Joy, Braden Smith, Olivier Rioux & what I want to see in March Madness | Telander

I love NCAA tournament time!

Though I try not to.

Every March, I say to myself: Rick, you don’t need this. You’ve watched it a thousand times. There’s always mayhem. There are always upsets. There’s always a winner. Even if you have nothing to do with it.

Think of the time wasted, son!

You could have written a novella or built a log cabin in the time you spent bracket-agonizing, calling traveling and blocking and referee incompetency and generally screaming at the TV.

But then… What of the joy?

The first NCAA Final Four I attended in person was in Atlanta in 1977, and it was one of the greatest ever. Massive underdog Marquette, led by guard Butch Lee, from Puerto Rico, and 6-9 forward Bo Ellis, a design major from Chicago, who drew up the "untucked" uniforms the Warriors wore in the championship game, won 67-59.

Head coach Al McGuire, an eccentric "players’ coach" who rode a motorcycle, felt psychology was more important than X’s and O’s, and allowed Ellis to make up those ungodly uniforms that made the Warriors appear to be wearing boxer shorts and slips, retired immediately after the game. There on the floor he openly wept. Watching him, I thought he was preparing to die, not quit coaching and become a witty TV game analyst. 

I went to the game when Georgetown’s Fred Brown mistakenly threw the ball to North Carolina’s James Worthy with ten seconds to go, sealing a Tarheels’ 63-62 win. I even felt I understood how that could happen, how Worthy was so out of position that Brown’s peripheral vision told him that guy must be on his team.

But here and now I’m thinking about three things about the upcoming tournament.

First, we’ve got Duke ranked No.1. Again. This is only the 16th time they’ve been ranked first.  They’re 58-11 when rated a No. 1 seed, and as such, they always reach the Sweet 16. They’ve won four of their five national titles when ranked No. 1. If they win the whole thing and you picked them, fine. 

So there’s that.  Hooray for Glenbrook North’s Jon Scheyer, a former Dukie national champion himself and protégé of legendary Blue Devils coach Mike Krzyzewski. This would be Scheyer’s first national title were he to ride the Boozer brothers to victory.

Beyond the Duke watch, I am fascinated by two players at opposite extremes. There’s Florida’s 7-9 reserve center Olivier Rioux, billed a while ago as ‘the world’s tallest teenager." Now 20, Rioux only gets in when a game is a rout and in its final seconds, since he is still developing D-1 shooting skill, footwork and endurance. Nobody taller has ever played the college game.

I want to see him in a Gators’ game, hopefully in their first-rounder against either Prairie View A&M or Lehigh. Forget all the he’s-not-ready stuff. You kidding me? A young man with a 9-foot wingspan, who can dunk on his tiptoes? Put him in, coach!

The other player I’m fascinated by is Purdue’s point guard, Braden Smith. He’s listed as 6-0, 180 pounds, but my guess is he needs to stand on a telephone book to get past 5-11 ½. With his beard and fierce demeanor, he resembles Jake Paul in high tops.  But it’s Smith’s uncanny court vision and ability to pass the ball to a teammate for an easy basket that sets him apart.  It looks like nothing. But it’s everything.

And this little guy is so ferocious that he tore his jersey apart when his shots continued to rim out during the Big Ten tournament, which Purdue would win, forcing him to switch from No. 3 to No. 41.

 "I ripped it fully with both hands like Superman-style," he said after the deed. "I was really frustrated. I figured I’d take it out on the jersey rather than out loud or to somebody else."

Smith’s shot might not be falling, but his assists are building to a climax that should leave him as the greatest dime-dealer in NCAA D-1 history. He is averaging a college-best 9.1 assists this year and has a career total of 1,075 assists, which puts him one behind current record holder Bobby Hurley, the former Duke national champion. 

Hurley was a similar little firestorm on the court. I remember writing a story about him when in the summer when he was a senior-to-be at Duke, and he and his brother Danny were guarding each other in a pickup game at a dingy church gym in Jersey City, N.J. Bobby was silent and ferocious, and Danny, two years younger and just as vicious, was beyond intense.  It was like watching two honey badgers fight over a spilled chicken dinner, very uncomfortable.

At any rate, such is the price of greatness. And welcome to it, Braden Smith and all the NCAA tourney guys who will rise to the occasion and make this another great big dance.

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