For Every Winner There is at Least One Loser
A single moment, a microscopic period in the history of time so infinitesimal that in the greater sense it barely registers on the immense continuum, can define a life and shape its destiny. The turn of a card, the words of a text message, the drop of a match, the rhythm of a Pulp song, the heavy rattle of a door knock. The roll of a ball. Just one moment, one in the immeasurably large line of moments each and every one of us have had and will have, can prove so important that it dramatically alters every moment thereafter and makes every moment beforehand impossible to recall in any pure or true sense. Sometimes their arrival comes as a surprise, welcome and unwelcome. Sometimes they come after a lengthy build-up, sometimes excitable and othertimes excruciating. For some they arrive in the office on a gloomy winter day. For others, they appear at the blackjack table in some low rent casino in Reno, Nevada. For a few that moment can come on a steamy July day in a small Kyoto apartment when the girl that you love leaves you bleeding and dazed with the words “I don’t think I love you anymore”. For even fewer, that moment can arrive on the hardwood of the Alamodome on a shiny Monday evening that has been dreamt about by many but touched by few.
In the Great Flow, it is the strong rocks that shape the current.
Mario Chalmers now knows this. And so too does Chris Douglas-Roberts. There will be some who call the 2008 NCAA Tournament final the greatest game of basketball ever played, a place where legend was written and heroes canonized. And there will be others who will wear the memory of that one all-important athletic contest like an albatross around their neck until their dying day, heavy and crippling and energy-sapping.
Ah. Well a-day. What evil looks
Had I from old and young
Instead of the cross, the Albatross
About my neck was hung.
Ah Coleridge, you always have the right words…
Basketball has always held some interest for your keen wordsmith. There is a passing interest in the NBL and when the crunch comes in the NBA you are likely to find me wagering heavily and keeping abreast of all basketball matters. And, of course, there has been many days spent on the tarmac courts playing street ball. No blood, no foul. My fabled hook shot – The Air Chook – is feared in at least three Australian cities and probably more. No other form, however, hold a candle to college hoops.
There is something special about NCAA basketball that is mysteriously enrapturing. The sheer adoration of coaches, the loose and fun nature of amateur athletics, the life-breathing passion that burns within fans, the small timeframe for glory; they all make college hoops an enthralling scene to be involved in. And, of course, the tournament is one of the great sporting events of this world or any other, a monument steeped in history and meaning, where legend is written and greatness achieved and bitterness tasted.
The NCAA tournament is wrapped in the legend of Christian Laettner and his overtime performance to give Duke an overtime win against North Carolina in the 1992 tournament. It is filled with Lorenzo Charles’s dunk that provided North Carolina State’s upset win over Houston. It is painted with Fred Brown’s misplaced pass that cost Georgetown a chance to take a game-winning shot after Michael Jordan had drained a bomb that gave North Carolina the 1982 championship. It is covered in the Keith Smart 1987 championship-winning jumper for Indiana. It is varnished with Michigan’s Rumeal Robinson’s championship winning free throws in 1989, the ultimate redemption for a kid who had been abandoned by his mother at the age of twelve. It is lighted with Scotty Thurman’s big time three-pointer with forty seconds to play in the 1994 championship game, tying up the score for Arkansas, who went on to take the tournament. It is coated with Chris Webber’s infamous timeout call in the 1993 tournament final that cost Michigan their chance at the title with only eleven seconds remaining.
Today, the NCAA tournament is decorated with Mario Chalmers and his game-tying three with 2.1 seconds remaining that eventually led to the first Kansas championship in twenty years. And it is clothed by the missed four free-throws of Chris Douglas-Roberts in the last seventy-five seconds and the total disintegration of the Memphis Tigers.
The Tigers led by nine points- a veritable furlong ahead given the circumstances- with only two minutes remaining. It was a lead built by the silky brilliance of Douglas-Roberts and teammate Derrick Rose, who was ethereal in the second half. Memphis was on the way to their first national title. It seemed inevitable, a bet so sure that bookmakers around the world would only laugh at you if prices were requested. A new map, however, was to be drawn, a drama of Shakespearian proportions, one that would be read as tragedy by some and a parable of virtue by others. Fate frowned cruelly on Memphis and Chris Douglas-Roberts in particular. Over the final two minutes, Kansas ran a foul-first defense in order to put the third-worst free throw shooting team in the country under the gun. The Tigers were left a bloody mess by the bullet, a single shot delivered at approximately 10:15 pm local time, time of death some five minutes plus timeouts later.
Douglas-Roberts, a sublime scorer with the touch of an artist and a player actually adept at the stripe, would miss four of five free throws at a time when one would have finished Kansas. Kansas kept chipping at the lead but even with only seconds remaining, it seemed as if they would fall just short. Then Mario Chalmers, the blessed Kansas point guard, he had his Moment. A tough shot from deep, he landed a game-tying shot, one that will be replayed for time immemorial, over the outstretched Memphis hand of desperation. Overtime. And going in, only the brave, the blind and the stupid were on Memphis. Kansas had the momentum, the legs and seemingly the gods on their side. The five extra minutes played out as expected and Kansas were hailed victors while Memphis were left to drink from the wrong chalice.
Just as the Tournament is defined by Laettner and Jordan and Robinson and now Chalmers and Douglas-Roberts, these individuals are defined by the tournament, their Moment, the strong rock that turned the current. Chris Webber, when recalling his infamous timeout, said “it made me a man…it made me grow up a lot faster than if it hadn’t happened.” Even a glittering NBA career could not reshape the life and the legacy of C-Webb. That is the power, the enduring strength of the Tournament.
Never will Mario Chalmers again buy a drink in Kansas. He will drink for free on the wide back of that single shot. He will be hailed as a hero until his dying days, regardless of whether he takes the low road or the high road or the round that runs along sea level. It is also unlikely that Chris Douglas-Roberts well ever have a perfect night’s sleep again. There will be many times when he will choke on his own tears and many more when compelled by an inner-angst to yell at the moonless nights and curse the Fates for the destiny afforded him. Not even a starry NBA career full of rings and records will erase the torment of those missed free throws.
It is wise never to underestimate the power of an important sporting contest. Greatness is on the line but risk always equals rewards. The path to greatness stretches over the jagged ravine of despair and regret and not all make it to safety. The pressure to grab glory cause some to buckle and fall. It can turn others into warriors and heroes, icons of success. And it all happens in just one moment, an instant that will soon and forever become The Moment.