Authors: Paul Volponi
The Final Four (12 page)
That’s when Malcolm notices Roko adjust, fighting for more room to his right.
“Don’t matter if you know what’s coming,” snaps Malcolm, as he cuts off Roko’s dribble completely, forcing him to pass. “I could put you inside our huddle and give you the whole game plan. You’d still be a step behind me.”
“I already know the game plan. Everyone does,” Roko responds. “It’s don’t let Mr. One and Done stop us from playing like a team.”
Malcolm follows Roko around a screen, sliding his feet on defense, and never crossing them, so he can move in any direction.
“Want to hear
our
game plan?” asks Roko, as Malcolm corners him. “Let McBride shoot the ball all he wants, do it all himself. Then we’ll be playing five against one, in our favor.”
“Except that five of you against me aren’t enough,” says Malcolm. “It’s still not even close to being even.”
With the shot clock winding down, Aaron Boyce takes a fallaway jumper in the lane. He misses, and Baby Bear gobbles up the rebound for the Spartans.
Malcolm gains control of the rock and starts up court.
Now it’s Troy’s turn to defend, with Michigan State leading by a bucket and less than four minutes to play.
“Come on and catch some of this one-man show,” taunts Malcolm. “’Cause nobody can stop it.”
“Bring it, son,” mimics Roko from every movie he’s ever seen about the hood, as he balances low to the ground with his arms spread wide.
“Oh, you’re my daddy now?” Malcolm comes back. “Never gonna happen.”
Malcolm fakes right, and then he crosses over to his left.
But he can’t shake Roko, who’s still right in front of him.
“Just me and you. Nobody else,” says Roko. “You can’t—”
There’s a loud crunch as Baby Bear steps out of nowhere, knocking Roko flat with a hard screen.
Unguarded now, Malcolm takes a step back behind the three-point line. He turns the rock between his fingers, feeling for the grips. Then he lets the shot fly with his hands, falling into a perfect gooseneck over his head.
The shot goes in, and the ref raises both arms in the air to signal that it’s a three.
“Red Bull-shit,” crows Baby Bear at Roko, who’s still on the floor.
Down by five points and with Roko dazed, Coach Kennedy calls for a Trojan time-out.
“Money McBride!” says Baby Bear, taking a running start at a powerful chest bump with Malcolm. “We’re the new Shrek and Donkey.”
“No,
he’s
Donkey,” says Malcolm, pointing at Roko. “But I’ll take that Money tag.”
From that morning’s national newspaper:
NEW ORLEANS, La. — “Money ball” could easily become the new catchphrase for the Men’s NCAA Basketball Tournament. And that dollar-green-colored basketball bounces in many directions, including the way of the NCAA, individual universities, coaches, television networks and companies
that hope to rake in more than they spend in advertising and sponsorship. The money ball, however, doesn’t get passed around into the hands of the players, without whom there would be no lucrative tournament.
Collegiate players rarely gripe publicly about the system. All of that changed yesterday when Michigan State freshman Malcolm McBride, who will leave after a single season of college ball to enter June’s NBA draft, challenged it head-on.
“I heard that the NCAA makes something like $700 million on this tournament, and that my school could make 15 mil. I know part of that number’s off my back, my sweat. That’s like slavery,” said McBride, at an NCAA-sponsored Final Four press conference.
How is a substantial portion of that tournament money generated?
The NCAA, which currently has a $6-billion 11-year TV deal with CBS, collects more than $700 million annually in broadcast fees and marketing rights. In turn, the network charges advertisers approximately $700,000 for a 30-second TV commercial during the Final Four. That price of advertising nearly doubles to around $1.3 million for the National Championship Game, with only the Super Bowl traditionally drawing more than the 40 million viewers expected to tune in. If
those prices seem too high, network honchos can rest easy knowing that official NCAA sponsors are actually required to buy commercial time for the tournament.
The competing universities at this year’s Final Four—Michigan State, Troy, Duke and North Carolina—are in line for a windfall of free advertising. It is estimated that during the course of the tournament, these schools will have each received more than $500 million worth of exposure. That exposure strengthens student enrollment and donations from boosters, and increases the quality of their incoming basketball recruits to field future tournament teams that could keep the money ball rolling their way for seasons to come.
Tournament advertising isn’t limited to TV, Internet, radio and print ads. Some college coaches are now renting out space on their game-day sweaters. You’ll see them prowling the sidelines with a sneaker company emblem or chain store logo emblazoned on their clothing. They also wear the sponsors’ trademarks during TV interviews and to events. Many coaches, whose salaries already dwarf that of their university presidents, receive bonuses for advancing through various stages of the NCAA tournament as well. Several coaches reportedly have a bonus of up to $500,000 for winning the National Championship.
Video games licensed by the NCAA to outside companies mimic players’ appearances and athletic moves. The games generate millions of dollars in sales without a penny going to the athletes. Because of their amateur status, college basketball players cannot endorse products for sponsors or even profit from the sale of replica jerseys with their name on the back. Yet players can be walking billboards for schools that sign exclusive product deals with sneaker and clothing companies. The players wear the shoes and other apparel during games while the school collects the money.
“Part of me feels like my school and coach sold my soul to some sneaker company. These aren’t even the kicks I like to wear. They get paid for it, and I have to deal with the blisters on my feet,” said a player at the Final Four who did not want his identity revealed. “I’m stuck in this system if I want to show the NBA what I’ve got. There’s even a site on the Web that’s reselling tickets for the Final Four at $3,300 apiece. But I’m not allowed to resell the tickets that my school gave me. Go figure.”
Of course, every now and then the money ball takes an unexpected bounce. In 2009, Marcus Jordan, the son of Hall of Fame basketball legend Michael Jordan, began his college basketball
career at the University of Central Florida. Upon recruiting Marcus Jordan, the university assured him that he could wear his father’s Nike Air Jordan–brand sneakers, despite UCF’s exclusive $3-million deal with Adidas for its players and coaches to wear the company’s shoes and apparel.
“When I was being recruited, we talked about it,” Marcus Jordan told the
Orlando Sentinel
. “They said they had talked to the Adidas people, and it wasn’t going to be a problem. I think everybody understands how big of a deal it is for my family.”
So for UCF’s opening game, while the rest of the team wore Adidas, Marcus Jordan had on Air Jordans. He did, however, don a pair of black ankle braces with the Adidas logo. But that wasn’t enough to soothe the sneaker maker, and Adidas canceled their deal with the university.
Seemingly lost in the fight for the money ball was the outcome of the game, which UCF won, defeating St. Leo 84–65.
“The time when there is no one there to feel sorry for you or to cheer for you is when a player is made.”
—Tim Duncan, a Virgin Islander American, four-time NBA Champion, and three-time NBA Finals MVP
ROKO BACIC
7:43 P.M. [CT]
L
ying on his back, Roko can see the crowd in the stands framing the faces of Crispin and Aaron, who are leaning in over him. All of the noise and voices sound muffled to him, like the Spartans had stuffed Roko’s ears with cotton before they rang his bell. Roko doesn’t remember the screen that knocked him flat. He just knows that his teammates have pulled him up to his feet, that there’s a time-out on the floor, and that he’s heading towards the sidelines.
Coach Kennedy is screaming at the ref over the hit that Roko took.
“That should be a flagrant foul! They tried to take his head off!” argues Kennedy.
Dazed, Roko looks up at the scoreboard.
He sees the Trojans trailing 78–73 with 3:18 left to play. And that hurts worse than any pounding in his head.
“Bull, are you all right?” asks Coach Kennedy, as Roko reaches the bench.
Roko tries to nod his head and the pounding intensifies.
So he holds his head and neck completely still, answering, “I’m good, Coach,” as his teammates clear a spot for him and he sits down. “I’ll shake it off.”
A Trojan athletic trainer moves a finger from side to side in front of Roko’s face, asking him to follow it with his eyes. And Roko does.
“Do you know what day it is?” the trainer asks him.
“Yeah, a day for comebacks,” says Roko. “Now it’s our turn.”
The trainer gives Coach Kennedy a thumbs-up on Roko, so Kennedy begins to give his instructions to the team.
Roko tries to listen closely, but he has a hard time concentrating.
It’s all a smattering of words: “… defensive stops . . . shots . . . keep moving the rock …” And over and over again he hears, “McBride . . . McBride . . . McBride.”
Suddenly, Roko is fighting off a strong urge to vomit.
He works hard to give the impression that nothing is wrong, sipping water from a cup. When the team is ready to go back onto the court, Roko gets up from his seat. But now the Superdome is spinning all around him. The wooden floor seems to shift beneath his sneakers, and he drops down to one knee.
“I need a trainer here, fast!” Roko hears Kennedy’s voice, before feeling the coach’s steadying hand upon his shoulder.
May 23 (Grade 12)
I could not sleep well. I woke up very early this morning, before there was sun. It did not matter that it was Saturday. It did not matter that I could stay in bed as long as I wanted. I could find no rest in my mind and heart. The night before, I had no date, and passed on an invitation to a party with my teammates and friends. It was the first Friday night I stayed at home in a long time. I just did not want to celebrate anything. I wanted to be close to my family here—my aunt, uncle, and younger cousins. Today is the anniversary of Uncle Dražen’s death.
It was one year ago that those monster mafia criminals in Croatia put a bomb into his car. They killed him for the dirty stolen money they wanted more of. The money and facts that Uncle Dražen’s newspaper articles talked about. The anger builds up in me that no one has yet paid for this crime. I wish the movie heroes like X-Men were real. Then I could have the Wolverine chase them down like dogs.
Sometimes I scream out curses into the air or smothered into my pillow. I still cannot watch TV shows about crime families. I want to spit on the TV screen when I see old reruns of Tony Soprano’s fat face.
I called my parents in Croatia. They were going
to church to light candles for Uncle Dražen’s resting soul in heaven. Only in the last few months has my father put away his gun, thinking the threat on our family is no more. I wish I could go to Uncle Dražen’s newspaper office and sit in the chair he once did. But I can’t. So I went to the Web and visited the home page for his newspaper and read the front page story about his memory. Then I went to YouTube and watched highlights of old Michael Jordan dunks. I remember how they made Uncle Dražen and me smile. I held my basketball tight as I watched. The same ball we played with in Croatia. The same ball I took to the park to show Uncle Dražen that I could dunk. I wish he could be here to read my high school newspaper articles and to see me graduate next month. I wish he could see me play basketball at Troy next year. To see me become a proud Trojan warrior on the basketball court the way he was at being a newspaper reporter.
Early this morning I took that basketball and went to the park courts. It was too early for anyone else to be there on a Saturday. I practiced alone and went through all of the drills Uncle Dražen taught me. I could almost feel him there looking over my shoulder. I could almost hear him saying, “More defense, Roko. Work harder on
defense. It is the most important thing.”
I was there alone for maybe a half hour when a boy nine or ten years old showed up with his mother and little sister. His mother took the sister over to the swings and the boy watched me playing from a bench near the court. Soon the boy came over and asked if he could shoot the basketball too. At first I said no. I told him that I needed to practice by myself. He kept watching me from the bench and every time I looked over at him he dropped his eyes down to his shoes. After a while, I felt like the Grinch who stole Christmas morning. So I told him to come over and play. I could see the joy in his eyes every time he let the ball fly at the rim. But his form was not good. Without even thinking about it I started to coach him. I changed the way he held the ball and the way it came off his fingers. Then I showed him how to dribble without looking down at the ball. He started to get better right away. Suddenly, I felt a spark in my heart. I felt like I was giving back a little bit of what Uncle Dražen shared with me.
Then the mother came over to ask if her son was bothering me. I shook my head and told her that we were just two players sharing the court. That made her son really smile wide. Maybe fifteen minutes later the mother called for the boy to go home. I made sure he sank the last shot he took
for good luck. Then I gave him a high five before he left. Later on, I realized that I didn’t even know that boy’s name. But that is how friendship happens on a basketball court. Names are not important. Everyone is the same with a basketball in their hands. All you can do is give to the other players, on your team or the other team. All you can do is your best, and that is giving. Playing basketball with that boy this morning made me feel better for the rest of the day. God bless you, Uncle Dražen.
