March 21, 2014
The camera panned across the Scottrade Center from one end to the other before Greg Anthony opened the broadcast from the CBS studio. The arena was nearly full. The overhead screens displayed the tournament bracket featuring the sixty-four teams that had made it to this point, and in the stands, Kentucky's blue blended with Kansas State's maroon and silver in the central sections where neutral seating had been claimed on a first-come, first-served basis.
"Good afternoon and welcome to March Madness live from St. Louis, Missouri," Greg Anthony said, with the screen behind him displaying footage of the arena filling up. "The Scottrade Center is practically at full capacity for what many consider the most compelling matchup of the entire first round. To my left, Kenny Smith. To my right, Charles Barkley. Gentlemen, what are you expecting this afternoon?"
"What I'm expecting," Kenny Smith said, "is to see if Aaron Reed can do in March Madness what he's been doing in the regular season since mid-February. Because if he can, this is going to be a short game."
"I'm expecting Kansas State to put up a fight," Barkley said with that trademark frankness that made him the most impossible analyst on the panel to ignore. "Gipson is an experienced player. Three years of tournament experience. He's not going to be intimidated by anyone's reputation. The pressure of March Madness is unlike anything this kid has dealt with so far, and we're about to see how he handles it."
"Before we dive into the analysis," Greg Anthony said, "let's take a look at how both teams arrived here this morning."
On the screen appeared footage recorded a few hours earlier: the Kentucky team bus pulling into the side parking lot of the Scottrade Center, the doors opening, and the players stepping off in line with their team backpacks on and headphones over their ears. The camera followed the group toward the arena entrance, passing media booths and fans who had gathered near the main doors. At one point, it caught Aaron Reed walking near the back of the group, his hoodie pulled up and his eyes set forward, not breaking his gaze from the entrance he was heading toward. The camera tracked him for three or four seconds before cutting away.
"There he is," Greg Anthony said as Aaron's image filled the screen. "Aaron Reed. Eighteen years old. Freshman at Kentucky. The player nearly everyone in this sport has been watching since mid-February, when something shifted in his performance and his numbers went from impressive to simply hard to explain using standard metrics. And according to the vast majority of draft analysts we've consulted over the past few weeks, he's the clear frontrunner to be selected as the number one overall pick in this June's NBA Draft."
"Unprecedented for someone his age and in his first year of college," Kenny Smith said. "For a freshman to be seriously discussed as the consensus number one pick in the draft before he's played a single March Madness game tells you everything you need to know about what this kid has accomplished over the course of this regular season."
The broadcast cut to the main studio in Atlanta, where the rest of the panel completed the pre-game analysis over the next few minutes. They broke down both teams' regular-season statistics, historical data on Gipson's performances against interior players of Aaron's caliber in previous tournaments, Marcus Foster's three-point percentage during the final stretch of the season, and the defensive schemes Kansas State had executed most consistently against teams with a dominant interior presence. The segment lasted as long as pre-game analysis required, and then the camera returned to the Scottrade Center.
While that was unfolding in St. Louis, over twelve hundred miles away in a New York apartment building, the living room in Melissa's apartment had the largest television the space could accommodate turned on, with four people gathered around it. Melissa sat in the armchair on the right, a cup of coffee resting untouched on the side table for twenty minutes, and the locket holding a picture of young Aaron hanging over her sweater. Héctor and Paola sat on the main couch, Héctor holding a beer and Paola with Mía in her lap. Outside the window, Jamaica, Queens was experiencing a standard March Friday, except that on the televisions throughout that block and neighboring buildings, the very same game was playing across every screen.
Mía was two years old and didn't understand that the figure on the television Melissa pointed to every time he appeared was the same person who had given her the stuffed gray elephant back in December, but she recognized his face. She had seen it enough times on Melissa's phone for the image on the big screen to trigger something in her.
"Do you see him?" Melissa said as the camera focused on Aaron stepping off the bus, walking toward the stadium entrance with his hoodie pulled up. "He looks different to me. Calmer. More rested than the last time I talked to him."
"Different in what way?" Paola asked.
"The last few times I spoke with him, I felt he seemed withdrawn. He barely said anything. He kept telling me he was fine, and I knew that wasn't entirely true," she paused. "Ever since that thing with Hannah."
"And when was that thing with Hannah?" Héctor asked, setting his beer down on the small table.
"A few weeks ago. He didn't give me many details, which I wasn't expecting anyway. You know how he is when something truly bothers him. Fewer words, not more."
"Like a wall," Paola said. "He's been like that forever."
"But he looks good now," Héctor said. "You can see it in his face."
"It seems so," Melissa said. She looked back at the screen without saying another word. The coffee cup remained untouched.
Mía pointed at the screen when Aaron's face appeared in a close-up once more. She pointed with her index finger extended, displaying the certainty of someone who has seen that face enough times to recognize it in any context.
"Ah!" Mía said, carrying the tone of someone who had just resolved a problem no one else realized existed.
The three adults laughed at the same time.
"Exactly," Paola said, squeezing Mía's hand gently.
Inside the Scottrade Center, both teams had completed their warmups and were back in their respective locker rooms for final instructions. In Kentucky's locker room, Calipari had delivered his closing words four minutes earlier. The players had remained in silence ever since, each locked in his own thoughts. Julius had his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. Andrew Harrison was stretching the fingers of his right hand as he always did before kickoff. Aaron stood with his back against the wall and his eyes fixed on the ceiling. Four minutes of total silence. Then came the muffled stadium music drifting in from outside. Then the locker room door opened. Then the tunnel leading out to the court.
Both teams emerged almost simultaneously from opposite tunnels, and the Scottrade Center reached the deafening noise level characteristic of March Madness venues—a volume distinct from regular college arenas because it mixes fans of both teams in equal measure, creating an environment far more volatile and unpredictable. There was no home-court advantage in that arena. There were simply two groups of supporters who had traveled to St. Louis because their teams had made it this far, and both believed their side had every reason to advance further.
The players from both squads lined up around the center circle. The blue section of the crowd roared, and the maroon side answered just as loudly. Aaron stepped opposite Kansas State's interior player and looked up at the far rim for a single second before lowering his eyes back to the circle. Kansas State's center stood on the other side. Neither spoke. There was nothing to say. Only to wait for the referee to toss the ball.
Referee Derron Waller checked both teams, confirmed the captains were set, and tossed the ball upward. The arena responded instantly with the type of noise that builds up during the final minutes of waiting and bursts out all at once.
Aaron jumped half a second before Kansas State's center completed his own jump, timing it with the precision of someone who had practiced it until it no longer required conscious thought. When the ball reached its peak, he was in the exact position to direct it. He tipped it to the left with his right hand—not a wild slap, but a precise, controlled touch that sent the ball straight to where Julius Randle was already moving to secure it.
"Kentucky wins the tip!" Jim Nantz called from the CBS booth. "Aaron Reed with the tip-off control to Julius Randle, and the tournament is underway for the Kentucky Wildcats."
Julius caught the ball at mid-court. First possession of the game, first possession of the tournament—everything Kentucky had built throughout the season was about to be put to the test over the next forty minutes. Julius looked at Aaron before making a move. Aaron nodded. They executed. Julius drove toward the right side, spotted Aaron moving toward the low post with Casey Prather glued to his back—executing the exact instruction Donovan's staff had utilized during the regular season matchup—and fed him the ball.
Aaron received it with his back to the basket. He felt Prather pressed up against him and processed the positioning of the other eight players on the floor in the time it took to pivot outward. Here is what he saw: the primary Kansas State defender collapsing toward him from the left side with his weight committed toward the baseline, the secondary defender maintaining his position on Julius rather than rotating to the perimeter, and Aaron Harrison standing on the right perimeter with five feet of clean space and no defender close enough to contest before the ball left his hands.
Aaron pivoted toward the outside. In that split second, he made his decision—the same kind of decision he had made hundreds of times during the regular season, but this time occurring in the opening game of the tournament. He pump-faked left with his shoulder just enough for the collapsing defender to commit his first step in that direction, and in the exact same motion, he spun right, hitting Aaron Harrison with a crisp, chest-high pass without a dribble, before any defender could adjust position.
Aaron Harrison caught it with his feet already set in shooting stance. He didn't hesitate for a fraction of a second. He adjusted his grip, flicked his eyes to the rim for a split second, and released the three-pointer with the clean mechanics of someone who had repeated that motion thousands of times in practice and knew, before the ball even left his fingertips, that he had executed it perfectly. The ball arced cleanly over the Kansas State defense and snapped straight through the net.
3-0 Kentucky.
First points of the tournament.
First points for the Wildcats.
Right out of the gate.
"Three-pointer by Aaron Harrison on Kentucky's very first possession of the tournament!" Jim Nantz shouted. "And the Wildcats open the scoring in March Madness executing the exact style of basketball that brought them here undefeated all season long. Reed in the low post, double-collapse from the Kansas State defense, kick-out pass from Reed to a wide-open Harrison on the perimeter, and the three drops cleanly."
"It's the first game of the tournament and Kentucky is already executing as if they've been playing in this arena for four weeks," Bill Raftery added beside Nantz. "The ball movement fluidity on that opening possession isn't something you improvise. It's built over an entire season, game by game, without dropping a single one. Reed in the post, reading the defense, hitting the right teammate in the right spot at the right time. That's what got them here."
In the apartment in Jamaica, Queens, all four watched the screen as Aaron won the tip and directed the ball toward Julius. Héctor raised his beer toward the TV as Aaron Harrison's three-pointer splashed through.
"There it is," he said.
Melissa wore a smile. It wasn't a smile of relief. It was the smile of someone who had been waiting for something to happen for a long time, and when she finally saw it happen, she didn't need to say a word because her expression said it all. Paola squeezed her arm in silence.
Mía kept staring at the screen, not fully understanding what had just transpired, but sensing that the adults around her were happy about it—and that was more than enough information to keep watching.
At the Scottrade Center, Aaron jogged back into defensive position without any celebration or gesture, as though that opening possession were simply the first of forty minutes left to play—which was precisely what it was. Kansas State's point guard crossed mid-court with the ball, unhurried. The scoreboard read 3-0. Thirty-nine minutes and fifty-eight seconds remained, and within those minutes, anything could happen. The tournament had officially begun. Aaron knew it. Kansas State knew it too. The entire Scottrade Center knew it. Especially Aaron Reed.
Authors thought
What did you think of today's chapter? Give me your opinions and thoughts.
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