Last Shot

by John Feinstein

  Stevie and his dad had been invited to dinner by a group of the coaches from Philadelphia at some hot shot New Orleans restaurant called K-Paul’s. When his dad had told him about the dinner, he had been excited at the prospect of eating with Fran Dunphy, the Penn coach he’d interviewed at the Palestra, and Jay Wright, the coach at Villanova. Now all he could think about was the entire evening being wasted. There wasn’t much they could do.

  “I think we need to get an early start in the morning,” he said. “The first game isn’t until five o’clock. That means the coaches won’t want the players up too early, so we can probably catch him in his room.”

  “Why don’t we leave here at eight-thirty,” she said. “It can’t be too far away if it’s in downtown.”

  “The question is, what do we tell our dads?”

  She looked baffled for a second, then snapped her fingers. “Easy. Remember when Mr. Brill was saying there’s an entire room filled with radio stations doing broadcasts over at the coaches’ hotel?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So we’ll tell them we were invited over there by a couple of radio stations to appear, and Mr. Brill and Mr. Weiss said we should do it because it would be good publicity for the USBWA.”

  “And what if they say they want to go with us?”

  “Chances are my dad won’t want to. He said something about wanting to go to a museum in the morning. And if they do, let’s just tell them we’d sort of like to do this on our own.”

  Stevie thought his dad would probably buy that, since they always argued over how much independence Stevie should be allowed at home. “Good idea,” he said. “I think that can work.”

  They got on the elevator to head to their rooms. Stevie’s floor came first. As he got off, he turned back to Susan Carol. “I’ll see you at eight-thirty in that lower lobby, okay?” he said.

  She gave him a nervous smile that reminded him how very pretty she was. “I hope you sleep tonight,” she said. “I know I won’t.”

  The door closed. She was right again. He knew he wouldn’t sleep at all. There was just much too much to think about. And worry about.

  8: A NEW FRIEND

  STEVIE WOULD HAVE LAUGHED if someone had told him he would spend an evening in the presence of four college basketball coaches—Fran Dunphy had brought Harvard coach Frank Sullivan and Billy Hahn, the ex-La Salle coach, with him—wondering when it would be time to go home and go to bed. But that’s pretty much what happened. The coaches took turns telling stories that normally Stevie would have been fascinated to hear. Sullivan, who seemed very un-coachlike to Stevie, with his soft-spoken manner and easy smile, talked about how close Harvard had come to landing Wally Szczerbiak a few years earlier.

  “You mean the Wally Szczerbiak?” Stevie’s dad asked as Sullivan told the story.

  “The one who is an All-Star in Minnesota right now,” Sullivan said. “We had him until the last minute. Then Miami of Ohio came in and, well, they were in a better basketball league than the Ivy League—”

  “Wait a minute,” Bill Thomas said, breaking in. “You’re telling me a kid turned down Harvard to go to Miami of Ohio because the Mid-American Conference is a better basketball league than the Ivy League?”

  Sullivan laughed. “Are you kidding? When you recruit a basketball player, he thinks of himself as a basketball player first and foremost. The student part comes second.”

  “Unless he’s not a very good player,” Dunphy put in.

  “But Penn has had some very good teams,” Stevie said to Dunphy.

  “That’s because kids think of us as a basketball school,” Dunphy said. “Same with Princeton. But Frank and the other coaches in the league fight the notion that basketball isn’t a serious sport at their schools.”

  “But turning down Harvard?” Stevie’s dad said again.

  “Happens all the time,” Sullivan said. “Every once in a while we get lucky and there’s a kid who is a good player and a good student who has been overlooked by the big-time schools. That’s what happened with Szczerbiak … until the very end. Once Miami got involved, we were done.”

  Later, Hahn regaled them with stories about Maryland coach Gary Williams, who had a reputation for being perhaps the most intense coach in the profession. Hahn had worked for Williams for twelve years. “One night we’re playing North Carolina,” Hahn said. “We’re down thirteen at halftime. Gary is ballistic. We’re in his office right off the locker room and he looks at Dave Dickerson, one of our assistants, and he says, ‘Look at you, you’re not even sweating! You don’t even care that we’re losing! How can you not be sweating?’ From that day forward, Dave always wore a heavy vest under his suit jacket to make sure he sweated.”

  Everyone laughed, and Hahn went on. Stevie should have been in heaven hearing these inside stories, but he couldn’t stop looking at his watch. He wondered where Chip Graber was at that moment. He wondered what Susan Carol was doing. The only good news about the evening was that he and his dad got back to the hotel so late that he fell into bed and was so exhausted he went right to sleep.

  He was up by six and lay awake in bed staring at the clock. He had told his dad in the cab coming back from the restaurant about how he and Susan Carol were planning to go to the coaches’ hotel in the morning to do a couple of radio interviews. His dad was so proud and excited that Stevie had started to feel bad about lying. Then his dad gave him a sideways look and said, “So, you and Susan Carol are hitting it off okay then, huh?”

  “Yeah, okay,” Stevie said. “I mean, she’s all right. At least she seems to know about basketball.”

  “Quite a concession coming from the world’s leading expert on the subject,” his dad said.

  “Cut it out, Dad, I’m not an expert. I just like it.”

  “But you concede Susan Carol may know something about it, too.”

  “Actually, she knows quite a lot.”

  Even in the darkness of the cab, Stevie could see his dad smile. “Wow. A girl who knows a lot about basketball. And she’s pretty.”

  “Daaaad …”

  “Okay, okay.”

  Stevie felt himself blush slightly just remembering the conversation. Maybe, he thought, in a year I’ll be taller than … He pushed the thought from his mind. He was still trying to formulate a plan to find Chip once he and Susan Carol got to the hotel.

  He took a shower, then waited impatiently until seven o’clock, when he woke his dad to tell him he wanted to go down to breakfast by seven-thirty. The first people they saw when they walked into the terrace restaurant were the Andersons.

  “Looks like we’re raising a couple of media stars, eh, Bill?” Reverend Anderson said, waving the Thomases over to the table.

  “Yeah, how about that?” Stevie’s dad said as they walked over. The two men shook hands and Stevie made a point of acting casual when he said good morning to Susan Carol. He noticed that she did the same thing, barely managing a hello as Stevie and his dad sat down to join them. She was dressed a lot more casually than the day before, wearing a gray sweatshirt that said GOLDSBORO BASKETBALL and jeans. Stevie had also put on jeans, causing his dad to ask if he shouldn’t dress a bit more neatly to make his debut as a media star.

  “Dad, it’s radio,” he said.

  “Yes, I know,” his father said. “But it would be nice to make a good impression on the people interviewing you, wouldn’t it?”

  If his mother had been there, a full-scale argument would no doubt have ensued. His father didn’t bother. Stevie was actually relieved to see that Susan Carol’s thinking was the same as his: the more casual and unthreatening they looked, the better.

  “I see your media star likes blue jeans as much as mine does,” Reverend Anderson said.

  Stevie and Susan Carol couldn’t help smiling at one another. Clearly, the same fashion conversation had taken place in the Andersons’ room that morning.

  Breakfast consisted mostly of the fathers comparing notes on dinner the night before and where ea
ch was going to be sitting that night. Reverend Anderson said that a member of his church was a Duke season-ticket holder and had gotten him a seat in the Duke section. “Probably a better location than what I dug up,” Bill Thomas said. “But at least I’m in the building.”

  By eight-fifteen, Stevie was ready to bolt. Susan Carol, clearly able to read his mind, said, “Dad, I think Stevie and I ought to get going.”

  “I thought you said your first interview was at nine,” Reverend Anderson said.

  “It is, but we should probably get there a little early just to be sure.”

  If either father was the least bit suspicious, they didn’t show it. There really wasn’t anything for them to be suspicious about. The radio story was a good one. Stevie’s dad had been in the Hilton before and had seen “radio row,” so he knew they weren’t making it up.

  Stevie and Susan Carol stood up to go.

  “Wait—how are you getting there? When will you be back?” Stevie’s dad asked.

  Good questions. There was no way to know how long they would need to accomplish—or not accomplish—their mission.

  As always, Susan Carol had it covered. “There’s a shuttle service from here to the Hilton. We’ll be fine. And how about we all meet back here around lunchtime. Like noon?”

  “Okay,” Reverend Anderson said. “But remember, I have to be at the church at two o’clock.”

  “Got it.” She gave her father a kiss. “I’ll call if we’re held up.” They headed for the escalator that would take them to the lobby.

  “Church on Saturday?” Stevie asked as they made their way down.

  “Yup. He started a Saturday Bible study group about two years ago for people who were addicted to sports, and it’s sort of taken off around the country. He’s visiting the New Orleans group while he’s here.”

  He looked at her to see if she was joking. She didn’t appear to be.

  They were walking through the lobby with Susan Carol clearly leading the way. “Do you know where we’re going?” he said, deciding a change of subject was safest.

  “Yes,” she said. “I asked for directions when we got back last night. The Marriott’s on Canal and Chartres. It’s kind of a long walk from here, but there really is a shuttle to the Hilton that puts us only about four blocks away.”

  That was fine with Stevie. As eager as he was to get the morning started, he was already dreading their arrival at the hotel. How were they going to find Chip Graber? What if they got arrested? That would give Reverend Anderson something to talk about at Bible study.

  Once they were on the shuttle bus, Stevie asked if Susan Carol had a plan.

  “It’s hard to know until we get there. There probably won’t be any way to get onto the floors where the team is staying—unless you have some kind of proof you’re with the team.”

  “Okay, how do we get that?” he asked.

  “Beats me,” she said. “That’s why I think we have to check the place out and then come up with a plan.”

  Stevie would have much preferred having a plan going in, but he had nothing. It wasn’t like they could use a house phone in the lobby, call up to his room, and say, “Chip, we’re here, what room are you in?” They were too young to be delivery people. Too young to be room service or housekeeping. And darn, he’d left his suction cups at home, so they couldn’t scale the building.… Susan Carol was right. They would have to find out what they were up against, then decide what to do.

  They got off the shuttle at the Hilton and started to walk. The streets weren’t as choked with people as they had been the night before, when Stevie and his dad had taken the taxi back to the hotel, but they were crowded. Every street corner had vendors selling “official NCAA merchandise.” Stevie remembered reading an item in the paper about how part of the NCAA’s deal with the city of New Orleans included a promise from the police to arrest anyone selling nonofficial merchandise. Stevie glanced at the prices as they walked by one official vendor and noticed that the T-shirts were going for twenty-five dollars. No wonder the NCAA wanted to make everyone buy their stuff.

  Stevie could feel his heart starting to pound a little bit as they approached the hotel. There were people milling around everywhere and Stevie noticed a couple of large men in sunglasses with little wires coming out of their ears. Security people. “Just keep walking as if we belong inside the hotel,” Susan Carol said quietly as they approached the entrance. Stevie tried not to look too closely at the security men. They weren’t stopping people, though, just kind of standing around looking the crowd over. Stevie and Susan Carol walked in without anyone saying anything. Stevie breathed a sigh of relief. At least they were inside.

  The lobby was a madhouse. Almost everyone seemed to be wearing purple and white. Clearly, this wasn’t just the MSU team hotel but also the hotel where all their fans were staying.

  “This is why Coach K told me Duke doesn’t stay in the assigned hotel,” Susan Carol said, sweeping a hand around the lobby. “He doesn’t want his players having to walk through all their fans every time they leave their room.”

  Stevie could see where that might be a problem. “Bad for us, I think,” he said. “Means the players are even less likely to show up in the lobby.”

  “Maybe. Or we could make it work for us,” she said. “Let’s see what this place looks like.”

  Before Stevie could ask her what she meant, she was working her way around the lobby. The front desk was to the right of the door, but there was no point in going there. They could see an elevator bank a few steps beyond the front desk. “Just keep walking until somebody stops us,” Susan Carol said.

  The stopping point was at the elevator bank. There were two more security guards there and a large sign that said HOTEL GUESTS ONLY. PLEASE HAVE KEY READY FOR INSPECTION.

  Susan Carol didn’t hesitate as they approached the checkpoint. “Morning,” she said, sounding cool as could be, waving a hand at the guards as if she’d walked past them a dozen times already.

  “Miss, I need to see your key,” one of the guards said, taking a quick step to get between Susan Carol and the elevators.

  Susan Carol put a hand up to her mouth as if she had done something awful. “Oh my goodness,” she said, her voice suddenly Southern. Stevie thought he counted about six syllables in the word “goodness.”

  “Steve, did you remember to bring a key? I just plain forgot maahn.”

  Stevie stumbled for a second before picking up his cue. “I thought you had it,” he said.

  Susan Carol looked imploringly at the guard, eyes opening wide. “Sir, I am so sorry. My brother and I both forgot our keys. I can’t believe we were so stupid. I promise it will never happen again.”

  For a minute Stevie thought the wide-eyed-Southern-girl charm was going to work. But the guard said, “I really am sorry, but we just can’t let anyone up without their key. If you just go to the front desk, tell the people there what room you’re in, and show them some ID …”

  “I don’t have any ID!” Susan Carol practically shrieked. Stevie thought she was going to cry.

  “Well, you can call up to your room and have someone come down.…”

  “Our dad’s not in the room. He went out for a run, a long run. We don’t know when he’ll be back.”

  “Well then, if you ask for the manager and tell him the problem, maybe he can help.” He smiled again. “Because even if I let you by, miss, if there’s no one in the room, and you haven’t got a key, how are you going to get in?”

  Great, Stevie thought. They had found the one security man on earth with common sense. Susan Carol actually had tears in her eyes.

  “I really am sorry,” the security man said. “I’m sure the manager can help you, or you can wait here in the lobby until your dad comes back.”

  Susan Carol looked at Stevie as if he might have an idea. He had nothing. “Okay,” Susan Carol sighed. “Thank you.”

  “You’re very welcome. Good luck.”

  They walked away. “Good
try,” Stevie said.

  “Thought I had him there for a minute,” she said, any sign of near hysteria long gone.

  “Well, don’t feel too bad,” he said. “If we had gotten through, that still wouldn’t have put us on the right floor.”

  “I’d guess they’re on the top floor or close to it,” she said.

  That made sense. He wished he had thought of it.

  “Come on, let’s see what else we can find down here,” she said. “I never thought it would be that easy anyway.”

  They began a tour of the lobby. There was a large bar opposite the front desk, with people sitting everywhere, looking up at various TV sets that were tuned to ESPN. Vitale, Fowler, and Phelps were now on some sort of set and, not surprisingly, Vitale was talking. Stevie couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he was waving his arms while Phelps and Fowler watched with bemused looks on their faces. Next to the lobby bar was another official NCAA merchandise stand. This time Stevie noticed the price of the caps—twenty-two bucks.

  They kept walking. On the left side of the lobby in the back was another entrance from a side street. Stevie could see cars pulling up to the door when the glass doors opened as they walked by. There was also a restaurant back there and a line of people waiting to get in for breakfast.

  “Any ideas?” he said.

  “Not so far,” she said. Then she pointed across the lobby.

  “There’s an escalator over there. Let’s see if we can get up one floor. Maybe there are meeting rooms up there or something. We might get lucky.”

  Given the luck they were having so far, Stevie didn’t see any reason not to try the escalator. They picked their way through still more people, past a Starbucks coffee stand where there was also a line, and up the escalator. It was relatively quiet on the mezzanine level. Susan Carol had been right: there were meeting rooms, but they all appeared empty. They checked some of the signs to see if, by some chance, one said “Minnesota State Purple Tide.” Nothing.