On the floor, I did the math. My two points, plus our one-point lead, meant we were now up three.

If I made the free throw, we'd go ahead by four.

That trip to the final four, a trip I dreamed of since hooping and hollering after watching Danny Manning

in Kansas beat the University of Oklahoma in the 1988 edition, was looking all the more likely.

And what sweet vindication that trip would be after a year spent in psychological misery,

enduring daily doses of a couple of superstar teammates that couldn't stand,

a coach who screamed at us like we were prisoners of war,

and recovery from two separate broken bones,

one of which had required the recent hasty rehabilitation that had gotten me here.

But no matter, I'd done it.

And in front of my uncle, who had to be on the edge of his seat, his placid demeanor

finally rifted by the excitement I'd just generated inside the palace.

Then I looked to my left, where I saw a different referee doing something odd. He was signaling that

he'd seen an offensive foul and was, rather demonstrably, waving off the basket. But that didn't

make sense. The Michigan State player hadn't given me any room to land.

Everyone knows I had to have space to land.

With the crowd screeching in a manner that would become familiar to me

during the European segments of coming basketball adventures,

the referees huddled up and kept huddling and kept huddling. I feigned nonchalance, milling toward

the bench for water as I watched the referees discuss my fate. If the call went against me,

my basket would be waved off, Michigan State would get the ball and the momentum, and my small-town

dreams of playing in a final four might be dashed forever.

...