region seeded with sixteen teams—sixty-four teams overall. Every game is single-elimination—you lose, you’re done.
Four teams in each region survive—known as the Sweet Sixteen. Winners of those games advance to the Elite Eight. The survivors of those games head to the Final Four. And the final two teams play for the championship.
In short, win six games and you’re the champions.
The thing is, no matter how good you are—even if you’re 34–0—there’s a chance that something will sabotage you along the way. Injury, disciplinary problems, fatigue, a slow start to a game, fouling trouble—something can take any team out before the end of that sixth game.
We didn’t worry about the level of our play. We believed we could beat anybody. And we had beaten everybody. What we worried about were these other random elements that might damage us before we had the chance. I know Pat worried about that too. A lot.
We faced Western Kentucky next. Semeka picked up two quick fouls, and that took her out of the game until later. But Ace came in midway through the first half and scored five points quickly, and that put us up by seven. Still, it was a seesaw game until the end, when we pulled away. We won 82–62. Mique had a monster night with thirty-four points.
The win got us into the Sweet Sixteen and a trip to Nashville.
It was customary for the four teams that landed in the regional to attend a banquet the night before the games began. A lot of us in the final sixteen teams knew each other from playing each other in high school or the Junior Nationals, so it was a time to talk, catch up, renew old friendships. It was also a time for some trash talk.
Some of the Rutgers players cornered Chamique and Semeka and spoke about how overrated we were. Specifically they called out Semeka and told her directly that she was really overrated. It was all competitive spirit, and Semeka just smiled, but it was talk that kind of got to her down inside.
Rutgers was a young team like us, also with four freshmen on the squad. They’d played a tough schedule all year, and though young, they were seasoned. They had a lot of confidence and swagger. Their freshman guard Natasha Pointer was dangerous, and they had a bunch of scorers. We could have our hands full.
They were ready for us. They closely matched us through the first half. We kept Pointer in check, but Tomora Young, a junior and quite a sharpshooter, went off, scoring whenever they needed it. With a few minutes left, Rutgers was within two.
But Semeka, with swarming energy that disrupted the Scarlet Knights, propelled us to a late surge, and we ended the half up by eight.
The second half was no contest. We quickly built a lead of sixteen points, and Rutgers never got close. We won 92–60, once again our defensive pressure wearing down the other team in the late going. Semeka was the star of the game by all accounts, scoring a double-double with seventeen points, thirteen rebounds, and four steals.
We were guessing that after Semeka’s performance, nobody could think—or say—she was overrated.
We had to wait to see who our next opponent would be. The game to decide that was between Illinois and North Carolina.
Tauja.
Illinois was the third seed in the Mideast region, and she and I had known we could wind up facing each other. The Illini had already beaten Wisconsin-Green Bay and UC Santa Barbara to get to the Sweet Sixteen. Now they would go up against a fast, physical North Carolina team.
If they advanced, it would be Tennessee versus Illinois. Tamika versus Tauja once again. It was nerve-racking to me, wishing on the one hand for Tauja and Illinois to win, but dreading the thought of us playing each other again. Mom and Dad were there to watch us both. I sat with Mom, courtside, to watch Tauja play.
Tauja played great, pulling down fourteen rebounds while pouring in sixteen points. It was a close game, but ultimately North Carolina prevailed.
There would be no Catchings Sisters matchup. On the one hand I wanted to see my sister advance, but on the other hand I wanted to avoid a sibling conflict. Facing North Carolina instead of Illinois would keep this tournam
ent from being another media frenzy for me. I didn’t want the distraction.
Two days later we played North Carolina in the Elite Eight. Every game now was a little scary because the level of competition was so high. After such a perfect season, losing would be devastating. North Carolina was ranked number seven, a strong team, certainly, but we had beaten better teams all year.
Little did we know, as we walked into Vanderbilt’s Memorial Stadium, that this would be our toughest game of the season.
The Tar Heels came out running.
They were a dangerous team for us because they were so much like us. We had the reputation for creating a new kind of women’s basketball—fast and physical. The New York Times would write, “Beyond Tennessee’s statistical dominance lies an aggressive, attacking style that has redefined the women’s game and offered the sharpest departure to date from the stationary days when women relied mostly on set shots.”
But here it was North Carolina coming out on the attack. On the very first play, their guard Nikki Teasley fed the ball to their shooter, senior Tracy Reid, for a basket. It was an omen of what was to come.
It was close through the first half. With seven minutes to go, the score was tied, 21–21.
We weren’t used to this relentless style being played against us. They were outrunning us, up and down the court. They were playing loose, and we were tensing up. Because of the tension, our shots weren’t falling.
During halftime, Pat lit into us for our poor defense. All year, that had been her fallback position. When nothing else is working, play defense. And she admonished us, “Whatever you do, don’t let them start out the second half like they did the first half. Don’t let them go on a run.”
Coming out the second half, North Carolina went on a run, 7–0.
We were getting beat badly. Our shots weren’t falling. They were shooting 64 percent. Lights out. Pat and the coaches had tried everything. They were exasperated. And exhausted. And starting to feel hopeless.
With seven minutes left in the second half, we were down by twelve. And that sounded better than it felt. In this game, twelve points was a mountain to climb.
We took a time-out, and as we sauntered over to the bench, it was Kellie Jolly who took over.
She grabbed Pat’s footstool, slammed it down, and looked each of us in the eyes while yelling at us in the middle of the huddle. Pat watched from a distance. “Listen to me. We’ve got to run the floor,” she yelled. “We’ve got to run. We’ve got to go. We’ve got to go. Now.”
Then Kyra stepped in. “Are we going to Kansas City?”
She repeated it. “Are we going to Kansas City?”
No one answered.
She repeated it again. And again. And again.
Finally, Tree—quiet, silent Tree—said calmly, finding something deep inside herself. “Yes. We’re gonna go to Kansas City.”
“Okay, then,” Kyra said. “We’re going. Let’s go!”
Ace inbounded the ball, finding Tree, who promptly eluded her defender and drove to the basket for a layup. And she was fouled. She sank the free throw, and it was as if this quiet giant had emerged for the special moment. Tree changed the feel of the game for us.
At the other end, we pressed on defense. Mique grabbed a rebound, was fouled, and sank both her free throws. North Carolina raced to the other end, and Tracy Reid lined up for a shot that had been falling all night for her. But once again, there was Tree, who rose up out of nowhere. Racing to our basket, I was fed the ball, and I shot from three-point land. I missed, but Tree (who else?) grabbed the rebound and banked it into the basket.
In less than a minute we’d scored seven points. The Tar Heels’ lead was down to five.
Now it was Ace’s moment. She raced the ball along the baseline. North Carolina sagged in to defend against her. She then found me under the basket, zipped the ball to me unguarded, and I scored. On the other end, Mique grabbed a rebound, and we were off to the races again. Fouled, Mique sank both free throws.
Suddenly it was a tie game.
With twenty-one seconds left to go we were up—but by just two. North Carolina started fouling. Pat had just gotten Kellie in—our best free throw shooter. Sure enough, she got fouled—and sank both free throws.
With five seconds to go the Tar Heels’ Teasley fired a three from long range.
It missed.
The game was over. And we’d narrowly escaped disaster. We’d made it to the Final Four. We were on our way to Kansas City.
And we were about to make history.
We faced Arkansas in our semifinal and won by nearly thirty. The winner of the other semi was Louisiana Tech. In the championship game, we would play the team we faced in the second week of the season. Tech had lost only three games all year. They would be formidable.
Despite our win, I was disappointed with myself. I’d had a bad game, and I knew it.
It was Coach Brown who came to me after the Arkansas game. I knew he wasn’t happy with me, either, but all he said was to find him later to watch some tape.
Coach Brown and I had had a special relationship. The assistant coaches on the team—Mickie DeMoss, Holly Warlick, and Al Brown—had several important responsibilities. One was basketball coaching, of course—leading team practices and drills, pointing out problems in form and execution, and advising players on technique.
Another responsibility was, quite frankly, keeping Pat Summitt in check. Calming her down when she was furious and helping her keep a balanced perspective on the problems of the team. And Pat listened to them. They had good rapport.
A third thing the coaches did was to counsel and motivate individual players. Each coach took on several players to come alongside personally during the season. They each had their assignments. When one of us was dealing with a personal problem, was frustrated with her game, or was dealing with a relationship issue, a coach was usually there in a personal way.
Al Brown had taken me on. We had developed a good connection because he knew how to challenge and motivate me. I liked him because he was just straight-up honest with me. He knew how competitive I was. If he told me I couldn’t do something, I would do it. And he knew that’s exactly what I would do.
When Coach Brown opened his hotel room (aka the film room) later that night, I could tell he had probably watched the game a few times and had been waiting for me so we could watch together. Immediately I admitted that I kind of bailed out in that game. “I played terrible,” I said.
“Yeah, you did,” he replied, nodding.
It made me angry that he was agreeing with me so quickly.
He didn’t stop there. “You know who we’re playing next,” he said. “Louisiana Tech.”
I nodded.
“Amanda Wilson,” he said. He let her name hang in the air for effect. Amanda Wilson was Tech’s hot-scoring forward, an All-American, and later to be drafted into the WNBA.
He went on. “She’ll probably have about thirty points and fifteen rebounds. A half-dozen assists.” Coach Brown paused. “And you, I’m thinking you might not even score. She’s that good.”
My heart started beating fast. I was mad about him talking to me like that. I was ready to argue with him, but I bit my tongue.
“If you play like you played today,” he warned, “she’s gonna eat you alive.”
And that I couldn’t disagree with.
The next day, preceding the championship game, we were the focus of extraordinary media attention. Every year the final two teams get some of that, but we were Pat Summitt’s team, and she was going for her third straight championship. No one on the team wanted to use the phrase “three-peat” for fear of jinxing anything, but that didn’t stop the media from using it.
The night before the championship game, we had to attend another banquet. Both Chamique and I had been named to the Kodak All-American Team. My teammates were there, as were Coach Summitt, Mickie DeMoss, and the other coaches. Both Mom and Dad took pictures of me as I stood on the stag
e. It was truly an honor.
The team piled back onto the bus afterward to go back to the hotel. We were all tired and maybe uptight about the game to come. The bus was quiet. Mile after mile, the bus rumbled down the road.
Suddenly, out of the silence, a voice started singing.
It was Assistant Coach Mickie DeMoss. She was softly voicing the lyrics and melody of the old hymn “Love Lifted Me”:
I was sinking deep in sin, far from the peaceful shore,
Very deeply stained within, sinking to rise no more,
But the Master of the sea, heard my despairing cry,
From the waters lifted me, now safe am I.
Love lifted me! Love lifted me!
When nothing else could help Love lifted me!
As Mickie sang through the first verse, others started to join in. When Mickie forgot some lyrics from the second verse, Kellie Jolly chimed in. She knew the hymn by heart. Then others of us sang as well, perhaps remembering a past Sunday at church or gospel service or an evening hymn-sing from when we were children.
We were remembering the warm assurance of a childhood faith, one that was perhaps more nostalgic and distant than it should have been.
In the national broadcast, ESPN announcer Mike Patrick introduced the game: “Pat Summitt won her first NCAA title at Tennessee. Tonight, in the most dominating run in the history of the women’s game, she goes for number six. Heading the list of her superstar weapons—Chamique Holdsclaw, national player of the year and regarded by many as the best college player ever. When Summitt welcomed the best freshman class in Tennessee history, the stage was set for greatness. The depth of their talent, quickness, and intensity has produced thirty-eight consecutive wins by an incredible average of over thirty points a game. And, tonight, a chance to make history.”1
Louisiana Tech pulled down the tipoff and immediately scored, setting the tempo. A minute later, Semeka outhustled the Tech player for a rebound, and then drove it fast up the floor, pulling up, and draining a jumper. Shortly after, Kellie Jolly grabbed a rebound and raced to the basket, at the last minute feeding it back to me. I scored.
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