UCLA Fight Fight Fight
For the first time since I was tattooed Bruin blue and gold in 1999, UCLA basketball has a National Title contender. I have never been more swept up in its fervor. The storied program built by John Wooden has more or less stalled since the Wizard of Westwood called it quits. 1964 to 1975, ten National Championships. 1976 to present, one National Championship.
The season after I crossed over to the Alumni side of the pasture, coach Ben Howland arrived. Within four years, Howland restocked the roster with high-IQ players, and implemented the nation's most suffocating man-on-man defense, bar none.
Kevin Love is the magnum opus of Howland's recruiting efforts. There is no player like him on the planet: a 6'10" center with hands like velcro in the post, can shoot it two feet from the rim, twenty feet away from the rim, and every tick in between. Just an absolute anchor in the paint that cranks out double-doubles like In-N-Out.
All that alone puts him in the 99th percentile, but the jaw-dropper is how the guy can also pass the rock like Larry Bird in the half-court and Peyton Manning on the outlet. That's right. I can't think of anyone outside of elite NFL quarterbacks that can laser a ball so consistently into the arms of someone in full breakneck stride, 50+ feet away. Do you have any idea how that virtually eliminates any second opportunities for opponents? Teams have to send half their pelaton back on defense once a shot goes up or Love will snag the rebound, pirouette on a dime, and flick a chest pass downcourt so beautifully and effortlessly it's liable to make a grown man weep. And I'm happy to say I cry like a bon-bon eating member of the Oprah army each time I watch UCLA.
I once saw a commercial where a guy is sitting on the couch watching his favorite sports team. His team was winning, and he was hootin' and hollerin' at the TV. But when he subconsciously adjusted his cap midway through, his team started to struggle. The man paused, perplexed, and slowly re-adjusted his cap back to its original position... and his team starts to win again!
It's a hilarious sequence because any rabid sports fan has been there. It's the kind of stuff wives and girlfriends roll their eyes at. They will never understand though, because... get this... it actually freaking works.
There is no logical explaination. And one cannot willfully engage in such an act or else it doesn't work. It has to be an instinctive reaction while watching a game. I first noticed this phenomenon when I worshipped Michael Jordan and the Bulls. During their multiple title runs, I would catch myself in stasis whenever a game was super tight, believing any disturbance I make in the universe, however tiny, would derail their momentum. Do I feel like I contributed anything to their six championships? Yes, yes I do, however infinitesimally.
It happened also in 2006 when UCLA made its first run under Howland in the NCAA tournament. They were in the Sweet Sixteen against Adam Morrison's Gonzaga. Morrison was the nation's leading scorer, with an outside stroke as sweet as cotton candy. The Bruins fell behind early and every rally attempt was crushed. With three minutes left, we cut it to 9, then 7, then 5, then 3. Morrison, who was raining shots like a tropical storm, all of a sudden couldn't throw a rock in the ocean. Their 3 point lead turned into 1 with ten seconds to go. Gonzaga inbounded, UCLA stole it, scored it, and won it.
You have to understand how improbable it was. UCLA's done nothing but laid eggs in NCAA tournaments for years. They were getting run out of the building by a superior team, fronted by a superior star. It was the same old story, same old song and dance. I watched 3/4th of the game in my hotel room, slumped on the bed, thumb always a hair trigger away from changing channels. When the comeback started, I threw the remote across the room and watched the rest of the game kneeling at the edge of the bed. I didn't dare move an inch. When the game was over, I spent all my pent up energy calling people, raving like a happy lunatic.
UCLA has come a long way since that Cinderella season. Howland has done yeoman's work repolishing UCLA's basketball program into a perennial contender, and we came into this season as one of the favorites to win it all. Tonight featured a huge matchup against the Stanford Cardinal, one game back in the Pac-10 standings and also ranked in the top 10 in the nation. Winner would likely take the conference championship. One game, forty minutes, big marbles at stake.
We came out of the gates charged up. Too charged up. The effort was there, but there was a lid on our rim and silly turnovers were piling up at a frightening clip. Next thing you know, Stanford's cracked open a 12 point lead at half while UCLA shot themselves in the foot and limped to a pathetic 18 total points in 20 minutes.
The second half was marginally better at first, but whenever we made a run, Stanford's Brook Lopez, who resembles a walking tree from Lord of the Rings, would calmly knock down shots, oblivious to the horde of Bruins clinging on to him. I alternated between nervousness and frustration while sweating out chunks of cold sweat. During a timeout, I went into my bedroom, fetched a blanket, and wrapped myself on the couch with it.
Then we started to rally. UCLA played their hearts out, scrapped every loose ball off the floor, followed up every miss with a tip-in, and out-willed Stanford on the boards. It wasn't pretty, but you can't always win like James Bond. Pauley Pavilion looked like it was about to cave in from the crowd's energy. The camera even caught Jack Nicholson jumping and hollering like those maniacs in the student section.
With less than a minute to go, I realized something. I was doing it again. I couldn't (wouldn't?) move a muscle. The blanket around me might as well have been cement.
And the rally didn't stall this time. That damned Lopez finally began to wilt from the never-ending pressure defense. But Stanford isn't ranked for nothing. They counter-punched and beat us back, but how do you stop a tidal wave of momentum, especially with me again doing my part as a motionless statue?? Final plays: we cut the lead to one, they pushed it back up to two, we tied it (first time since 2-2), they retook two. 2.5 seconds left, Darren Collison, our speedy point guard blessed by the genetics of his track & field parents, raced down the court and attacked the baseline up against three Stanford defenders.
And there we caught the luckiest break of the year - the referee whistled for a foul when Collison clearly got snuffed clean at the rim.
The game was supposed to be over. The referee's unwritten rule has always been to swallow the whistle during the final plays. That egregious violation was further compounded by the fact that no such foul occured! Stanford's sideline is riotous, and their coach looked like he was going to need CPR any minute. Meanwhile, Collison steps to the line and knocks down both pressure free throws to tie the game and send it to overtime. I am recalling those crucial free throws rather impassively, but in real time, I was probably ready for a saline bag and an IV tube.
In hindsight, Stanford lost when Collison sent the game to OT. They were morally deflated, convinced the basketball Gods, tonight, was going to give UCLA the win no matter what. And even though I started to feel that tingling sensation in my legs when they go numb, I didn't unwind from my imprint on the couch until we were up by 8 with about 1.7 seconds left.
That's when Kevin Love cradled a rebound, chucked it 80 feet downcourt, and hit Collison in stride for a layup. Length of the court pass; two steps, no dribbles; rotating ball kissing high off the glass as the buzzer sounds.
So beautiful I wanted to cry.
The season after I crossed over to the Alumni side of the pasture, coach Ben Howland arrived. Within four years, Howland restocked the roster with high-IQ players, and implemented the nation's most suffocating man-on-man defense, bar none.
Kevin Love is the magnum opus of Howland's recruiting efforts. There is no player like him on the planet: a 6'10" center with hands like velcro in the post, can shoot it two feet from the rim, twenty feet away from the rim, and every tick in between. Just an absolute anchor in the paint that cranks out double-doubles like In-N-Out.
All that alone puts him in the 99th percentile, but the jaw-dropper is how the guy can also pass the rock like Larry Bird in the half-court and Peyton Manning on the outlet. That's right. I can't think of anyone outside of elite NFL quarterbacks that can laser a ball so consistently into the arms of someone in full breakneck stride, 50+ feet away. Do you have any idea how that virtually eliminates any second opportunities for opponents? Teams have to send half their pelaton back on defense once a shot goes up or Love will snag the rebound, pirouette on a dime, and flick a chest pass downcourt so beautifully and effortlessly it's liable to make a grown man weep. And I'm happy to say I cry like a bon-bon eating member of the Oprah army each time I watch UCLA.
***
I once saw a commercial where a guy is sitting on the couch watching his favorite sports team. His team was winning, and he was hootin' and hollerin' at the TV. But when he subconsciously adjusted his cap midway through, his team started to struggle. The man paused, perplexed, and slowly re-adjusted his cap back to its original position... and his team starts to win again!
It's a hilarious sequence because any rabid sports fan has been there. It's the kind of stuff wives and girlfriends roll their eyes at. They will never understand though, because... get this... it actually freaking works.
There is no logical explaination. And one cannot willfully engage in such an act or else it doesn't work. It has to be an instinctive reaction while watching a game. I first noticed this phenomenon when I worshipped Michael Jordan and the Bulls. During their multiple title runs, I would catch myself in stasis whenever a game was super tight, believing any disturbance I make in the universe, however tiny, would derail their momentum. Do I feel like I contributed anything to their six championships? Yes, yes I do, however infinitesimally.
It happened also in 2006 when UCLA made its first run under Howland in the NCAA tournament. They were in the Sweet Sixteen against Adam Morrison's Gonzaga. Morrison was the nation's leading scorer, with an outside stroke as sweet as cotton candy. The Bruins fell behind early and every rally attempt was crushed. With three minutes left, we cut it to 9, then 7, then 5, then 3. Morrison, who was raining shots like a tropical storm, all of a sudden couldn't throw a rock in the ocean. Their 3 point lead turned into 1 with ten seconds to go. Gonzaga inbounded, UCLA stole it, scored it, and won it.
You have to understand how improbable it was. UCLA's done nothing but laid eggs in NCAA tournaments for years. They were getting run out of the building by a superior team, fronted by a superior star. It was the same old story, same old song and dance. I watched 3/4th of the game in my hotel room, slumped on the bed, thumb always a hair trigger away from changing channels. When the comeback started, I threw the remote across the room and watched the rest of the game kneeling at the edge of the bed. I didn't dare move an inch. When the game was over, I spent all my pent up energy calling people, raving like a happy lunatic.
***
UCLA has come a long way since that Cinderella season. Howland has done yeoman's work repolishing UCLA's basketball program into a perennial contender, and we came into this season as one of the favorites to win it all. Tonight featured a huge matchup against the Stanford Cardinal, one game back in the Pac-10 standings and also ranked in the top 10 in the nation. Winner would likely take the conference championship. One game, forty minutes, big marbles at stake.
We came out of the gates charged up. Too charged up. The effort was there, but there was a lid on our rim and silly turnovers were piling up at a frightening clip. Next thing you know, Stanford's cracked open a 12 point lead at half while UCLA shot themselves in the foot and limped to a pathetic 18 total points in 20 minutes.
The second half was marginally better at first, but whenever we made a run, Stanford's Brook Lopez, who resembles a walking tree from Lord of the Rings, would calmly knock down shots, oblivious to the horde of Bruins clinging on to him. I alternated between nervousness and frustration while sweating out chunks of cold sweat. During a timeout, I went into my bedroom, fetched a blanket, and wrapped myself on the couch with it.
Then we started to rally. UCLA played their hearts out, scrapped every loose ball off the floor, followed up every miss with a tip-in, and out-willed Stanford on the boards. It wasn't pretty, but you can't always win like James Bond. Pauley Pavilion looked like it was about to cave in from the crowd's energy. The camera even caught Jack Nicholson jumping and hollering like those maniacs in the student section.
With less than a minute to go, I realized something. I was doing it again. I couldn't (wouldn't?) move a muscle. The blanket around me might as well have been cement.
And the rally didn't stall this time. That damned Lopez finally began to wilt from the never-ending pressure defense. But Stanford isn't ranked for nothing. They counter-punched and beat us back, but how do you stop a tidal wave of momentum, especially with me again doing my part as a motionless statue?? Final plays: we cut the lead to one, they pushed it back up to two, we tied it (first time since 2-2), they retook two. 2.5 seconds left, Darren Collison, our speedy point guard blessed by the genetics of his track & field parents, raced down the court and attacked the baseline up against three Stanford defenders.
And there we caught the luckiest break of the year - the referee whistled for a foul when Collison clearly got snuffed clean at the rim.
The game was supposed to be over. The referee's unwritten rule has always been to swallow the whistle during the final plays. That egregious violation was further compounded by the fact that no such foul occured! Stanford's sideline is riotous, and their coach looked like he was going to need CPR any minute. Meanwhile, Collison steps to the line and knocks down both pressure free throws to tie the game and send it to overtime. I am recalling those crucial free throws rather impassively, but in real time, I was probably ready for a saline bag and an IV tube.
In hindsight, Stanford lost when Collison sent the game to OT. They were morally deflated, convinced the basketball Gods, tonight, was going to give UCLA the win no matter what. And even though I started to feel that tingling sensation in my legs when they go numb, I didn't unwind from my imprint on the couch until we were up by 8 with about 1.7 seconds left.
That's when Kevin Love cradled a rebound, chucked it 80 feet downcourt, and hit Collison in stride for a layup. Length of the court pass; two steps, no dribbles; rotating ball kissing high off the glass as the buzzer sounds.
So beautiful I wanted to cry.
