“In all the years you kids will play basketball, this is an opportunity you will get very few times,” he says. “You are playing the number one team in the nation and that means the whole nation is watching. But there’s more. You are getting to play in Philadelphia as an underdog. That doesn’t happen very often at Villanova.
“The game Saturday against Boston College was a lunch-pail game. We just had to get the job done and we did. Now we can put the lunch-pail under our arms and step out into the limelight.”
He paused. That was Olive’s signal to take the players through the matchups. More fuel, no doubt, for Enright’s imitation. When Olive was finished, Massimino went through highlights of the scouting report on the board. Each time he finished a diagram, one of the managers jumped forward to erase the board. When he was finished, he had one last thing to tell them.
“In terms of attention, this is the biggest game many of you guys have played in. A lot of people would love to be in your shoes tonight. Go out and enjoy it.”
With that, he sent them out on the floor to warm up. He sat down and shook his head. “I’m getting too old for this,” he said. His eyes were shining with anticipation. Clearly, he would never be too old for this.
The game was a classic. Villanova was up 8–0 before Temple had a chance to breathe, West nailing two three-pointers in the first minute. Calmly, Temple came back, tying the score at 12–12 on a jumper by Mark Macon, the baby-faced freshman whose scoring had given Temple the added dimension that made it a special team this year.
From there, they raced to halftime like two sprinters not willing to back off from a torrid pace. It was 41–40, Temple, at intermission, Macon’s soft baseline jumper giving the Owls the lead.
Massimino floated through the intermission on a cloud. On the outside, he was his usual unraveled self: hair disheveled, shirt hanging out of his suit, tie undone. But inside, he was Gene Kelly, singin’ in the locker room.
“If you guys think after that half that you need to take a backseat to any team in the country, you’re nuts,” he said. “Temple has shot the hell out of the ball, we’re playing in their house and we’re down one. This is a great game. You have to be a great team to play in this game.”
He wanted some changes. To Wilson: “Kenny, you are not going to make Howie Evans eat the basketball. Don’t jump out at him. Jump straight up.” To Gary Massey: “Don’t chase Macon so much. Drop back a step every once in a while.” To Rodney Taylor: “Don’t foul back. The officials always see the second foul. You foul back and I have to take you out of the game.”
Overall, though, the plan was the same. Rebounding was still the key. “Box out and play and you’ll win the game,” Massimino said. “You know you can play at this level. You’ve done it for twenty minutes. Now let’s just go out and find a way.”
They went out as if they fully intended to do that. A Plansky three-pointer put them up 45–43 and a Wilson jumper made it 47–43. A couple of minutes later, Wilson grabbed a rebound, raced through the Temple defense and hit a gorgeous, driving scoop shot as he was fouled. The free throw made it 53–47 with 15:51 left. McGonigle was stunningly quiet.
But Temple had not gotten where it was just on talent. It was not about to wilt. Mike Vreeswyk, the Rambo-look-alike junior, hit a three-pointer. Tim Perry hit a hook. Wilson answered and Vreeswyk hit another three to make it 57–55.
It was the kind of basketball that you see once a season—if you are lucky. Every shot was contested, yet they kept falling. Every possession was vital, both teams trying to dig in and take control. There was no dirty play, no yapping between the players, no whining at the referees by the coaches. Just chest-to-chest basketball.
With 9:40 left, Macon, who seems to float into the air for his jump shot, tossed in a three-pointer. Temple led 66–65. West promptly answered from seventeen feet. But Vreeswyk came right back with yet another three and Temple was up 69–67 with 8:43 left.
As it turned out, Villanova never got even again. Temple just wouldn’t make mistakes and Macon was in a zone that only great players are able to reach. He stripped Greis and went all the way for a lay-up. Then, with the shot clock running down, he cut across the lane and hit a lefty hook shot. If any shot did in the Wildcats that was the one. It was unanswerable.
Forced to foul down the stretch, Villanova watched Temple hit all its free throws—twelve of twelve in the last two minutes. The final score was 98–86, but it had been closer than that and everyone knew it. Temple had shot 56 percent from the field including 9 of 13 three-pointers. Macon was 14 of 20 and had 31 points. Vreeswyk had 19 and Evans had 17 and 20 assists—2 shy of the all-time NCAA record. For Villanova West had 27 and Wilson had 25.
“Temple just played a national championship game, they were that good,” Massimino told his players. “You did everything we asked of you. Don’t hang your heads for even a minute. We’re going to do a lot of good things before this season is over.”
They had already done a lot of good things. But Massimino was right. There was more to come.
February 13 … Fairfax, Virginia
In the seventeen days since George Mason’s overtime victory over American, the Patriots had been riding high. American had been their fourth straight victory, a streak they had since extended to nine. They had won at James Madison, at East Carolina, and at North Carolina–Wilmington, all important conference road victories. They had also beaten Virginia Commonwealth in a nonleague game—an impressive victory.
On the surface it seemed that all the screaming and yelling and disciplining that Rick Barnes had done early was finally paying off. To some degree, that was true. But just as important, Barnes felt, was his decision to back off, to give the players a little more breathing room.
“It’s a little bit like with your first kid,” he said, finishing breakfast on a rainy winter morning. “You make all your mistakes with them. That’s the way I guess it is with your first team as a head coach.
“I was making the kids too uptight. I think they probably felt like they were in the army or something. So, I stopped going to breakfast with them every morning so they wouldn’t feel like I was watching them. I stopped making them wear jackets and ties on the bus. Instead, I told them to all wear their George Mason sweats—they would be comfortable but would clearly be part of the same team. I stopped bringing them back to walk-through the night before games. Instead, we just give ’em pizza and send them home. I started coming to pregame meal at the end instead of being there the whole time.
“I think it’s helped. They feel more relaxed but they know the discipline is still there. We still talk to them once a week about their schoolwork, or more often if they get in any trouble. This team has been through a lot, most of it because of me. Now, some of it’s paying off. I’d be disappointed if they didn’t finish strong.”
Barnes had loosened up a little but he hadn’t become Mr. Chips by any means. One night after practice he had asked his three seniors—Amp Davis, Brian Miller, and Darren Satterthwite—why they thought the team was playing better. Miller had answered for all three: “Coach, we just don’t want to deal with you when we lose.”
That answer didn’t thrill Barnes. He didn’t want basketball to become something his players dreaded. He wondered if that’s what had happened. He had ridden his best player, Kenny Sanders, unmercifully at times. He had made them practice day and night at others. But they were producing. “Next year I’ll be a better coach,” Barnes said. “But for now, I think the kids understand why I’ve done what I’ve done. At least I hope they do.”
Barnes was much too high-strung to be happy with a 16–6 record (or even with the fact that his team was first in the Colonial Athletic Association with a 7–2 record). Richmond was coming into the Patriot Center for what was shaping up as one of the biggest games in school history. The American game had drawn less than three thousand fans. This one would draw closer to seven thousand. Richmond and George Mason were clearly the class of the CAA. Just as
clearly, only one of them—the postseason tournament winner—was going to get an NCAA bid.
For just that reason, Barnes didn’t want his team making this Richmond game into too big a thing. He wanted to win, to establish in his players’ minds that they could beat the Spiders. But he also wanted them to understand that win or lose, their biggest and most important games would be the ones in the Hampton Coliseum during the first week in March—the tournament that would determine the NCAA invitation.
Barnes had been telling his players that all season: Their goal was the NCAA Tournament and they should work toward being at the top of their game by the CAA Tournament. He thought that they finally understood that. He thought that until he walked into the locker room before the Richmond game.
It was quiet, much quieter than normal. None of the normal banter and whisperings. The players had been reading and hearing what a big game this was. They had believed it. “You know, no matter what we do tonight, win or lose, you’re going to walk off the floor with a piece of first place,” Barnes said. “This is like any other game. Play defense and rebound and you’ll win. But don’t think this game will make or break your season. It won’t. If you win, you’re still going to have to beat them again in March. If you lose, they’re still going to have to beat you again in March. So go out, play like hell, and come back in here spent. That’s all I ask.”
As soon as the team had left to warm up, Barnes shook his head. “They’re too tight. That’s what I was afraid of.”
He walked down the hall to where the Patriot Club, the GMU booster group, was having its pregame party. Barnes may be the only Division 1 coach in America who goes to talk to his team’s fans while his team is on the floor warming up before a game. At a place like George Mason, he does those little things to build the program.
Barnes will usually talk for two minutes or so about the game, then pray there aren’t any questions. Usually, someone will ask why someone isn’t playing more or about changing defenses. Tonight, though, there are no questions. “I think,” Barnes says going back down the hall, “they sort of knew I didn’t want to hang around.”
Barnes has one other concern: the officials. Twelve days ago, during the game against Virginia Commonwealth, Barnes had angrily charged a couple of feet out of the coaches’ box to yell at one of his players. Hank Armstrong, generally considered the CAA’s top referee, had been refereeing the game.
If Hank Armstrong has a problem as an official it is ego. Older and wiser people in his profession have counseled him to be less of a “tough guy” on the floor, always trying to prove that he is in charge. Armstrong was standing between Barnes and his player during this incident. When Armstrong saw Barnes screaming in his direction, he thought Barnes was getting on him. Angrily, he pointed Barnes back to the coaching box. As soon as Barnes realized that Armstrong thought he was yelling at him, he jumped back, avoiding a technical foul.
The next day when Barnes saw the tape of the game he realized that from Armstrong’s angle it easily could have looked like Barnes was going after him. Knowing Armstrong would be working his games again before season’s end, he called him to apologize.
“But he really didn’t accept my apology,” Barnes said. “He was angry. He said I had shown him up and I better not ever do it again. I tried to explain to him that he had misunderstood. But I don’t think he heard me. He was upset.”
It is exactly this kind of reaction by officials that makes coaches crazy: “You showed me up.” Jim Valvano tells a story about an official walking over to him in the middle of a game while Valvano was getting on him and saying, “If you show me up, I’ll tee you up.”
Valvano was furious. “Did the guy think that fourteen thousand people came to the damn game to see him work? Did he think all eyes were on him? What crap that is, ‘Don’t show me up.’ That’s the problem with so many of these goddamn guys. They think they’re the fucking stars. They’re not. But they don’t know it half the time. That’s why I’d rather not shake hands with them before the game. They’re not my friends. They have a job to do and so do I. Leave it at that. But don’t give me this ‘Don’t show me up’ crap. I don’t want to hear it.”
Barnes, hearing it on the phone, felt the same way. Now Armstrong was working Barnes’s biggest game so far. So was Donnie Vaden, a talented young official Barnes liked. But he also remembered the notebook Joe Harrington had left him, listing the strengths and weaknesses of the league’s officials. Next to Vaden’s name Harrington had written, “gutless.”
The officials had little to do with the first half. Richmond was as tight as George Mason. The Spiders did lead 11–4, but GMU came right back to lead 12–11. They proceeded that way until the last 3:30 of the half when both teams virtually shut down with the score tied 34–34. After Rodney Rice put Richmond up 37–34 with 3:15 left, neither team scored the rest of the half.
Barnes wasn’t happy, but he was calm. “These guys don’t think we can play with them,” he told the team. “You have to get the ball inside where we can score. You’re giving up on the offense too quickly.”
Walking back to the floor, Barnes said to his assistants, “I could rip them but they might overreact if I did. Let’s just stay calm for a while.”
The second half was much like the first. Richmond led for the first twelve minutes, but never by more than four points. Finally, Amp Davis, who had been struggling all night, hit a three-pointer that put the Patriots up 52–51. The lead got to 56–51 before Rice hit a three-pointer to make it 56–54. With 4:18 left, Ken Atkinson, the Richmond player Mason most wanted to see shoot, hit another three-pointer. Richmond led 57–56.
Now, both teams struggled on offense. The Spiders hit a free throw, the Patriots missed several shots. But Kenny Sanders was fouled while going for a rebound. He hit both foul shots to tie the game at 58–58 with fifty-five seconds left.
Then came confusion. When Sanders went to the line, Barnes told Amp Davis that if Sanders hit both shots, Davis should call for a zone defense. But if he missed, Davis should call man-to-man. Davis heard wrong—and with the score tied called for man-to-man. With Barnes screaming for his players’ attention, the ball went inside to bulky Peter Woulfolk who scored easily with thirty-nine seconds to go.
Now it got wild. Davis missed from three-point range with fourteen seconds left. Sanders got the rebound but it slipped out of his hands and out of bounds. There were eleven seconds left on the clock. Richmond inbounded and Mason immediately fouled Mike Winiecki—put in the game by Coach Dick Tarrant because he could shoot free throws. Winiecki made two with ten ticks left to make the score 62–58. Davis came down and hit a drive to cut it to 62–60. Now there were only four seconds remaining. Again, Mason fouled right away, this time getting Scott Stapleton. He missed, Sanders rebounded and urgently called time. There were two seconds still to go.
Barnes had two things he wanted to try on the last play. He wanted to throw a pass to midcourt to Sanders, knowing he was the player Richmond would focus on. There was a chance the Spiders might get overzealous and foul. If Sanders caught the ball and there was no foul, he was to throw it immediately to Miller, who’d be cutting for the corner. Miller would then catch the ball and shoot in one motion.
Before the ball was inbounded, Barnes walked over to Armstrong and Vaden and said, “Watch carefully on this play. They’re going to foul Sanders. Be watching.”
Sure enough, as Sanders cut crosscourt to catch the pass, Steve Kratzer bumped him. Vaden was right on the play. Was it a foul? Maybe. But in this kind of situation, very few officials are going to call anything. And, it can be argued, they shouldn’t call anything—unless the action is so flagrant and strong it legitimately changes the result of the play. In this case, no foul was called.
Sanders caught the pass, turned and flipped it toward Miller. But the pass was deflected. By the time Miller caught up to it, the buzzer was sounding. He grabbed the ball and threw it up from the corner anyway—and it went in.
Clea
rly, the shot had come after the buzzer. But Barnes tried to steal the call, racing out with his arms up, giving a three-point signal. The officials weren’t buying it. They knew the shot had been late.
So did Barnes. Walking off the floor, he turned around and said, “No way the shot counted, right?” Right. That didn’t bother Barnes. Vaden’s noncall did, especially when he remembered what Harrington had written about him.
“Joe called that one,” he said. “It would have taken a lot of guts to make that call and he didn’t make it.”
In fairness to Vaden, it took guts not to make the call. Sanders had caught the pass, meaning that the bump had not caused him a disadvantage. But Barnes isn’t paid to be objective. He asked his managers to get him a tape right away. Barnes looked at the replay and saw the bump. That was enough for him.
Barnes strode down the hall to where the officials dressed and asked if they were still inside. Told they were, he was about to knock on the door when it opened. Armstrong, Vaden, and the third official, Allen Felts, emerged. “Donnie, I just looked at the tape and you missed a foul on the last play,” Barnes said to Vaden.
The officials didn’t stop. “I’ll look at it,” Vaden said.
“Look at it? What good does that do? I told you there was going to be a foul and you looked right at it and didn’t call it. You know it and I know it.”
Vaden kept walking. Armstrong didn’t. He stopped, turned as if to say something, then just shook his head and turned to leave.
Barnes looked at his athletic director, Jack Kvancz, who had witnessed the scene. “Now I’ve really got ’em pissed off, don’t I?”
Kvancz nodded. But neither one of them knew yet just how pissed off.
February 17 … Knoxville, Tennessee
Don DeVoe still had his sense of humor. “Maybe I’ll just walk onto the floor tonight and wave a white handkerchief,” he said. “Or maybe I’ll just tell the team in the locker room to go out there without me and bring back a win. They walk out there without me they’ll probably get cheered.”
A Season Inside Page 33