Last week I witnessed, in my opinion, one of the greatest basketball games ever. I know that no one reading this saw it, because it was played on the other side of the Atlantic between the Universities of Edinburgh and Glasgow.
I didn't just watch the game, I was also the timekeeper. Actually, I'm on the University of Edinburgh basketball team, but as we have 15 members and only ten can suit up for any particular game, the coach felt my services could best be used in street clothes operating the scoreboard. He was right. I managed to stop the clock every time the ref blew his whistle, and the score was more or less accurate the entire game.
And what a game it was. With a win, we would be in a three-way tie for first place in our league, Since only the top two teams can go to the season-ending tournament, any ties would be broken by the scores in head-to-head contests. Because of our earlier 17-point loss (it happened well before I joined the team and started working the scoreboard) we had to win this game by 16 points in order to qualify for the season-ending tournament (I don't understand the math either, but I've found that in a foreign country, it's better to keep your mouth shut and do what you're told).
It was not an impossible feat, but not an easy one either. Glasgow, despite having no coach, did have one player who was too much to stop. There was truly no one on our bench that could stop him. That's why we have refs, though. By half time he had committed his fourth foul (two of them offensive), and by early in the fourth quarter he was gone.
By that time though, he had done enough damage to end our hopes of winning by 16, and now we were just struggling to hang on and get a victory. With just under a minute to go, we were up by three points when we got a steal and a quick jumper to make it a five-point lead. A nice cushion, but a long way from the necessary 16 point lead.
Another Glasgow turnover lead to a quick foul and two made free throws with thirty-three seconds left.
Up seven.
I remember the time remaining vividly, as the scoreboard I was dutifully operating had a number of lights burned out, and no one could see how much time was remaining. This forced all ten players on the court, the two coaches, and the two officials to ask me how much time was left, individually.
"Thirty three seconds," I yelled for the fourteenth time.
We passed it in, but it was knocked out of bounds right away. I'll be damned if all fourteen people didn't ask me again how much time was remaining.
"Are you guys idiots?" I asked. "Are your kilts on too tight? How much time do you think could have possibly come off the clock in the nanosecond the ball was in play?"
To be fair to the Scottish, they do not wear kilts when they play basketball, though that could increase attendance, and I didn't in fact really say that. I thought about it, but instead shouted "Thirty two seconds" fourteen more times.
Once my mini-drama on the sidelines was over, we inbounded the ball and got fouled again. Another two free throws dropped with about twenty seconds left.
Up nine.
Glasgow then proceeded to turn the ball over again, but this time you couldn't really blame them. Their backup point guard stepped out of bounds, normally a foolish mistake, but on this court it was pretty common.
To call what we play on a basketball court would be generous. A better name for it would be "The Most Multi-Purposed Court Ever To Be Laid in the United Kingdom." The court is filled with lines for tennis, badminton, volleyball, and a European game called Korfball, which involves peach baskets and is so mindless it would take a whole other column to describe. There are so many lines on the court that when you look at it, it resembles a doodle you've worked on during class - random lines crossing over other random lines.
On our ensuing possession, our center had the ball at the top of the key after breaking the full court press, and instead of taking advantage of a three-on-one fast break, pulled up for a three-pointer with fifteen seconds left.
Up twelve.
Amazingly, Glasgow turned the ball over for the fourth consecutive trip. It was either because of our increased defensive pressure, or because their point guard had fouled out. We got the ball inbounds to our best shooter and our captain, and he was fouled with eight ticks left. I know. I controlled how quickly they went off.
Calmly, the Edinburgh native sank the first free throw.
Up thirteen.
He looked just as calm on the second one, which is why I was surprised he missed it so badly. He told me later he hadn't intended to miss it, but you couldn't guess that from this shot. It was one of those free throws other free throws are ashamed to talk about at family reunions. It clanked hard off the front right of the iron, and caromed at the high pace you would expect from a free throw that looked mass-produced from the "Shaquille O'Neal Charity Stripe Corporation." It bounded so hard off the iron that it went past the three rebounders right back to our captain, who alertly turned, took two dribbles to the three point line, and launched a turn-around, fade away, three-pointer with a man in his face.
Only in Hollywood does a shot like this, with such dire consequences riding on it, go in. Well, Hollywood and Scotland.
Up sixteen and in the playoffs. The only time you see a group of Scots celebrate and drink like that after the game is, well, every night.
Why did I tell this captivating story? One, being away from the States for a while is just further proof that if you want to watch actual team basketball, the way the game was meant to be played, you have to look past the fancy uniforms and flashy dunks of the NBA. And two, so there is some documentation that I was in attendance, for it certainly won't come from the score sheet.
