The moments before a car crash trickle in a slow motion staccato, as if illuminated by some macabre strobe-light. Metals crushing, tires screeching, drown out every other noise in the immediate world. The stench of burning thickens the warm desert air. The mind goes blank seconds before it races, a pure calm before the storm of reality. Then the conscious vengefully rushes back and the mad frenzy begins. Thoughts from all angles permeate the mind and the body is overwhelmed with nonsensical requests; utter panic within, yet a self-conscious cool for the world. Primal instincts are now in play. The body is in full control and the mind becomes nothing more than a hapless observer, dazed and numb from the blitz of adrenaline.
Of course in Las Vegas it's all part of the show, all part of the grand spectacle. Soon the vultures, and their lanky rubber necks, begin to circle and gawk. Scavengers of intrigue, starved for entertainment. The surreality of the mangled and smoking wreckage provides suitable detachment. Those involved, merely actors. The world worth nothing if not spectacle.
These are the circumstances in which eight West Coast Conference teams competed for a basketball championship.
The Toreros scrapped and clawed their path to the season's finish line with a hard fought 61-59 win over seven seeded Santa Clara and a dignified 57-72 loss to three seeded Portland. Roberto Mafra led the spectacle in the first game, with the premier performance of his San Diego career - 14 points, 12 rebounds and a school record seven blocks.
"I got a sense in practice this week that he had that look in his eye," Head Coach Bill Grier said of Mafra after the Santa Clara game.
The win was messy but impressive. The Toreros shot 55 percent from the field in the first half and committed only one turnover in the second half; essential, considering 16 of Santa Clara's 55 points came off USD turnovers. Hustle, defense and clutch free throw shooting late in the game pushed USD to victory.
Coach Grier leaned on his veterans, maintaining a crunch time lineup of Brandon Johnson, Devin Ginty, Matt Dorr, Chris Lewis and Mafra - three seniors, two juniors.
"I'm really proud of how our guys fought. They bounced back and made plays down the stretch to win," Grier said. "We've been in that boat several times and not finished those situations off. I'm proud of the way they stepped up and got it done."
The Toreros won the game they had to win, a game against an athletically equivalent team. Vegas is not a safe place for one and dones.
Ken Rancifer was the show the next night. The diaper dandy gave Torero Nation an alluring glimpse into the near future with a career-best 20 point performance. No other Torero scored more than eight. Rancifer embodied the edge with which the Toreros played. He exuded a sense of urgency, a palpable competitive fire throughout the game; seemingly taking out a season's worth of frustrations on the Portland defense. The Rancifer Scowl will be the face of Torero basketball next season.
Twenty-five bucks and a hard brow will take you past the fringe of Vegas spectacle, deep into the outskirts of the American Dream. The type of place that sends chills up the spines of the bravest cabbies and makes them warn, "Are you sure you wanna go there?" The type of place you better leave before sunset because no clear-minded taxi driver would dare venture after dark to the moat of filth and anguish surrounding the Strip.
Here, sin is not commoditized but feared. The protective lights of the City of a Thousand Shows glows dimly on the horizon. Even the vultures keep their distance. No pretense of spectacle here, because here reality trumps surreality.
And when the flattering tint of spectacle peels back, the biting embers of residual loathing burn clearly. In this harsh world the Toreros are an offensively incompetent, 21 loss team. A team losing their all-time leading scorer, but gaining the top recruiting class in the conference. Sure, there is solid hope The team will be young and hungry and comprised mainly of two strong Bill Grier recruiting classes.
But really, hope is all there is. Hope that the plethora of potential is realized. Hope that Bill Grier is the coach Torero Nation thought he was two years ago - a hardnosed defensive grandmaster with a brilliant basketball mind, rather than the coach many in Torero Nation think he is now - a high maintenance, overpaid yeller who can't connect with college athletes.
Grier will have a team of his recruits. The critics can no longer cite success to Brad Holland's players and the supporters can no longer cite failure to recruiting transition. Bill Grier's hand is set, the proper cards in place, and the program's chips are all on the table.
The vultures are already circling. The most popular man on the campus of a 21-loss team tends to be the previous coach. Perhaps first round tournament upsets of powerhouse programs spoil a fan base.
"It was just a very difficult year on all of us. Players, our staff, our fans, everyone, especially after the way we got off to such a good start with great wins early in the year," Grier said, "but I think for the most part we played pretty hard."
The smoldering mess in the middle of the street draws junkies and jesters. The junkies stare with sadistic pleasure and the jesters mock with cowardly eyes. Spectacle breeds spectacle and the looking glass peers both ways. Freaks love a freak show.
The horror, the horror.
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