We recently returned to Indianapolis, and while my wife took her mother to see an ear doctor, I spent some time with some old friends. We went to Syd’s Tavern in Noblesville and shared some sports memories. He is a sports memorabilia collector and she was a former client, who bought radio and television advertising. I hadn’t seen them in nearly a decade, but we quickly reconnected like time wasn’t really a factor. I had met Bill as a result of my business relationship with her, and discovered much in common, including the Chicago White Sox and Indiana University. I would love to have many of the items in Bill’s massive collection, and built my modest “man-cave” because of his influence. We’ve attended many games together, but our most memorable experience occurred in March of 1987.
Indiana University, our Alma Mater, was the NCAA Tournament #1 Seed in the Midwest Regional, and won its first two games in our then home town of Indianapolis. My good friend Peter and I were there to watch them easily beat both Fairfield and Auburn, on what was essentially I.U.’s home court, just up the road from Bloomington. At that time, conversations started brewing about following the team through the tournament, as the next game was also close-by in Cincinnati against Duke. I conveniently planned to be in Cincinnati that Friday on business, so I was able to score a single ticket and watch Coach Bob Knight’s Hoosiers defeat Coach K’s Blue Devils 88-82. The excitement was building! The Regional Championship game in Cincy against L.S.U. was on Sunday, so Peter and I were forced to watch it on TV. I.U. was nine points behind with less than 5 minutes remaining, and I remember that our dreams of going to the Final Four in New Orleans were in deep jeopardy. Somehow, with six seconds on the clock an injured Ricky Calloway, who grew up in Cincinnati, put in the winning shot for an Indiana 77-76 victory. After the game, we decided to go to New Orleans, whether we had tickets or not!
Bill, through his University connections, was able to get good tickets and called in need of a ride. Peter had a place for us to stay, so my job boiled down to securing a vehicle. We were meeting two of Peter’s friends in Bowling Green, Kentucky and added one other passenger, Mark, from Indianapolis. The plan was to leave from my office parking lot with the four of us and pick up the other two at the Holiday Inn, just off of I-65. The final piece of the puzzle came together after a business acquaintance of mine was able to get us a van. We’d take Friday off, leave late in the day on Thursday, share the all-night driving responsibilities, and get to New Orleans sometime on Friday. It was about an 850 mile trek that would take 12 to 13 hours to complete, so it seemed easy enough with each of us driving a couple of hours on four-lane highways. We decorated the van with red and white signs and team flags, and I sat in my office eagerly anticipating a 3 p.m. departure.
About two hours before we were ready to leave, I got an emotional call from Peter, who was the main instigator of the trip. He was the one who had the connections for our rooms in New Orleans, and had extended the invitations to the two guys in Bowling Green and to Mark. Unfortunately, Peter’s father had just passed away in upstate New York, so he wouldn’t be able to go with us. As a result, Bill and I would be traveling with three total strangers to the Final Four. Plus, we didn’t even know each other that well back then. I was certainly sympathetic for Peter’s loss, but he wanted the trip to go on despite his absence. I was concerned, but the van was packed, tickets were in-hand, and five willing drivers were anxious to hit the road!
The three of us from Indianapolis met in the parking lot and made the appropriate introductions. Mark seemed like the great guy, as Peter assured me he would be. I volunteered to drive first and anxiously turned the ignition key. Nothing happened! The battery was dead, so I went back into the office and called for assistance. Keep in mind, there were no cell phones at that time, so communication was a little more difficult. A tow-truck arrived about an hour later. In the meantime, the car dealer who loaned me the van had decided that another van would be the best option, so the revised plan was to follow the tow-truck to the dealership and make the exchange. The tow-truck driver was intent on removing the signs and flags from the vehicle, but we couldn’t lower the windows that secured the flags, so he had to take the time and trouble to jump-start the battery. Apparently, the flags were blocking his vision behind the van-in-tow. I was beginning to think he was a jealous Kentucky fan! Another hour passed.
We all hopped in one car and drove to the dealership that was inconveniently located on the opposite side of town. The dealer then had to transfer the plates and paperwork, while we redecorated the van. As we were exiting that parking lot, the van died. Fortunately, the battery in that van was still working, so we were easily able to remove the flags and move to our third van of the afternoon. Another two hours had gone by, and we were forty-five minutes north of where we initially started. I was just glad that we didn’t break-down in a remote highway location. However, we were supposed to be in Bowling Green already, instead we were at least four hours away.! Furthermore, none of us in the van knew these other guys, what their names were, or how we were supposed to get in contact with them? Peter was already on a flight to New York to make funeral arrangements, so he couldn’t help. I didn’t think to ask those details while we were talking about his father. A cell phone would have come in handy!
Finally, we were on the road and decided that since we were so late, we should call the Holiday Inn in Bowling Green. We stopped just south of Indianapolis to use a pay phone, and a half-hour later, I finally got through to the bartender. While I was in the phone booth, Bill moved over to take my place in the driver’s seat. While he accelerated, I recounted the conversation, explaining that Peter’s friends had gotten to the bar early for Happy Hour, so they were already through a six-pack. We were still over 3 hours away from picking them up, so they undoubtedly wouldn’t be fit to drive once we arrived. At least. they knew we were on our way. They had not been aware that our mutual friend had lost his father, but at least they knew the people we were supposed to stay with in New Orleans. Fortunately, Bill didn’t drink alcohol, so he continued to drive, while Mark and I enjoyed a couple of beers. They were already starting to get warm after the cooler had been moved from van to van. Unfortunately, a traffic accident blocked our way!
Ten hours after the time when we originally had planned to leave, we arrived at the Holiday Inn. It was approaching 1 a.m, and nearly seven hours later than anticipated. Our two new friends had been pounding beers since Happy Hour, so our first encounter with these strangers was worthy of a comedy skit. They didn’t say their names and preferred to be called by what they were drinking. As a result, they were know as “Bud” and “Lite Beer by Miller” for the rest of our time together. Mark tried to catch up with them, as they passed a couple of joints between them. I did not join them at the time, as Bill had no interest. We stayed alert while the “Three Stooges” thankfully soon passed out in the back seat. My sober collector-friend, Bill, was still at the wheel as a blanket of fog completely blocked our vision. I kept an eye out for cops as our highway speed dropped to under 25 m.p.h., and the snoring in the back escalated. As the hours slowly passed, I eventually relieved Bill at dawn after a short nap, so he could get some well deserved shut-eye. About that time, “Bud” started to rally and graciously offered to buy Bill dinner for staying up all night. He and Bill hit-it-off quickly, relieving my anxiety about Bill’s reaction to the pot smoking. He didn’t say anything, but I only really knew him through his wife. Mark and “Lite Beer by Miller” were still out cold, as we continued our foggy journey through Alabama. It was quickly approaching “high” noon, as the van filled with marijuana smoke and empty beer can rattled against each other under the seats. It was also nearly 20 hours since our original departure time, and we still weren’t there.
There was more beer drinking and pot smoking, as Bill preferred to stay behind the wheel. He had a restless couple of hours sleep, as I continued to fight the fog, but once the “beer twins” woke up, the van started rockin’. They found a radio station to their liking, and continued to charm Bill. They guided him into New Orleans and to our residence just across the river from the Superdome. The reality of finally getting there was starting to set in, as we had all become fast friends. There was a rally that night at the Hilton, official team headquarters, and Bourbon Street to explore. No one seemed too concerned about where we were staying, until we walked in!
The location was great and we had plenty of room, but the entire duplex was stripped to the bare two-by-fours. Red spray paint, marking the construction plans, looked more like the Manson murders had just happened before we arrived. Did we somehow miss the crime scene tape on the way in? The only pieces of “furniture” were one mattress and four lawn chairs situated around the table saw. There was saw dust everywhere and you could see through the floorboards. Furthermore, it was unusually cold outside, and there was no heat. We all agreed to let Bill have the mattress, since he did most of the driving, and we bought him dinner at Pat O’Brien’s that night to further show our appreciation. Prior to dinner, we met our fellow fans, Coach Knight and the players at the hotel that was directly across the river from our luxurious quarters. We wore our red, sang the fight song, and wished the team well in their game against once-defeated #1 U.N.L.V. Their only loss was to Oklahoma after a disputed bucket was incorrectly ruled two points instead of three. The “Runnin’ Rebels” fan-base were all decked out in attitude and gold chains, as they displayed blatant overconfidence. We tried to ignore them and spent most of the night on French Quarter bar stools, before taking the ferry back to the wrong side of the river.
I left the “comfort” of my lawn chair bed on Saturday morning with a gnawing headache. There was one more rally before the big game, so we crossed the Mississippi from Algiers Point, once again. “Bud” and “Lite Beer by Miller” did not come back last night to take their place around the table saw, stacked precariously with empty beer cans. The place was starting to look more like a Frat House and less like a murder scene. Bill, Mark, and I at least tried to get some sleep rather than prowl the bars. Hopefully, the Hoosier team was getting a good night’s rest, and the beer twins had been entertaining the “Runnin’ Rebels” all night. We would need all the help we could get! When we got to the Hilton, there was a giant I.U. banner hanging above us, that apparently I just couldn’t live without. It was attached to a projection screen that moved up and down via a switch in the control room. If I could get someone to lower the screen, I could easily run off with the banner. Obviously, I had alcohol poisoning and wasn’t thinking clearly, but I went to maintenance and told them, “Coach Knight wants us to get that banner over to the Dome.” I think he was ready to flip the switch and lower the banner, but changed his mind once he spoke to a supervisor. It could have been a focal point of Bill’s collection, or mine, if I had been able to pull that off. We walked to the Dome empty-handed.
The five of us had a variety of seat locations at the Dome, none of which were together. Bill had the best seats, so I sat with him. Mark had met some woman named Mary, and was up in the nose-bleed section sucking face with her. I hope his wife didn’t mind! “Bud” and “Lite Beer by Miller” were probably still drinking Hurricanes on Bourbon Street. I’m not sure they were even at the game. It was the first NCAA tournament where the players had the benefit of the three-point shot, that would surely be to Steve Alford’s benefit. It was like the movie, Hoosiers, as most of the experts didn’t think that Indiana would be able to contain the dynamic U.N.L.V duo of Armon Gilliam and Freddie Banks. Others felt that I.U. would have to slow the pace of the game down to even have a chance. It was stacking up to be the classic battle of the “Good Guys” against the “Outlaws.” I didn’t realize it at the time but we were part of the largest crowd to ever see a college basketball game. Bob Knight elected to run with the Rebels and devised a plan to beat their full-court pressure. The result was a 97-93 victory, despite a record ten 3-pointers from Freddie Banks. Coach Jerry Tarkanian, “Tark the Shark” choked on his towel. Steve Alford had 33 points for the “Good Guys,” and we’d be staying in New Orleans for at least two more days!
“Ain’t no Sunshine when she’s gone,” became the U.N.L.V. parting blues song on Bourbon Street. “Ding-Dong the witch is dead,” as Indiana prepared for Syracuse on Monday night. Bill continued to show his maturity, while the rest of us acted like kids in a liquor store. He got some rest while we sampled the wares up and down The Quarter. After all, he had the mattress and we had the lawn chairs. Mark continued to hang out with Mary, so I partied with “Bud” and “Lite Beer by Miller.” We probably had 3 hours of sleep in the four nights we were there. There was another rally on Monday, but the banner was missing. Maybe someone else stole it? Being in the Championship Game in New Orleans was almost like a dream. I sat next to Bill and covered my eyes as Syracuse dominated the game. It wasn’t until the last few minutes that I peeked through my fingers, as Rony Seikaly continued to miss free throws for The Orangemen. I simply couldn’t watch as Keith Smart launched the winning shot. However, Bill pried my hands away, insisting that we didn’t drive this far to not watch the end. “The Shot” a famous photograph that captured that historic moment, must have been taken very near where we were sitting. Also, CBS produced the very first “One Shining Moment,” following that exciting 74-73 finish. It’s been a tournament tradition ever since. I’m glad that Bill made me watch!
We left for home immediately following the game, since we all needed to be back at work the next morning. Honestly, none of us really expected to stay through Monday, but somehow scraped our funds together, The room was at least free, but they should have been paying us to stay there. The construction crew had returned that morning to wake us up, so we packed everything into the van and parked near the dome for a quick get-away after the game. Bill volunteered to drive us back, probably for his own safety. He even battled the darkness and a freak, blinding snow storm, reminiscent of the fog on the trip down. We were all powered by adrenaline, having witnessed a moment of sports history we will never forget. Mark daydreamed about Mary.
As I write this story over 30 years later, I’m sure I forgot a few details and exaggerated everything but the extent of our drinking. I see my friend Peter on a regular basis, and just had the reunion with Bill. Peter continues to stay in touch with “Bud” and “Lite Beer by Miller,” and I’ve followed them both through Facebook. Mark is still with his wife, with Mary as a faint memory. I had been to New Orleans in 1982 for my very first Final Four experience, so to return with my Indiana team as the victor made it even more special. Coincidentally, I recently stumbled across a framed copy of the front page of the Indiana Daily Student, dated March 31, 1987. (See Post #60). I was surprised to find it in Portland, Oregon of all places, where pot is now legal, by the way. It hangs in my office, where the I.U. banner from New Orleans should have hung, if that maintenance guy would have just flicked that switch. The headline reads, “IU Wins It All!” I know – I was there!
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