“Cold Blooded”
“Shot clock turned off…game clock at eight….he’s gonna do it himself,,” Gus Johnson announced hoarsely, straining to keep his voice loud, trumping the rowdy crowd in the background as the game drew to a close. The Washington Huskies, clad in all black faced the Arizona Wildcats, in all white, for the third time this season. Each team owned one victory over the other, earned at their respective home arenas in front of game changing home crowds. At this meeting, the last Pac-10 Tournament title is on the line. Neither team possessed home court advantage as they battled at the Staples Center in Los Angeles. The game tied at seventy five points apiece and already in the first overtime period.
Isaiah Thomas was just about to cross half court, dribbling the basketball about waist high, standing straight up. Taking the perfect amount of time to make it down the court, each of his steps were even and casual. He saw everything in front of him. His stride exuded game time composure developed over years of intense match ups and close scores. Inches before the black, center stripe he began to drift to his left, chest, hips, feet and shoulders all square to a spot on the floor opposite the bench. The play was already drawn up in his head. His overly comfortable progression up the floor made his defender leery. He glanced over his shoulder at his coach who was preparing to call a time out, clip board ready, and gave a nonchalant wave of his hand, a mere flick of the wrist. The motion laden with confidence sent the well versed, veteran coach back to the bench, trusting his junior guard completely. There was no doubt that Thomas knew what he was doing. This was his game, his tournament. Game after game, playing thirty eight of forty minutes each, he showed no sign of fatigue. His actions remained crisp, his decisions smart, his leadership apparent with his mind game still sharp.
Crossing the center line flipped the switch. Instantly, Thomas dropped into an athletic stance, knees bent, muscles flexed and feet ready to dance. His back stayed flat, chest and head up. He never lost sight of the floor space and set up. His hand, arm, and shoulder working in perfect unison to ricochet the ball back and forth from hand to floor. Up, down. Hand, floor. He crosses the ball in front of his body with methodical bounces from left to right. The guard shoots left handed but dribbles with unrivaled ambidexterity. Two crossovers and he gains his rhythm. The ball stays on his left hand for two more dribbles, pulling his positioning that direction. Never a glance down.
His defender seems barely there, causing no disruption in any of the Husky’s movements. Thomas acknowledges his man’s presence but is not phased by it. Thomas’s eyes see every teammate and defender simultaneously. His teammates sit flat with the baseline. Thomas sees his lanes, knows the openings. Now approaching the top of the key, a dribble between the legs to return the ball to his right hand, his body rises up matching the bounce of the ball and falls with its return to the hardwood. Back in a text book athletic stance, two quick possession changes between his hands, quick feet movements that can only be appreciated in slow motion. He juts left leaving his defender flat footed at the foul line.
Two hard dribbles to the left, he lands on his left foot. His body moves as one complete unit, his left foot pulling the rest of him along. He pushes off backwards, feet landing on the three point arch in picturesque shooting form. Feet spaced, chest and shoulders square with the basket. Both hands on the ball, he jumps with both feet. His quads and calves team up to elevate him off the polished wood. His hands lift the ball perfectly above his head and his back begins to fall away from the basket. His left wrist flips the ball towards the basket with perfect backspin and seemingly calculated arch, left hand ending parallel to the floor, arm perpendicular. His left foot kicks forward, his ankles separating the same way scissors do. His five feet nine inch, compact frame was able to muscle the ball nineteen feet to the hoop in a fade away jump shot. The defender’s lanky arms were slow to recover from the earlier juke and the shot got off cleanly.
Thomas lands back on the surface, right foot first, then left, already backpedaling, arms swinging behind him on their way down. The ball goes through the rim, snaps the net. The buzzer sounds and the backboard border lights up in red. The shoulders of the men in white slump and they sulk off the floor in defeat to the sounds of elated fans adorned in purple and gold celebrating.
All Thomas’s basketball movements vanish. He faces the stands but looks at no one yet sees everyone. His head back, mouth open in a triumphant roar that can’t be heard over the crowd, his arms flexed making a perfect frame around the purple “Washington” against the black fabric on his chest. He stumbles between the teammates storming him as the bench clears, throwing victory fists into the air. Then he collapses in the middle of his team. Safely surrounded by his comrades, he just lies down, his body relaxes, his mind dazed. The exhaustion from game after game with no substitutions caught up and he was finally able to momentarily surrender his will to perform.
“Thomas…Shake. Cross over. Step baaaaack…. AT THE BUZZER! Young. Zeke and Washington wins it! With a last second j… Cooooold. Blooded,” were the words Gus Johnson rasped out while Thomas led his team to a well deserved triumph over their Pac-10 rivals. Each word improvised on the spot and spoken with unabashed emotion, excitement, and accuracy. Washington now forever reigns as Pac-10 Tournament champions, thanks to that fateful, cold blooded shot by a hot handed, worn out, draft bound Husky.
-Written by Candace Zion 11/15/2011
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