A Season Inside

by John Feinstein

  Inside, as Kerr sat on a training table talking quietly about the game, someone informed him of what Olson had just said. Kerr grinned wistfully when he heard the last line. “I’d change one thing,” he said. “Today.”

  DAY FIVE : SUNDAY

  This is always the quiet day at the Final Four. Already, some people have headed for home: fans of the two losing teams Saturday who sell their Monday tickets and get out of town. Some of the coaches also sell their tickets and head back to the recruiting trails.

  Only two teams are left now and, with the media hordes surrounding them, they are asked most of the intimate details of their lives. In 1987, during the massive Sunday press conference, Indiana’s Steve Alford had been asked to describe his four years with Bob Knight. Glancing to his left where Knight sat, Alford, without cracking a smile, said: “I’ve made it this far, I’m not going to blow it now.”

  He didn’t say another word. No one blamed him. Today, the columnists were off in pursuit of Archie Marshall, the martyred inspiration for what had now become a legitimate miracle team. The Jayhawks were one step from a national championship less than a month after most people, including themselves, had written them off.

  Now, they were playing Oklahoma—again. This was the first time since 1976 (Indiana–Michigan) and only the second time in NCAA history that two teams from the same conference were meeting for the national championship. This wasn’t bad for what was basically a football conference. It was especially interesting for Oklahoma. The basketball team playing for the national title was such big news in Norman that football coach Barry Switzer had called off a day of spring football practice. Now that was news.

  “I talked to Barry this morning,” Billy Tubbs said. “He told me if we win the toss we should kick and take the wind.”

  To say that Tubbs was enjoying all this attention was a bit like saying Oklahoma was, is, and always will be a football school. He charmed the media, telling funny stories, flirting outrageously with a female TV reporter from Kansas City—“Would you like a private interview?” he said when she tried to ask a question—and reeling off one-liners.

  Still, it was Rick Brewer who got off the best line of the day. When a reporter asked Tubbs if he thought that perhaps God was on Kansas’s side, Tubbs answered by saying, “What’s his number?”

  Without missing a beat, Brewer said, “Twenty-three,” identifying the number Michael Jordan had worn at North Carolina and was now wearing for the Chicago Bulls.

  When it was time for Tubbs to leave, he seemed disappointed. “I’ll talk some more,” he said before someone pointed out it was time to go to practice. Off he went.

  Down the hall, Steve Kerr was receiving an award from the U.S. Basketball Writer’s Association, its annual “Most Courageous” award. The reasons he was the recipient were obvious. He arrived for the ceremony with his mother and two brothers, John and Andrew, with him.

  Saturday had been a difficult night for the Kerrs. Steve had been inconsolable after the loss and had sulked all through dinner. To him, this made perfect sense. He had just lost the biggest game of his life and had played lousy to boot. But mothers are mothers. Ann Kerr thought Steve should pick his spirits up. After all, it had been a great season.

  “She just couldn’t understand,” Steve said later. “I mean, she’s only seen a few of the games I’ve played in college so she couldn’t understand how much it meant to me. My whole life was geared to this one thing for so many years and now it was over. She started getting pissed off at me and I started getting pissed at her for being pissed.”

  Everyone was tired. Later, up in the room, Steve dozed off for a while. When he woke up, he heard his mother crying softly. It had all kicked in for Ann Kerr. “She really did understand finally how disappointed I was,” Steve said. “But I also think she started thinking about how proud my dad would have been if he had been there to see the game.”

  Mother and son hugged, sharing their losses together for a moment. From that point on, the Kerrs were back to being themselves. “He’s still pouting a little,” Ann Kerr said at the awards ceremony.

  It turned out that this was the highlight of the day for those who were there. Olson spoke briefly, repeating his words of Saturday. Once again, his eyes glistened as he spoke. When it was Kerr’s turn, he started—as always—with a joke.

  “This is really a great plaque,” he said, turning it over in his hands. “But since Coors sponsors this award, I was wondering, since my eligibility is used up, if maybe I could have a couple of cases instead?”

  No doubt he could. Kerr turned serious. “I guess I won this award because of all the things I’ve been through. But the reason I’ve been able to get through these things is really pretty simple. I have the best family in the world and the best teammates a guy could have …”

  Kerr stopped. On the word teammates, a large lump had formed in his throat and he couldn’t go on. He paused for a full minute, fighting to regain control. “When I said teammates,” he said later, “I realized that they weren’t my teammates anymore. That it was over. It really kicked in on me right there.”

  Kerr regained his composure. When he finished he wasn’t the only one crying. “I’m glad he was emotional,” Ann Kerr said. “He should be that way.” Looking at her son, still so unhappy about Saturday, she shook her head. “I feel like it’s ten years ago and he’s back on the pitcher’s mound being a poor loser again.”

  Mothers are always going to be mothers.

  The coaches held their annual banquet that night, a monstrous affair in perhaps the longest ballroom in the history of ballrooms. There were ninety-seven people on the dais. When emcee Curt Gowdy introduced the Final Four coaches, he stumbled a bit while pronouncing Krzyzewski (pronounced Sheshefski). “I have a little trouble with that name of yours, Mike,” Gowdy said.

  “That’s okay,” Krzyzewski answered, “I have trouble with Gowdy.”

  The dinner tends to be among the longest affairs in the history of mankind. Everyone who has ever coached a game, it seems, is introduced. The highlight of the dinner is the introduction of Jud Heathcote of Michigan State as the new president of the NABC. Heathcote is genuinely funny. Tonight, his victim is Michigan Coach Bill Frieder.

  “When Bill was a boy,” Heathcote says, “he climbed an ugly tree and fell down and hit every branch on the way down.” And, “Bill had a charisma transplant but his body rejected it.”

  The best speech of the evening is given by Henry Iba, the immortal Oklahoma A & M coach, the grand old man of coaching at age eighty-three. In accepting his award—he gets a different one just about every year—Iba says, “I’m happy to get this award from you coaches—my best friends.”

  End of speech.

  At the press hotel, one of the more remarkable upsets in Final Four history is taking place. Many writers have abandoned the media hospitality room, where the booze is free, for the hotel bar, where it is not. The reason is Jennifer Sturpin.

  Every once in a while, the Final Four uncovers a new star. This year, it will not be Milt Newton or Mookie Blaylock. Jennifer Sturpin is twenty-four, a recent graduate of the University of Missouri–Rolla, where her father is a physics professor. She is just under six feet tall with long blond hair and legs that can literally mesmerize. She is a singer in a group called Lupé, which is playing in the bar, and her presence—not to mention her legs—has drawn the attention of the nation’s media.

  Many of them are sitting in the front row. In the back, the officials not working the final are having a drink with Hank Nichols. They have their wives with them, which explains why they are sitting in back.

  Nonetheless, the writers can’t resist. A note is sent to the officials’ table. “We’re trying to get you a table up front since we know you guys have trouble seeing.” The officials laugh, Jennifer keeps singing, and the writers keep looking.

  Back at the coaches’ hotel, the rumor du jour has a blue plate special: The appetizer, that Lute Olson is being wooed by U
CLA, is no big deal. The entree, though, is a doozy: Lefty Driesell, in his first act as coach at James Madison, hires Sharr Mustaf as his assistant coach and in the process wins the recruiting battle for Jerrod Mustaf. This ranks as one of the all-time rumors. Clearly, the end is near.

  DAY SIX : MONDAY

  Two sports collided here today. On the last day of the college basketball season, major league baseball opened its 1988 season. While Kansas and Oklahoma were sitting in their hotel rooms—across the street from one another—waiting anxiously for their 8:12 P.M. tip-off, the Kansas City Royals and Toronto Blue Jays were opening their seasons on a glorious spring day. George Bell hit three home runs for the Blue Jays. But he would not be the biggest star in town on this day.

  The U.S. Basketball Writers held their annual meeting in the morning. Normally, the USBWA meeting is about as exciting as, well, watching a bunch of writers sit around and talk. But this year the meeting was special. The reason was Katha Quinn.

  Katha Quinn is the sports information director at St. John’s. She is funny, blunt, and brash, qualities that serve her in good stead in dealing with reporters day in and day out. In December of 1986, Katha Quinn wasn’t feeling very well. She went into the hospital for some tests. The test showed cancer of the liver. One morning Katha Quinn was a young woman in her early thirties, the next she was a cancer patient locked into a fight for her life.

  The cancer frightened Quinn, hurt her, knocked her down over and over. But each time she got up, dusted herself off, and came back. She never stopped working. If she knew she needed a chemotherapy session, she would schedule it so as not to miss an important St. John’s game. That summer, she ran the press venue at the Pan American games in Indianapolis. During the ’87–88 season, she was at almost every St. John’s game, bugging Lou Carnesecca to get his butt into the interview room, pushing players to talk to reporters and, generally speaking, being Katha.

  All too often in life, people confuse people who are victims with people who are courageous. Katha Quinn was certainly a victim. But having been victimized, she had shown remarkable courage. The USBWA wanted to recognize her for her courage. When incoming President Malcolm Moran introduced her, everyone expected some emotion. Perhaps Katha Quinn would choke up a little, cry a little in saying thank you.

  She didn’t cry once. As it turned out, she was the only person in the room who didn’t. Her voice clear and firm, Katha Quinn looked at the 120 people in the room and said this:

  “When they told me I had cancer, I knew I was in for the fight of my life. And I knew I was going into a fight with an opponent that didn’t fight fair. So I knew I would have to not fight fair myself. So, I brought to this fight not only my family but three different groups to help me. First, I brought the SIDs in the Big East and around the country and all of you guys, the writers. God only knows what you writers have done to me over the years. You’ve made me lose sleep, you’ve chased me all over town looking for players or for Coach and you’ve wreaked havoc on my social life. But now, when I really needed you, you were there, every step of the way.

  “After that, I brought my coach to the fight.” She stopped to look at Lou Carnesecca, sitting a few feet away. “My coach has worked me so hard I wondered if I’d ever get sleep. He’s been there all the time, pushing, demanding, and loving, and I don’t know what I would do without him.

  “And finally, I brought the players. The very same players who make me crazy by missing interviews, who say they’ll call someone and don’t, who get me called in the middle of the night. I love every one of them. And, when Shelton Jones walked across the floor to me after the Holiday Festival final, handed me the game ball and said, ‘Kid, this one was for you,’ well, you’ll never hear me say one bad word about any of them again.

  “So when I go into the hospital now for another chemotherapy session and the doctors and nurses say to me, ‘Katha, what keeps you going through all this?’ I just look at them and tell them about my three groups. I tell them, ‘One more game, one more season, one more Final Four.’ That’s what keeps me going. So don’t any of you let me down. I know you won’t because I’ve got a lot of fighting left in me.”

  Her voice quavered only on the words Final Four. By then hardly anyone noticed because there wasn’t a dry eye in the house. Danny Manning would be voted the Most Outstanding Player of the Final Four that night. But no one was better at the Final Four than Katha Quinn.

  Among the 16,392 in Kemper Arena that night there were two groups who undoubtedly would have preferred being elsewhere. The NCAA provides tickets and very good seats to the semifinal losers, a nice gesture that both teams would probably just as soon live without.

  Steve Kerr didn’t want to go to the game. He had been up until six in the morning, drinking with the Duke ruling junta, the players sharing the pain of their losses together. “The only guys in the world who could absolutely understand the way we felt were the Duke guys,” Kerr said. “To be one step away from playing for it all but not getting there. No one but them knew how we felt.”

  They had drowned their sorrows together and then, the following day, each had followed his instincts: Kerr, jock all the way, went to the baseball game. The Dukies, whose team motto should have been “Do you take Visa?” went shopping. “I got a great pair of shorts,” Billy King said.

  Kerr was in shorts for the final, as were many of his teammates. Duke showed up in jackets and ties. Neither group was dressed the way it wanted to be, though. No one had a number on.

  For Kansas, it had been a long day. Brown wanted everything to be as normal as possible in a situation where normal was impossible. He had told his players that he honestly believed they could handle Oklahoma’s press, having seen it twice already. “Just go out and play the way you’ve played for thirty-seven games and you’ll be just fine,” Brown said. “You aren’t here on any fluke. You’re here because you’re damn good.”

  Brown’s major concern was keeping Manning out of foul trouble. He was certain that Stacey King would go right at Manning. That made perfect sense. “Danny,” he said, “King can score 25 or 30 points and we can still win the game. But we can’t win if you’re on the bench.”

  Manning nodded. In truth, there wasn’t much he needed to be told at this point. He knew that Kansas was in the final because he had stepped forward and become a dominant player in the tournament—he was averaging 26.4 points and 9 rebounds a game—and that to win this last game, he would have to be dominant again.

  The coaches expected Manning to be brilliant. They thought the key to the game was Pritchard. He had the quickness and the athletic ability to handle the Oklahoma press as long as he played on instinct and didn’t think too much. It was strange. A national championship was at stake and the most crucial thing for a coaching staff was convincing a player not to think.

  As the teams were introduced, everyone in the building felt the tingles that are part of a national championship game. It had been 172 days since Manning had sung his awful rendition of “My Girl.” Now, he was getting ready to play The Game, and there were 289 other teams wishing they could be where Kansas and Oklahoma were.

  It wasn’t just the players who felt the tingles. Everyone in the building felt it. The officials had butterflies too. Tim Higgins, waiting to throw the ball up to start the game, stood bouncing the ball so hard it seemed possible he would put a hole in the floor.

  The beginning was not encouraging for Kansas. Six seconds into the game, Blaylock hit a jumper. Nine seconds later, working against the press, Pritchard traveled. One could almost hear Brown thinking, “Don’t think!”

  But the Jayhawks settled down quickly. Manning hit a jumper and then a baby hook, letting the Sooners know he had definitely come to play. Then Pritchard made two good plays, hitting a pull-up jumper and feeding Newton for a lay-up. It was 8–4 Kansas.

  Tubbs, hyper in his first national championship game, was all over the officials. John Clougherty, not hyper in his second, walked over and said quiet
ly, “Billy, just calm down.” Tubbs did.

  The first twenty minutes of this game belong in a time capsule somewhere. Basketball just didn’t get much better than this. Kansas was not the least bit intimidated by Oklahoma’s press. Rather than pull the ball out at center court after breaking it, the Jayhawks went right to the basket. Since Oklahoma was doing the same thing on every possession, the pace was torrid.

  There were omens early on. Newton, trapped by the Oklahoma defense, threw up a reverse prayer and it dropped. Clint Normore, the converted football player, threw up a three-point shot as the forty-five-second clock was running out—and it swished. Keith Harris, zero-for-four against Duke, tossed up a hook as soon as he came into the game and it went in. Lincoln Minor, a forgotten man for the last month, came off the bench (because Brown had to play a lot of people due to the pace) and made a quick steal and two free throws.

  Still, nothing was easy for Kansas. Manning picked up his second foul trying to block a King jumper with 10:26 left and had to come out for three minutes. The Jayhawks were making every shot they looked at, but also were turning the ball over. That explained why, with 7:16 left, they had hit 17 of 20 shots from the field but only led 36–35.

  On the bench, even though his team was playing wonderfully, Brown was petrified. “We can’t play with them like this,” he kept saying to his assistants. But the shots were there, they had to be taken and they were dropping. Two straight OU steals gave the Sooners a 39–36 lead, the second a thunderous one by King off a bad Scooter Barry pass. That made 13 turnovers for Kansas. Would the wheels come off?

  No. Manning hit a hook shot and Minor made his steal. Dave Sieger, having a remarkable first half with six three-pointers in eight attempts, hit another one. But Newton answered that to make it 43–42. Sieger hit again, Minor tied it. Sieger hit one more and Newton answered. Back and forth they went, quicker, it seemed, than a Ping-Pong ball.