“Don’t need a three here.”
As the time bled painfully slowly off the clock in Philadelphia, I kept repeating those five words. Almost like a mantra, each time the Tar Heels crossed center court, I heard myself muttering the same thing. I desperately wanted something going to the basket; with right around two minutes remaining on the clock it made perfect sense to drive, cut the UCLA lead to one with a high-percentage shot and get a stop at the other end. Listening to the coward that lives somewhere in the back of my head, I was petrified of a five- or six-point swing precipitated by a missed three at one end and a quick score for the Bruins.