My sins had multiple fathers. Steve Grogan’s 1982 Strat-O-Matic card. Rollie Fingers’ 1982 Slurpee cup. Pumping quarters into “10-Yard Fight” at Aladdin’s Castle arcade and daring the CPU to stop the quarterback dive. Joaquin Andujar losing his freaking mind on national television.
But the moment when sports sank both fangs into my neck and never let go? Jeff Hornacek, off a curl from 25 feet, as time expired.
March 14, 1986. The Metrodome. I was 12. Watching from the basement. Well, more like standing and pacing in the basement.
Iowa State basketball had long since replaced Godzilla cartoons as my reason for living on Saturdays. I wasn’t officially over the barrel, though, until the first round of that season’s NCAA Tournament. Until Cyclones 81, Miami University 79.
Until the shot heard ‘round Chalet Court.
With two seconds left in overtime, Hornacek came off the baseline, took an inbounds pass from Gary Thompkins, faded back from his defender left of the key, and let fly.
As the twine tushed and the buzzer sounded, I screamed loud enough to scare the dog from the room. I leapt high enough for the plaster in the ceiling to scrape the knuckles on my right hand.
The scars faded decades ago. The bug never did.
