Month: December 2005

“I’m surprisingly calm,” I IM’d Matt with half-hearted honesty.

“Just wish we could put it away,” he responded rather forebodingly.

Ten minutes later, after watching our fifth nine-point lead of the night dwindle back to only one, I wasn’t so calm.

Suddenly, fouls were being called on white jerseys, unremarkable in even the remotest of ways because these were fouls Alabama “had to give.” Having fouls to give doesn’t necessarily mean you can play defense more aggressively, but rather fight for your life through the use of legal intentional fouls; suddenly a handful of jersey off the ball is a clean foul. I’m not claiming innocence – everyone does it, including us. It’s one of the many ironies of basketball that you can bump and hack on the low post all night without incident, but after 39 minutes of play, suddenly the slightest of contact on an inbounds play results in a blown whistle.

And in Tuscaloosa on Thursday night, after a startling six team fouls in 39 minutes of play, whistles started screeching with such frequency and haste that time literally stood still, waning ever so delicately in measures of fractions rather than integers. The referees had held their collective breath with obstinacy the entire night whenever someone in a red jersey had been hacked, and yet now, with a minute to play, whistles were being unfurled with eager anticipation of a foul.

We’re shooting our first free throw with 25 seconds remaining when suddenly it’s to Bama’s advantage to foul us? So, yeah, of course I’m much less calm.

For Heaven’s sake, are we in Cameron?

And of course it isn’t helping that Larry Connelly is adding his Majerus-esque color commentary on how the ACC has two of the nation’s premier free throw shooters in J.J. Redick and Engin Atsur, who at 74.2% isn’t in the Top 10 in the ACC or the Top 100 in the nation, although he did sink both ends of a one-and-one.

But I digress.

We held on for the win to move to 9-1 and move up to #18 in the polls, but more importantly, at some point during the excitement of that game, I caught myself surrounded by the strangest ambiance: I was actually enjoying a State basketball game. Dare I say, I came to the stark realization that we are, indeed, a fun team to watch play.

I caught myself lauding Ced for being a beast in the paint, Cam for being the athlete I’ve always wished we’ve had, and Brackman for his inherent finesse. Above all, it’s quite ironic how much fun a game becomes when you quit worrying about the outcome – because it really doesn’t matter – and most of all you don’t expend all available energy lamenting speciously at the TV about Herb Sendek (it’s very likely he can’t hear you anyway).

I know it borders on the surreal, but my hypocrisy reaches only so far: I’ll admit that this team is actually pretty damn good. They play with fiery emotion, seamless intensity, and at times, a daunting finesse unmatched by any other Sendek team.

This team won’t win the ACC and it won’t play in Indianapolis, and I’m okay with that. This is my favorite team since Herb’s first in 1997; I like the fact that Ced, Brack, and Ev have become what Thornton, Kelley, and Inge were supposed to have been in 2000. I like Evtimov’s clumsy hooks, Atsur’s gritty, unrelenting defense, and Cam’s seemingly boundless athleticism.

And all-in-all, I have to admit Herb has done a fine job so far, and so I guess it was just time to give him a break and be a fan again. And that seems like a good comment to end on.

Like I said, my hypocrisy only extends so far.

Among my mom’s family, it’s notoriously branded The “Pavoni Curse.” Legend has it my grandfather came from a long line of iniquitous horse thieves running wild in Naples back in the day. Some have even claimed it’s why his father and mother came to America in 1914 – running from the law.

In and of itself, horse thievery doesn’t sound like the transgression that curses are made of, but there was a time when a horse thief was about the worst thing a man could be called. And when one of those horses belongs to a very important person, say a Man of God named The Pope, well then it all starts to make sense.

I’ve never for one moment doubted the curse is alive and kicking. It explains a lot, particularly the things that Ben so astutely noted “could only happen to Lucas.”

The Pavoni Curse is marked by above all things, its dreadful timing. For instance, the night before your first day at a new job, when you’re trying to make a good first impression to new co-workers and peers, your water heater explodes, soaking your living room, kitchen, and bathroom (narrowly missing your computer). And the way you find out about it is to slip and bust your ass when you get up to piss at 4am; as you fall towards an inch of water on the bathroom floor, you’re already blaming the Curse: I should’ve known.

You call maintenance and get the 24-hour Help Desk answering service, which is quite the misnomer because there is nothing even remotely reassuring about having an argument with some Indian – Sanji Gupta, not Squatting Stallion – about whether or not you, indeed, have a water pump.

“You do not have a water pump, sir.” (I translated that into what I believe he meant and not what I actually heard him say).

I’m pretty sure I do, since I’m standing on soaked carpet. Ok, it’s a f***ing water heater, whatever, just page maintenance for me.

Here’s where the Curse gets really fun. You haven’t showered since the previous afternoon after your workout; you haven’t shaved in a few days; and your hair is matted from sleeping on it. So you pour a bottle of water over your head, try to style it a little, forcing down your cowlick, you swab a little gel on, splash a little water on your face to get the crust out of your eyes, save a tad to brush your teeth, strategically apply some Old Spice High Endurance, put on your suit and tie, and begin your new career.

Around 10am, you realize there’s a huge chunk sticking out in the back that you missed, and you’re slightly bothered by your own body odor. You shake every hand in the company looking grizzled, like you just rolled in badly hung over from an all-nighter, which could easily be explained away after that Iowa game, where Rick Majerus turned an already dismal contest into an excruciating experience; after it had awkwardly, yet mercifully ended, you went to sleep counting turnovers rather than sheep.

And so you left your own, private office, locking-door and all, after your first day quite assured that everyone had wondered all day what they had done by hiring the kid that doesn’t have the proper hygiene to shave or shower, but puts on a suit anyway, hoping no one will notice.

The legend further claims that during World War I, just before they fled to America, my great grandmother buried a fairly large quantity of money, but told no one where, as she planned to return to Naples after the war to dig it up. She never did, though, dying in a tragic accident when my grandfather was four.

I’ll be in Austria in January. I reckon it’s about time I took a train to Naples, found that money, dug it up, and paid God for that horse.