Two years ago, this was it.
The day was March 5, the afternoon of the final regular-season game for Wisconsin’s men’s basketball team. The Badgers were riding the fence of NCAA Tournament-candidacy when Indiana strolled into town.
For some reason, everyone had it in his or her mind that this was the biggest game of the year. It was senior night. It was the climax of a tense, up-and-down season. It was national television.
It was Bobby Knight. It was A.J. Guyton. It was Indiana.
Each of the last two years, Wisconsin’s postseason momentum was virtually inscribed by the Hoosiers. Right now, the opportunity to head into Bloomington and knock off first-place IU holds the potential to springboard the Badgers into a possible NCAA Tournament berth. Last season, UW never recovered from a devastating 85-55 loss in Assembly Hall, then tripped at the Hoosiers’ hands in the Big Ten Tournament, en route to a first-round exit from the Big Dance.
In 2000, the feeling was that the season-ending matchup with Indiana similarly held the Badgers’ fate in the balance. Entering Madison, the 20-6 Hoosiers were the attraction for a CBS broadcasting crew. By the end of the afternoon, with the surging arena crowd seemingly feeding off the miles of television cable, the Badgers and their resurgent tournament hopes were the show.
Anticipating the cameras, I was conspicuous in the crowd. My friend Ryan sported a shirt claiming “Bucky’s going to Bracketville,” referring to Nike’s March Madness ad campaign. We sat, or stood, or rather bounced, along the south baseline at the head of the crowd.
Before I ever watched a game courtside from the Kohl Center’s press row, I witnessed this moment of basketball glory from the perspective of a fan: from behind the rim.
Indiana quickly depressed our enthusiasm, however, jumping to an early nine-point lead in the first half. Guyton’s hand was hot, and we found little solace taunting this senior who was obviously an uncommon talent and genuine individual.
Instead, we turned our attention to the pesky Michael Lewis, the short, white senior guard who seemed to have been hounding Big Ten opponents for years with his annoying motion hustle. Him or a hundred other identical Hoosier guards. So we poured it on.
In the meantime, Guyton was exploding around screens and firing lightning bolts from three-point range. Worse yet, Mike Kelley — the pride of Menomenee Falls, the man charged with shutting down Guyton, Wisconsin’s own Scarlet Pimpernel — was unable to defend his mark.
Kirk Haston’s short hook capped the disappointment, putting IU ahead 12 with just over 10 minutes remaining, and the Badgers appeared to be going quietly.
Then suddenly Duany Duany was nailing perimeter shots, ducking into the lane and elbowing up baskets, slipping screens and — miraculously — pacing Guyton. Without warning, the lankiest, oldest player on the court owned the game, and I was hollering his first name over and over. (Or was it his last name? Or both?)
Duany, whose name and number were emblazoned on my marker-made cotton basketball jersey, was the temporary hero. His swift seven points began an 11-0 run, and UW drew within one point over the next several minutes.
The Badgers did not lead until Maurice Linton made the sort of play that immortalizes flash bulbs. Submarined by Guyton, the maligned junior willed an off-balance layup to fall and, with just under a minute left, took a 52-50 lead. The Kohl Center crowd, stewing in the steady climb from behind for nearly a quarter, erupted.
I cannot understate how the CBS cameramen helped energize the place. Shirts came off, mouths gaped open and Ryan and I embraced strangers in spontaneous attempts to spread the feeling and get on TV.
Wisconsin held on defense. Kelley was fouled and sank both free throws. The four-point lead seemed to cement the impossible.
In the euphoria, we barely noticed as Lewis cut the lead with a potentially deadly three. The ball dribbled to Ryan’s feet, and he mindlessly poked it to the referee.
Before I knew it, Kelley was at the line again. He sank both, again. The ice water in his veins never touched me. Flushed with rapture, I did not know whether to boast confidently or shed tears for the cameras.
For the second time in my life, I rushed a basketball court. But now there was a strange uncertainty. We had not won any title. We didn’t even know if the Badgers were a certified tournament team.
But we knew. As others hoisted Kelley on their shoulders, I gave another fan a boost as he cut down the net. That piece of nylon remains on my keychain. No matter what unimaginable surprises followed, despite the magical weekend in Indianapolis, that Indiana game is always the moment I relish.
Knight is gone. Guyton is gone. But tonight I will relive a little bit of that Sunday afternoon.
