I was somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the Big Gulp began to take hold.
I thought about stopping at any number of the truck stops on my way to Las Vegas, but my shoulder-Bill Walton wouldn’t let me (It was later in the week the real Bill told me he relieves himself “whenever he can.”) And so I continued onward toward T-Mobile Arena, in search of the American Dream and the Pac-12’s second bid.
“THERE’S NO WAY TO GET OUT,” screamed the kid in the room next to mine in Excalibur.