Advantage Disadvantage Page 16

  The new United Center opened in 1994 to accommodate the trend and necessity of selling skybox suites. The old Chicago Stadium had three levels with obstructed views. The crowd noise was deafening. The singer who used to belt out the national anthem held on to the last phrase to wildly enthusiastic crowds at Bulls and Blackhawk games. Many think the old Chicago Stadium was the most intimidating place to be for visiting basketball or hockey players. The new United Center was bowled- out with no obstructed view and better acoustics (for concerts). However, it was very quiet compared to the “old barn”. The suites were awesome; it was cleaner, and well laid-out. However, old timers missed the original Chicago Stadium, once located across the street from the United Center, now serving as a parking lot.

  It was exciting to play at the UC for the teams that qualified to play in the Super-Sectional games. Game management assigned teams to use either the hockey locker rooms, blood stained carpets and all, or the Bulls’ actual facility. Most high school gym floors were laid on top of cement or asphalt foundations. Because the Blackhawks shared the facility with the Bulls, the basketball floor consisted of snap-together pallets, which took about forty-five minutes to assemble on top of the ice. If a player alighted from the inside of a pallet, he felt like he was jumping on a trampoline. The edges of each pallet were dead spots. Despite this peculiarity, high school teams, which made it here, were playing in one of the best arenas in the country.

  During the early part of the sectionals, selections came out for the State Finals. Billy drew a blank. He checked, and checked again, but IIAA did not list him to go downstate. Billy struggled with whether he should call the state office to find out why they were not using him for the final games. Yet, he did not want to ruin next year’s chances. He earned his appointment to state clinician and game observer, which normally lead to the finals, but this year, no dice for him. Finally, his ego got the best of him and he called the state’s director of basketball officials. The secretary always liked Billy, and when he asked to talk to the director, she asked, “Are you trying to understand why you are not going downstate this year?”

  “Shirley, you know me too well,” responded Billy.

  “Suddenly, toward the end of the season, the director received a couple of calls complaining about your officiating – just before the assignments were made. Billy, who’d you piss off?” she asked.

  “These calls were from coaches?”

  “Yep, I’m afraid so. Maybe next year will be your year” she consoled.

  Billy was disappointed but not distraught. He had to get over his disappointment but he remained confused. He reasoned that maybe his wisecrack to the coach about warming up his assistant was costly. However, he would never find out that Bobby G. had him pulled from the assignment because Billy showed him no respect when the bookie tried to recruit him for the Advantage / Disadvantage Plan.

  The regionals and sectionals went by quickly without incident for Billy’s assignments. He taught the new-to-the-playoffs officials a few subtle things that others had passed on to him. His pregame referee meetings were by the book, covering as the state prescribed, positioning, last second shots, block/charge, technical foul administration if necessary, and periphery details such as when all officials should remove their jackets during player introductions. He was good for the game, and should have gone to state.

  Billy parked his car at the United Center’s employee and press lot. He felt a sense of history as he pulled in prior to the venue of the Super-Sectional game. Famous folk heroes such as the players on the Bull’s six championship teams used this very space and Frank was walking in their footprints. At the end of the lot, there was the famous, bronze statue of the Michael Jordan flying through the air. Early arrivals of high school basketball enthusiasts were snapping pictures in front of MJ’s statute. Billy noticed that Frank Worrell was interviewing some of the kids near the monument. He waved to Frank, and proceeded inside.

  They treated the referees like rock stars. Two escorts took him to the IIAA game suite. Billy greeted the state executive team; he knew most of them from the clinics he attended to become a state interpreter and clinician. Billy was careful to avoid the well-stocked skybox goodies that others were enjoying – he had work to do. When Billy’s two partners arrived, they asked the state escort to take them to the referee’s locker room. Each one of these officials had reached a high watermark place in their avocation. It was hard to get to a Super Sectional, and these guys were no slouches. IIAA assigned Billy as the R (referee) for the game. He took out a cheat sheet to guide him through important considerations to discuss in his pregame referee meeting. The three officials talked as they casually dressed into their stripped uniforms. As always, they would take the floor with 20 minutes before tipoff. Billy, as referee, would check the scorebook around 12 minutes and summon captains at ten.

  Chapter Thirty-three. Super (Sectional) Betting Action

  Bobby G.’s phone rang off the hook before East End’s Supersectional game; all calls asking for Jack Benny. Homers, especially those from East End’s conference schools were strongly convinced that East End would advance past the Super Sectional at the United Center. Gangbangers were impatient with Bobby G. concerning East End betting opportunities during the season. Why couldn’t they bet on East End on the way up the ladder during the season? The bookmaker explained that he completely missed the boat on the quality of East End’s basketball team. The lackluster summer record and the Windy City Daily’s early rankings fooled him, he told them. Now he was onboard and set the line on the Super Sectional UC contest as follows: Carl Markon High School +6 & ½ points. Essentially, to the betting public, if they placed a bet on East End they had to win the game by seven or more points.

  Markon High was located about forty miles to the Northwest and played most games away from Chicago. The team had similar demographics to East End’s. Part of the school had upper-middle class kids and the other students were children of working class parents. Bobby G. saw the Carl Markon High School basketball team play at the Big Dipper Christmas Tourney. They had an unusually quick team for their height. Their big fellows ran the floor without hesitating lest they risk their hard driving coach yanking them out of the game. Their full-court press smothered opponents and they beat teams by an astonishing average of eighteen points during the season. Bobby G. picked this game to make his big play. The Chicago Area bravado always discounted the quality of unfamiliar teams, especially those away from Illinois’ big cities. Bobby G. confirmed the betting line: East End giving 6 & ½ points. Homers and gangbangers were happy to finally wager on East End and they were all too anxious to book their bets with Bobby the Greek.

  Bobby G. put a new restriction on accepting bets from gangbangers for the East End – Carl Markon game. Anyone who wanted action on this game had to pay upfront plus the ten percent juice – no bets on the house. Gangbangers objected, but they made so much money during the year, they caved in and paid all bets in advance. Homers could not bet on credit anyway. Money poured in, up until the Bobby G.-imposed midnight freeze for accepting bets the night before the game. Bobby G. would be at the game, but did not want to have any money or betting cards on him. He knew that “Chicago’s Finest”, the police were crawling all over the UC. They always searched everyone entering the United Center, even when the Ice Follies were in town. Bobby G. went through the search just like any of the other of the five thousand spectators, except that no one else stood to make more than a million dollars during the game. This did not seem like gambling for the bookmaker. He knew that Carl Markon was a better team than East End.

  Bobby G. walked around the lower section of the UC having somehow obtained a floor pass. He was saying hello to old friends and acquaintances – it looked like he was running for mayor of Chi-Town! He also saw many of his betting clients in the crowd. All the NAU and familiar high school coaches paid reluctant homage to Bobby G. for his street agent work – he was a celebrity. Detective T.J. Battle was there to watch his on
ce-young prodigy, Jamal Imari, play ball. Bobby G. came up and shook Frank Worrell’s hand. The sportswriter’s hand was clammy from sweating. Bobby G. tried to put Frank at ease.

  “Do me a favor?” Bobby G. said in code, “Tell Red that Benny’s got a million and a half ideas about tonight’s game.”

  “A million and a half dollars of action booked on this game,” marveled Frank. “Should I believe him? He did tell me that my third cut would be about a half million. I can only hope that he’s not lying.”

  Frank walked over to his courtside desk. His heart was pounding. Negative thoughts were flying through his head while the perspiration pressed through his skin.

  “What if Bobby G. was wrong about Carl Markon’s team? What if the game is poorly officiated in East End’s favor – after all they were the ‘home team’. What if Coach Venturi had a special plan to attack Markon’s fast paced ballclub? If Markon’s team does cover the point spread, will Bobby G. make arrangements to give him his cut?”

  Frank’s heart was racing. He could feel the tension in his chest along with the moisture in his armpits. He had not been this nervous in a long time. Game administration reserved a seat next to the state observer at the scores table for Frank because he was the premier high school basketball writer. The state observer had known Frank for many years. IIAA reached out to sportswriters around the state to encourage coverage and publicity.

  “Frank, what will I read in your column tomorrow?”

  “Depends who wins. But the crowd and the success of the state tournament is one angle that I will cover. I hope to be able to say positive things about the game’s officials, and most of all, I hope the best team wins.”

  “Did you predict a winner on this game, Frank? The state observer asked.

  “Sure, I picked East End to go all the way and win the state championship … a big change of heart for me. They were unranked in my preseason ranking.”

  “Markon might surprise you tonight,” the observer said.

  “I can only hope so – it would make tonight very interesting,” Frank wryly replied.

  Chapter Thirty-four. Pregame at the United Center

  Coach Venturi and Marcus burned the midnight oil trying to prepare the team for Markon. The teams had exchanged game film and the more East End’s coaches learned about their opponent, the more worried they became. Carl Markon High School’s team was quick enough to pressure teams much faster than East End and they were big inside the paint too. The first three substitutes were excellent free throw shooters and they hardly committed turnovers. Because Scott was so uncomfortable that he could not devise a reasonable game plan, he called an unusual and special practice on the Sunday before the game. He worked his team hard, but for the first time this year they did not have a tailored plan of attack.

  Jamal enjoyed the time between the Sectional Championship and the upcoming tilt at the UC. Coach Venturi held a massive pep rally before the game at school and Jamal felt like royalty. East End classmates treated him like a visiting dignitary. Teachers excused or deferred classroom assignments for Jamal and his teammates. Jamal received two telegrams from EPSU wishing him luck. Kerbe Shoes sent a winner’s t-shirt to Jamal hoping he might wear it while being interviewed. The principal sang the school’s fight song on the PA system during homeroom to satisfy a challenge with Scott. Jamal was excited, but not crazy.

  Normally, Coach Venturi would reveal a game plan to his team a couple days before a contest. This time was different. Marcus and Scott, two great basketball minds, could not put a special scheme in place to exploit a Markon High team weakness. Deep down, they knew the team would have its hands full.

  The East End Team used the Bulls’ locker room. The coach scheduled the team to arrive three hours before the game. He wanted to control the players outside influences – relatives, friends, and girlfriends. The team needed time to arrive loose, but at game time focus. When they first arrived, Coach Venturi and Marcus spoofed a scene from Hoosiers to try to loosen up the players. In the movie, Gene Hackman had his assistant coach measure the state championship floor twice. Gene queried him about the length of the floor, proving to his team that the game was nothing special – the court size was the same length as all the other high school gyms that they had played in all year long.

  “Coach Imari,” Scott asked, “Would you use your tape measure and tell our team that this court is 84 X 50 feet. I want them to know that this is just another basketball court.”

  Marcus pulled out a tape measure and mumbled something to himself.

  “Tell the boys that this court is the same as all the rest, go ahead, Mr. Imari.”

  “Coach, I’m not getting 84 feet for the length.”

  “Measure it again,” Scott suggested as he pretended to be perturbed.

  “Yep, Coach Venturi. It is 94 feet long. Measured it twice.”

  Scott pretended to become flustered. He stumbled through some illegible words and feigned embarrassment.

  “Damn. It worked so well in the movie,” Venturi said. The team roared with laughter, knowing the scene from Hoosiers very well. The professional court was ten feet longer than the high school standard.

  With a couple hours to go before the game, the East End locker room filled with family and friends. Coach Venturi allowed players to host guests for fifteen minutes. Cameras flashed amid a loud buzz of excited, nervous people. A five-minute line formed in front of the stall preserved with Michael Jordan’s nameplate intact as players posed with their loved ones. After a while, Coach worked his way around the room saying hello and shaking hands with his players’ parents and friends. Coach Venturi was especially proud of his players as he heard repeatedly, “Thanks grandma (or grandpa, dad, mom, etc) for coming to see me play”. They had grown as players and as young men. He could not have been more proud. Finally, the locker room emptied of all guests.

  “Boys,” Coach Venturi began. “I want to ..”

  “Wait a minute,” Jamal said. “Before you talk to the team, I’d like to say something.”

  “Ok, Captain. The floor is yours.”

  “I want to say that this has been the best year of my life. We have worked hard, really hard. I mean extra hard...”

  “We get it,” Scott interjected as the boys laughed but agreed with Jamal.

  “I’m just trying to say that some of what we did in the summer didn’t make sense to us – we weren’t winning games, but Coach we’ve figured you out. You are a great coach and we admire you, and if any of us end up in coaching, we will take a lot of you with us. Thanks for getting us here.”

  After the applause died down and he wiped a couple tears from his eyes, Coach Venturi began his pre-game talk.

  “Boys, I know I am speaking for Coach Imari as well when I tell you how proud we are at the progress of this team. We knew how good you might be early on – well before the Windy City Daily came around to rank us. You are going to find out that in life potential does not mean a damn thing. It takes hard work and commitment to reach goals – you have given the coaching staff sacrifices we could not have imagined. Coach Imari and I watched Carl Markon’s last five games, repeatedly. We have not installed anything special because we believe you can beat them by playing our regular game. No gimmicks tonight. Make no mistake about it – they are a great team. But I ask you, what are we? I only have this request – do not hold anything back on the court. We sprint always. We block out. We run bruising pick plays. But remember, we don’t take any shit from anybody. Let’s bring it in.”

  The team encircled the two coaches while reaching in their arms to the common center.

  “Who are we?” Jamal asked the team.

  “East End”, they responded.

  “Who?” a little louder he asked.

  “East End”, they yelled back.

  “Who?” Jamal said, higher pitched.

  “VENTURI’S MEN!” they said as they surprised the coach. That was the first time all season that they responded that way to end the chee
r.

  “Alright guys. Let’s take 15 minutes of shoot around. Get used to the bigger, pro court out there. Wave to your girlfriends. Kiss the babies. Take it all in. Then come back in ready for business. Jamal, bring ‘em back in 15.”

  The team filed out of the locker room into the tunnel leading to the floor.

  Back in the locker room, Venturi turned to his assistant and said, “We might really be in trouble this game, Marcus”.

  “I know Scott, but it don’t matter. The boys have taken in 98% of the experience already. Going downstate only gets you the last 2%,” Marcus replied.

  “That’s bullshit, but thanks for saying it. And thanks for coming back to the team. You’ve been a blessing to us,” Coach Venturi said.

  “OK, but let me say there are only two, exactly two coaches responsible for Jamal’s basketball progress – T.J. Battle and you. And on a personal note you are the best thing that has happened to me since I saved that slime dog Bobby G. from getting his ass beat in the Cook County Lockup,” he laughed.

  Chapter Thirty-five. It is Just A Game – A Super Sectional Game

  Frank Worrell sat at the end of the scorer’s table near the half court line. The IIAA observer was trying to get Frank to chat. As the players ran through their warm-ups, the observer peppered Frank about his perceptions of the season and specifically the quality of officiating. They discussed coaching job openings, rule changes, surprise teams and attendance of high school basketball in the short time before the game began. The chitchat provided relief to Frank because it kept him from worrying about whether Carl Markon’s team would cover the point spread. It was hard to stop thinking about a half million dollars.