Last Shot

by John Feinstein

  “Which would mean what?” Susan Carol asked.

  “It would mean I wasn’t eligible to play fall semester—our first twelve games of the season.”

  “Can’t you just go to the Econ professor and get him to say something got messed up in the computer?”

  “Professor Scott,” Graber said. “Great guy.”

  “And?” they both said at once.

  “And he died last summer. Heart attack.”

  “Oh boy,” Stevie said.

  “Wait a minute,” Susan Carol said. “Someone else must have seen your grade. A dean or something.”

  “Actually, four people saw it,” Graber said. “My mom and dad, and you’re right, the dean who was my academic advisor.”

  “That’s three.”

  Graber nodded. “Right. The fourth was Whiting, our team’s faculty advisor.”

  “Okay,” Susan Carol said. “Your parents still have the report card, right?”

  “There are no report cards anymore. We get our grades sent by computer. None of us kept my grades from last spring on file. It isn’t as if I made the dean’s list.”

  “But that still leaves the dean.”

  Graber nodded. “Dean Benjamin Wojenski. I’ve been looking for him all week.”

  “Looking for him?”

  “He retired last summer. I called his old secretary; I called the alumni office; I called the dean of students’ office; I even called the president’s office.”

  “And?”

  “They all said the same thing. Can’t give out personal information on a member of the faculty or even an ex-member of the faculty. Of course I couldn’t tell them why I need to find him, and that probably didn’t help. I finally got them all to agree to contact him and give him my numbers.”

  “And you haven’t heard from him?” Susan Carol asked.

  “Not a word. Which, if they did contact him, is strange because my dad has known him for about twenty years.”

  “But your dad has only been at Minnesota State for six years,” Stevie said.

  “Yeah, I know. But a long time ago he was an assistant coach and then the head coach at Davidson. Wojenski was an English professor there and a big basketball fan. We lost track of him when my dad left Davidson to take the job at DePaul. But when he got hired at MSU, there was Wojenski, only now he was a dean.”

  “You think that’s all coincidence?” Susan Carol asked.

  “All I know is, I haven’t been able to find him. I even put in a call to the alumni office at Davidson. Someone there actually called me back and left a message saying she might be able to help, but I haven’t heard from her since, and when I try to call, I get voice mail.”

  “What’s her name?” Susan Carol asked, producing a notebook suddenly.

  Graber shrugged. “I don’t know what good it will do, but her name’s Christine Braman. Her office number’s 704-555-4190. I know it by heart at this point.”

  “Did you try to get a home number?” Susan Carol asked.

  “Yeah, I did,” Graber said. “There was no one named Braman in the phone book anywhere near Davidson. But if she had any information for me, she would have it at the office.”

  “Makes sense. So, what happened Monday morning with Whiting?” Stevie asked, bringing him back to his story.

  “Oh yeah, I got kind of sidetracked, didn’t I?” He looked at his watch. Stevie looked at his. It was 11:20.

  “Okay, so Whiting tells me there’s this problem with my transcript from the spring. To tell the truth, I’m not that upset at first, I figure it’s just a mistake and he, as the team’s faculty advisor, is here to help straighten it out. But then Whiting says there’s no mistake.

  “I ask him what the hell he’s talking about. And he says to me, ‘And you also flunked a course in the fall. Which means you were ineligible to play both semesters. Add that up and you’re looking at causing the school to forfeit every game it won this year, the conference title, making the Final Four, not to mention facing a serious NCAA investigation because your dad knowingly used an ineligible player.’

  “I say, ‘Slow down. I didn’t flunk a course this fall.’ That’s when he produced another transcript. And this transcript shows I did flunk a course.”

  “Which one?” Stevie asked.

  “Why don’t you take a wild guess,” Chip said.

  Stevie and Susan Carol looked at one another. They got the answer at the exact same moment: “Ethics and Morals …”

  “In American Society Today,” Chip said, finishing the sentence for them. “Taught by Thomas R. Whiting. I got a B in that damn class, a legitimate B, not one of those Bs I get sometimes because the prof loves hoops. He hands me this transcript and it’s got a big fat F for a grade in Ethics and Morals.”

  “Which is when you knew he was blackmailing you,” Stevie said.

  “It’s when I knew something was rotten in Denmark.”

  “Denmark?” Stevie said.

  “Hamlet,” Susan Carol said. “You haven’t read Hamlet?”

  Stevie felt himself redden a little bit.

  “Even I’ve read Hamlet,” Chip said. “The Cliffs Notes anyway. Point is, I knew he was up to no good. I handed him back the transcript and I said, ‘What’s this all about?’ That’s when he told me we have to get to the championship game, and then we have to lose. Otherwise these false transcripts will be made public and there’s no way for me to prove they’re false. He’s got documentation. I’ve got nothing.”

  “And you’re pretty convinced he isn’t in this alone?” It was Susan Carol who asked. Stevie had been wondering about that, too.

  “He’s fronting for others, I’m sure. When I said something about it being his word against mine and my dad’s if he went public, he just smiled and said, ‘Trust me, Chip, that won’t be the case.’ I suppose he could be bluffing, but I don’t think so. For one thing, he’d probably need help from someone to break into the computer system and make the changes in my grades.”

  “A computer whiz?”

  “Or someone pretty high up. For all his fancy titles, he’s still just a faculty member.”

  “What does your dad think about all this?” Stevie asked.

  Chip shook his head. “Nothing. I haven’t told him. It would ruin the biggest week of his life. And he can’t do any more than I can. If he comes out and says I didn’t flunk those courses, he just looks like a coach covering up and a father covering up. Double whammy.”

  “Which means the best hope is finding Dean Wojenski,” Susan Carol said.

  “Even that’s no sure thing. I’m sure he sees a lot of transcripts. If he’s retired, who’s to say he’s got his records with him or even has access to them back at school.”

  “Still, he may be our only hope,” Stevie said.

  “Our hope?” Chip said, laughing. “You an MSU fan, Steve?”

  Stevie reddened even more than he had after his Hamlet blunder. “No, but I don’t want to see them get away with this,” he said.

  “Well, my friend,” Chip Graber said, “on that we can agree.”

  11: MAKING PLANS

  IT WAS GETTING CLOSE TO NOON, and Chip had to get to his walk-through with the team, so they decided to do some quick planning.

  “What I really want to do is win tonight and then worry about Monday,” Chip said. “I have to believe there’s a way for us to win the national championship without Whiting ruining everything.”

  “If they did go public, it wouldn’t just affect MSU, would it?” Susan Carol said. “It would probably hurt your pro career, too.”

  Chip smiled. “That’s the one thing it probably wouldn’t affect. The NBA couldn’t care less if you were ineligible, if you flunked out of school, if you broke the law, or if you’re mean to little old ladies and children. Those guys only care if you can win games. But it would affect my marketing. I’ve already got people lining up to pay me to sell their products. If it came out that my dad and I somehow conspired to keep me on the court when I
was ineligible, that would come to a screeching halt.

  “But that isn’t what this is about. This is about right and wrong. I’m not a cheat and neither is my father, and these sleazebags are trying to make some kind of killing betting on a game or else we’ll be the ones people think are bad guys.”

  The plan they concocted before Chip had to go downstairs was fairly simple: Susan Carol and Stevie would track down the woman at Davidson who had at least said she would try to help Chip find Wojenski. Susan Carol, naturally, knew all about Davidson. “It’s a very good school with a great basketball history,” she said. “They play Duke every year.”

  Stevie resisted the urge to make a smart remark about the importance of playing Duke. Especially since Susan Carol had a good plan: If there was no answer in Christine Braman’s office (likely), call the campus police and say there was an emergency and could they help them get in touch with her right away.

  “Should have thought of that myself,” Chip said.

  “You’ve had a lot on your mind,” Susan Carol said.

  If Christine Braman couldn’t help, they would go back to the Minnesota State angle. Chip gave them several names of faculty members he thought might have been friendly enough with Wojenski to have some idea where he now lived. The key, they decided, was finding a number for Wojenski by tomorrow, when the plot would be in play if MSU won tonight.

  Stevie came up with the idea of trying to track down Chip’s Econ professor’s family. He might have died, but his school records could still be around.

  “We’ll do what we can this afternoon,” Susan Carol said. “If you guys win tonight, we should probably make plans to talk tomorrow.”

  “Let me give you my cell phone number,” he said. “It will be crazy in the locker room after the game, and we may not get a chance to talk. If we don’t, call me on the cell.”

  He walked them to the door. There was no sign of Mike the Giant in the hallway. They wished him luck in the game and he nodded gravely. They were halfway down the hall when Stevie heard a door open behind them.

  “Hey, guys,” Graber called softly. They turned and he said, “I forgot to say thanks. Whatever happens, thanks.”

  “Thank us when this is all over,” Stevie said.

  “I will,” he said. “But thanks now.” He waved and shut the door.

  Stevie looked at Susan Carol. “We’ve got to get him out of this.”

  They were going to take a cab back to the Hyatt to save time, but there was a line of people waiting for cabs, so they started walking toward the Hilton, hoping to catch another shuttle bus. Stevie wished he had won the argument with his dad about a cell phone. “We’re not that late,” Stevie said.

  “No, but my dad doesn’t like me to be late at all,” Susan Carol said. “He worries.”

  It was twelve-forty-five when they walked into the Hyatt lobby. Not surprisingly, both fathers were standing there waiting for them.

  “Where in the world have you two been?” Bill Thomas said. “We had you paged in the lobby at the Hilton. We were about to come over there and look for you.”

  Reverend Thomas gave Susan Carol a hug and then a look. “First, tell me you’re okay,” he said. “Then tell me why you’re so late.”

  “We’re okay,” Susan Carol said. “It just got kind of crazy over there. When we finished the two shows we were asked to do, there were all these other radio people asking us to go on. We were finished by eleven-fifteen but we were both starving. We thought we would get a quick hamburger and still be back here at noon. But the service in that place was so slow.”

  “And then we couldn’t get a cab,” Stevie said, adding the one element of truth to the story.

  “I’m finally convinced. I’m getting you a cell phone,” Reverend Anderson said to Susan Carol.

  Seeing an opening, Stevie said, “I could use one, too, Dad.”

  “Mm-hmm. I’m still not convinced,” his dad said.

  “Well, Mr. Thomas and I haven’t eaten and I need to get moving here,” Reverend Anderson said. “You kids can come in and sit with us while we eat. Did you have dessert?”

  “Actually, Dad, we never ate,” Susan Carol said. “The service was so bad we got up and left. We’re starved, too.”

  Boy, she’s good, Stevie thought. She talks us out of the corner, keeps us from missing lunch, and gets herself a cell phone.

  They all proceeded into the restaurant, which was packed. “This is how it was at the Hilton,” Susan Carol said when they were finally seated after a fifteen-minute wait.

  Stevie couldn’t believe how crowded every place in town was. His dad did a smart thing when they sat down, telling the hostess they wanted to order right away because they were rushed.

  “Everyone’s rushed,” the hostess said.

  “These two kids have an interview with CBS in a little while,” Reverend Anderson said. Stevie was impressed: a minister lying to get something done. Apparently it ran in the family. Plus, it was a good lie. The hostess’s eyes sparked at the mention of CBS.

  “Really?” she said. “TV?” She pulled a pad from her pocket. “Why don’t I just take your order now—that’ll save you time.”

  After she was gone, Reverend Anderson said, “I feel badly doing that, but the one thing I learned in my years working with the Panthers is that most people will crawl through mud to be on TV, and the rest will help you find the mud just to be associated with TV. It’s like a magic trick. Mention TV and all obstacles disappear.”

  While they were eating, Dick Weiss, who had apparently been sitting on the other side of the restaurant, walked over to the table. “Steve, I left you a message in the room,” he said. “We’re going to walk over about two-thirty if you want to go with us.”

  Stevie looked at Susan Carol to see if she thought that was a good idea or if they needed that time to work on their own.

  “Is Mr. Brill going then, too?” she asked.

  “Absolutely,” Weiss said. “I think he left you a message, too.”

  “Sounds good to me,” she said.

  Weiss nodded. “Let’s meet here on this level just like yesterday,” he said.

  They finished lunch by one-forty-five and Reverend Anderson glanced at his watch as he signed for his portion of the bill. “I’ve got just enough time to walk over to the church,” he said. He looked at his daughter. “I can trust you to stay out of trouble this afternoon and tonight, can’t I?” he said.

  She smiled. “Of course, Daddy. Steve and I both have to do stories, so I won’t be back until late. But we’ll make sure a grown-up walks us back here.”

  “Good,” he said. “You have your key, right?” He stood up and kissed his daughter on the forehead.

  The hostess was back. “You folks get everything okay?” she said. They all told her she had been wonderful, and she looked at Stevie and Susan Carol and said, “Now, when you see Jim Nantz, you tell him when he gets tired of Bonnie Bernstein, he needs to call Jan Miley, right here at the Hyatt. I did TV work in college, and I am ready.”

  Stevie hadn’t really noticed before but she was pretty, tall, and blond. He imagined there were probably thousands of Jan Mileys in the world who wanted to replace Bonnie Bernstein as CBS’s on-court reporter at the Final Four.

  “We’ll make sure to pass the message to Jim,” Bill Thomas said.

  As she walked away, he shook his head and laughed. “Don was right. Mention TV to people and it’s like waving a magic wand.”

  Reverend Anderson headed down the escalator to go to his meeting. Susan Carol and Stevie and his dad walked to the elevator. “I’m going to make that call before we go over to the game,” Susan Carol said to him as they stepped on the elevator.

  “What call is that?” Bill Thomas said.

  As usual, Susan Carol covered. “Oh, we wanted to double-check the deadline for tonight with our editor. So I’ll do that and then meet you in the lobby, okay, Stevie?”

  He wasn’t sure how he felt about the fact that she was sta
rting to call him Stevie. But since he messed up and introduced himself that way so often, she probably thought he preferred it. “Sounds good,” he said as they got off the elevator. “Let me know what he says.”

  When they got to the room, Stevie’s dad announced he was going to take a shower and then do a little more pregame sightseeing once “all you media types head over to the arena.”

  He asked Stevie what time the first game started.

  “Five-oh-seven,” Stevie told him. “Six-oh-seven in the East.” Saying it reminded him there were actually games to be played in a few hours.

  “Well, let’s hope St. Joe’s can do it,” said his dad. “MSU will be tough.”

  “Yeah, right,” Stevie answered. He felt guilty, realizing he was probably going to be rooting against the team from Philadelphia.

  His dad went into the bathroom and Stevie changed his clothes. He was putting his credential around his neck when the phone rang. He looked at his watch. It was 2:25. Maybe Dick Weiss was getting antsy. He picked up the phone on the second ring.

  “I may have something.” It was Susan Carol.

  “What?”

  “I found Christine Braman. At least I found her home phone number. She’s not home right now, but I’ll call her back again when we get to the arena.”

  “Campus police?”

  “No. Didn’t have to call them. It’s better than that. I’ll tell you when we get over there.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you in five minutes.”

  Stevie’s dad had walked out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist. “Who was that?” he asked.

  “Oh. Mr Weiss. I guess he wants to get going. I told him I’d be right down.”

  Bill Thomas nodded. “The game doesn’t start for almost three hours. It’s a five-minute walk over there, and he’s itchy to get going.”

  “Guess that’s why they call him Hoops.”

  “Guess so.” His dad looked at him for a moment and smiled. Then he put both hands on his shoulders. “I’m not sure I’ve told you how proud I am of you,” he said.

  Stevie felt himself flush a little bit. “Gee, Dad, what’d I do?”