The Final Four by Paul Volponi Page A

you’re good at something, you spend a lot of time with it. People identify you with that sport, so it becomes part of your identity.”
    —Mike Krzyzewski, who coached Duke to four NCAA Championships
CHAPTER SEVEN
CRISPIN RICE
    7:27 P.M. [CT]
    C rispin can hear the
thud
of Grizzly’s backside and shoulders slamming into him, carving out space beneath the basket. This deep into the game, there’s hardly any pain attached to it anymore. Crispin’s body is nearly numb from the abuse.
    That just makes him even braver.
    It’s like staring down a dentist’s drill with your mouth full of Novocain.
    Those extra thirty pounds of muscle on Grizzly are still doing the job, but they’ve lost most of their biting sting.
    Then, bracing for another collision, Crispin feels his left sneaker slide out from underneath him. A slick sweat spot onthe floor gives Grizzly all the advantage he needs. Crispin goes even more off balance with a subtle hip from Grizzly, and the Spartans get the ball into their center’s huge paws.
    Crispin hustles back into position, putting his arms straight up in the air to defend against Grizzly’s short jumper.
    Their chests barely bump together as the ball caroms off the rim.
    The ref whistles Crispin for a foul, his fourth of the game. One more and he’s gone, with no one else near his size on the Trojans’ bench for a replacement.
    On the sideline, Coach Kennedy goes ballistic at the ref, screaming, “He’s standing straight up! He’s entitled to that space! Look at him!”
    Crispin freezes in place, arms over his head, pleading his case. “How is
this
a foul? Tell me. How?”
    But the ref walks away, ignoring them both.
    Grizzly sinks the first of two free throws, giving the Spartans a 70–69 lead. Then Kennedy calls time-out, pounding his right palm on top of the extended fingers of his left hand to make a T, as if the ref’s head was on a chopping block between them.
    Inside the Trojans’ huddle, Kennedy calms himself enough to call the next offensive play. Then he turns to Crispin and says, “Don’t worry about fouling out. I don’t care if I have to send a midget out there to take your place. Step up to every challenge. You don’t ever want to lose backing down and have to carry that around with you. There’s a minute thirty-two on the clock. But I promise you, life is a hell of a lot longer than that. So stand tall.”
    “I won’t sidestep a thing, Coach,” says Crispin. “I’ll take it all head-on.”
    As the Trojans walk back onto the court, their cheerleaders are performing acrobatics.
    Crispin sees Hope smiling for the crowd, standing on the shoulders of a pair of muscular guys from the pep squad. Then they toss her high into the air with her pom-poms waving, before she lands softly in their arms.
    MARCH, THREE WEEKS AGO
    FLYING SUSHI—that was the name across the front of Crispin’s helmet as he fastened his chin strap and then revved the throttle high.
    He could feel the vibrations running up his spine and the horsepower surging through his body. Then his heel hit the kickstand. He pulled away from the restaurant with two full orders bungeed in behind him. As he took off through the streets of Troy, balancing his six-foot-ten-inch frame on that red moped scooter, he never felt more like a giant sitting on top of the world.
    The Trojans had just won their first two NCAA Tournament games, just four shy of a National Championship.
    They’d arrived back on campus the night before with nearly the entire student body cheering for them. There was a wild celebration at the fountain with the Trojan statue on the quad. Everyone was dressed in red. There were banners, and bottles of beer right out in the open, and the Trojan band played the school’s fight song over and over. And when Crispin locked lipswith Hope, people started chanting,
“Hope of Troy! Hope of Troy!”
    Crispin was beat tired now. He’d gotten up early for classes and spent half the day catching up on missed