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The score was 68-54 with fewer than 30 seconds remaining when Gonzaga took possession of the ball, and one of their guards dribbled across the time line. Giving up his dribble, he prepared, unchallenged by USF's defense, to run out the clock. Late night gamblers on the East Coast, who, despite the hour, had watched the last game to the end, could finally breathe a sigh of relief. The spread was 17. USF bettors, convinced Tilly would likely not play or see limited minutes, had taken the points and were now assured to cover. Zag bettors had already gone home to bed. The win, part of a parlay with the Pepperdine/Portand matchup, would mean only a small loss for the day. Thoughts began drifting to tomorrow's lines. Those late night/early morning West Coast games, over the years, had acquired a slew of nicknames. Among them: The Hail Mary (natch), The Thank You Jesus game, and The Holy Redeemer. Not because most of the degenerates in the illegal betting parlors were Catholics (though they had their share) but because the games often involved the parochial schools of the WCC. It was the day's last chance for many of those in the red -- living the gambler's credo, "please Lord, let me break even today ' -- to climb out from under another losing session.
The punters frowned and began shifting in their seats as the USF guards, instead of pulling out their jerseys and drifting slowly to the sidelines, began pressing, double-teaming the ball. In the gambler's den, post-game banter muted, murmurs erupted, as the ball twice was knocked out of bounds. The USF guards, with under ten-seconds left, persisted. "WTF?" Look at the scoreboard!" someone yelled. GU players seemed puzzled, then perturbed. Corey Kispert looked toward the Zag's bench. Whether he got some kind of signal from the coaches is unknown, but when Kispert mimed a shooting motion to his team mates, then repeated it to make sure everyone understood, an anguished cry of, "No!" rolled round the room.
Well, we all know what happened after that. What's unknown is what happened to those left in disbelief after the tumult of shouts and groans finally subsided. What happened to those who shouted their protests, mouthed desperate, blasphemous prayers, ("Please, God, just . . ." was all they had time for) and then watched in horror as, once again, defeat was snatched from the feckless jaws of triumph by a spiteful, vindictive, Old Testament God. So, you may well ask, was it enough to make these gents finally decide to kick the gambling habit, change their ways, and become better men?
I wouldn't bet on that.
The punters frowned and began shifting in their seats as the USF guards, instead of pulling out their jerseys and drifting slowly to the sidelines, began pressing, double-teaming the ball. In the gambler's den, post-game banter muted, murmurs erupted, as the ball twice was knocked out of bounds. The USF guards, with under ten-seconds left, persisted. "WTF?" Look at the scoreboard!" someone yelled. GU players seemed puzzled, then perturbed. Corey Kispert looked toward the Zag's bench. Whether he got some kind of signal from the coaches is unknown, but when Kispert mimed a shooting motion to his team mates, then repeated it to make sure everyone understood, an anguished cry of, "No!" rolled round the room.
Well, we all know what happened after that. What's unknown is what happened to those left in disbelief after the tumult of shouts and groans finally subsided. What happened to those who shouted their protests, mouthed desperate, blasphemous prayers, ("Please, God, just . . ." was all they had time for) and then watched in horror as, once again, defeat was snatched from the feckless jaws of triumph by a spiteful, vindictive, Old Testament God. So, you may well ask, was it enough to make these gents finally decide to kick the gambling habit, change their ways, and become better men?
I wouldn't bet on that.
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