The Wake

Pam Borton, Dan Monson and I were playing five-card stud in the Barn locker room. Like all poker games involving collegiate head coaches, there were ample amounts of alcohol. Don’t be naive; everybody knows college head coaches take five shots of bourbon before breakfast. In between body shots, beer bongs and awkward moments, the two would discuss basketball while I gazed in pure amazement at two transcendent coaching minds. I was watching a Bobby Knight and Joe Pa interview on a TV in the corner.

I had two jacks and was hoping for a third to match my pair when I asked a simple question: who would win, the women Gophers or the men Gophers?

Monson, with only hazy memories of Iowa and Michigan State deep in his drunken mind, said the women would win. He rambled on and on about Jamie Broback this and Jamie Broback that, and begged Borton to borrow Schonrock for the “Big Eleven” tourney. Dan praised the women’s role players for not making many mistakes, while saying the men’s role players make mistakes whenever the ball is within a five-foot radius of their bodies. Then—while double fisting shots of Cuervo—he claimed that Borton would out-think, out-coach and out-dress him. Pam, laughing and rebuking every word Dan said, fell out of her chair like a blast of buckshot had just hit her in the face and neck region. Where have I heard that before?

Now usually Pam’s a princess; fair-skinned and precious as a child. Tonight though, she was the antithesis of sobriety and began screaming, ranting and generally freaking the shit out of me. She heaped praises upon praises at the feet of Vincent Grier and Rico Tucker; claiming that, if there ever was a game, they would simply take whatever they wanted and lay the game to waste. She then added, “… while Adam Boone may be, what, 73 years old? Well, he’s a young 73.”

Pam also explained how—and Dan and I hadn’t looked at it from this light—the men’s team has three players measuring six-foot-nine, while the women’s team has three players topping out at just six-foot-three and that would probably be a factor, because this is basketball and height is a factor in basketball.

Dan tossed his half-full glass of gin across the room. He began to stomp his feet and the Barn’s lights grew dim. He was disgusted with Pam. Basketball’s not just about size, strength and speed … it’s about heart, Dan said with tears in his voice and hopes in his eyes. Pam was selling herself short, he argued; the women’s team doesn’t quit and doesn’t take a night off, except in Purdue and Wisconsin. That’s when Pam punched Dan right square in the nose. Just a love punch, but Dan had to be taken to the hospital immediately.

“Your luck ran out,” Pam laughed at him. Monson kept mumbling “Podominick … Tollackson’s worst nightmare … Podominick,” as he was wheeled into the ambulance. Borton joined him on the ride to the hospital, held his hand, talked to him like he was a newborn pup. “Who’s gonna win the 2006 NIT Championship? Who’s gonna win the 2006 NIT Championship? You are. Yes, you are.” I just sat there, flipped over my last card, and drew up the jack of hearts. Where have I heard that before?