Last Shot (5 page)

“Who
are
all these people?” Stevie asked Weiss, once they had settled into seats marked
NEW YORK TIMES
and
CHICAGO TRIBUNE
that were located not far from the CBS people. Stevie tried to picture himself actually sitting in one of those seats during a Final Four game and became dizzy at the notion.

“There are twelve managers,” Weiss said. “They actually have to interview to get the job. The seniors interview freshmen and then pick them. It’s a big honor.”

“To wipe up sweat?”

“There’s more to it than that. You get to be inside a great basketball program. The best coaches have had managers who go on to be coaches in a lot of cases. Lawrence Frank was a manager for Bob Knight at Indiana. K’s had several managers become successful coaches, too.”

Stevie was slightly amazed at the thought that Lawrence Frank, who coached the New Jersey Nets, had once wiped perspiration for basketball players at Indiana.

“The older guys are the team trainers and doctors and their sports information people,” Weiss went on. “Big-time college basketball teams are a traveling circus. Today you’ve got a ringside seat.”

No kidding, Stevie thought. He glanced around and saw TV crews eagerly taping the practice from different angles. Dawkins, who Stevie’s dad had told him once played for the 76ers, thereby making him a good guy, was talking to someone
who was scribbling notes as he spoke. In the corner, up on the little riser that was their set, Stevie could see the ESPN guys. Vitale was speaking and Digger Phelps and Chris Fowler were listening. Or perhaps, Stevie thought, not listening.

Stevie noticed that the scoreboard clock had just ticked under forty minutes. “Isn’t fifty minutes kind of a short practice?” he asked.

“They’re not really practicing here,” Weiss said. “Watch, they won’t do anything very serious. They’ll all go practice someplace private later in the day once they get through with their press conferences.”

Hearing Weiss mention the press conferences made Stevie remember that he still had to come up with a story before the end of the day. He glanced down at Susan Carol, sitting a few seats away, seemingly enthralled by the Duke practice. He was, he realized, very jealous of her. She had already written her story, so she could just sit back and enjoy the day.

“When’s the first press conference?” he asked Weiss. “I need to come up with a story.”

“As soon as Duke finishes. They go first, then the other three schools come in after them for thirty minutes at a time.”

“Do the players go in to talk or just the coach?”

“Coach and two players. The other players have to stay in the locker room to be available during that same time period. Actually, you’re probably better off in there than in the press conferences. You get pretty boring, generic ‘We’re
just glad to be here’ stuff in the press conferences. In the locker room, if you can find a guy who isn’t a star who has a story to tell, you might get lucky.”

Stevie’s hope to write something about Chip Graber seemed unlikely now. Graber wasn’t just the star of the Minnesota State team, he was the rock star of the team. He would certainly be one of the two Minnesota State players brought to the press conference, and each of the thousand reporters there that day would want to talk to him. “I guess writing about Chip Graber is out of the question,” he said.

Weiss laughed. “Well, if you want to write the same story that every non-basketball columnist in America is going to write, you can write Chip Graber,” he said.

“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.

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.”