The Pac-12 taught us that for every alpha, there is an omega.
The conference’s final ever game pitted upstart Oregon against bubbly Colorado on a Las Vegas Saturday night. Channel Tree diligently searched for poetic ways to spin the demise of the Pac during the hours prior. One thing by tipoff was certain: the people in charge don’t get it.
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Omega Mart is a grocery store. The shelves are stocked with cans of gender fluid, pieces of mayonnaise, and multipurpose hot sauce that doubles as metal polish. We pace the aisles in search of storylines, and find only Emergency Clams. They remind us of the time that we have.
In one corner sits a tent, through which we get on our hands and knees to crawl into another realm. There is no white rabbit, nor a voice to scream Zuul, but before us is a cavernous frenzy of phantasmagoria and toggle switches. There are doors made of cabinets, and flowers the size of bison, and children on leashes every which way. We trudge through the unknown, continuing our search for poetry and meaning.
A grainless silo, entered via black curtain, is just our speed. We sit on the benches and stare up. A holographic light squishes and ebbs and jellyfishes above. There are five of us together. Not a word is exchanged, nor so much as needed.
We get it.
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UCLA head coach Mick Cronin is worried about Don MacLean. The former Bruin legend is the Pac’s all-time leading scorer, and he never shies away from reminding anyone who must listen. But what is a conference record without a conference? His boasting next year on Big Ten Network will be little more than Confederate gold.
We know this week is our last, and the repeated questions from media members to every coach or player or Don MacLean get something of the same answer. We are all just refugees here, of our own device.
You would be hard-pressed to find a west coast basketball fan who doesn’t have good memories of the Pac-8, 10, or 12. Many of the member schools have been academic allies and athletic rivals for more than a century in total. The one-handed jump shot was popularized by Stanford’s Hank Luisetti. Terry Baker took Oregon State to the Final Four months after winning a Heisman Trophy. John Wooden and Lew Alcindor (the pilot) and Bill Walton (the deadhead) dominated the sport to the tune of 10 national titles. More recently, Pac-12 After Dark has entertained degenerates across this great land.
The history of the Pac is the history of college athletics; they are inextricably linked. If only their futures were so lucky.
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Periodically the curtains part and a head or two peaks into our silo. Welcome, we say, sometimes in unison, and always followed by You found us. This proves enough to turn away most of the lowest common denominator. We continue to look up.
Every so often a special soul comes along, pining to gain entry to our shared fugue state. They sit among us on the perimeter bench and look up at the photonic feast. Most do not last. They must return to their dials and buttons and surrealified stimuli. Bread and circuses and psychedelic stalactites assure they will never grow bored.
They do not get it.
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Stanford and Boston College are now nominally rivals, as are Utah and Central Florida. Where once we saw Washington State and Oregon State make biennial trips to the Coliseum, we now see UCLA play Rutgers on a cold October night. The only thing keeping the conference commissioners from still more absurd travel plans is their inability to reclaim the land between Kitty Hawk and Bermuda. For now.
We fired Larry Scott, and George Kliavkoff’ed up a potential media rights deal. The leadership failed us, we all know. But what about ESPN and Fox, the networks who value words like inventory and markets more than tradition or reason? And lest we forget UCLA and U$C, who set the dominos in motion by their jump to the Big 10? The army of Trojan influencers and celebrities adjacent can buy many things. Admissions, to name one. Reggie Bush, to name another. But integrity has always been too rich for their blood.
Just last season I made a pilgrimage to Pauley Pavilion to view John Wooden’s vaunted Pyramid of Success. The foundation of the Pyramid included Friendship, Loyalty, and Cooperation. If current Bruins Athletic Director Martin Jarmond had his way, they would be replaced with Jordan Brand, Fox, and Deception.
They do not get it.
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We enter the credential entrance of T-Mobile Arena for the final time. We hurriedly snap pictures of everything: the tunnels, the interview room, the hospitality tent, the cookies. No future memory is too insignificant to pre-scrounge.
This is the tournament we thought we would work into our old age. Each of the last eight Marches, we found a way to take three days off from work to pay our respects to the Pac-12. Eleven games in four days. Two nice meals on the weekend, a show, a Krispy Kreme dozen, and mechatronic horse races deep into the night.
We built something of a Las Vegas bucket list together. With so many years ahead of us, we were in no hurry to cross off the items. We did the Blue Man Group last year, and the Eiffel Tower the year prior. Excalibur’s Tournament of Kings was coming shortly. Upgrading from the media hotel to the Bellagio was some ten years away.
Our tradition began when we were still students on The Farm. I won the award for Pac-12 Fan of the Year, which paid a trip for two to see the games and David Copperfield and as many shrimp as we could stomach. Sam was the Tree the year the band was put on probation and barred from traveling to events as glorious as this one. Together we made this week ours, an annual opportunity to revel in decadence and depravity and evaluate our progress in life.
This time my parents are in the crowd. Years of my regaling convinced them the final installment was not to be missed. As the championship game tips off I look up from press row into section 207 and wave at their pixels. They are surrounded by supporters of Colorado and Oregon, and flanked by Arizona faithful. Section 207 has remained largely the same through these eleven games, regardless of wins and losses.
All of them get it.
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The clock ticks toward zero as Sam and I gather our backpacks to make a beeline for the hardwood. The Oregon celebration is ours to share. We enter the fray as Most Outstanding Player N’Faly Dante excitedly chases around anyone who wants to be chased. We bob and weave and keep our heads on a swivel. Earlier in the week an NBA scout told us the matchup between Oregon’s Dante and Arizona’s Oumar Ballo was like “watching two whales fucking” and we are in no mood to be on the wrong end of that.
Green and yellow confetti covers every inch it can. We snap a selfie with Puddles the Duck then recreate our annual shot in which we make confetti angels. We soak in every moment, pacing the ninety-four feet with the vicarious posture of champions. We know this is over the moment we step off the court.
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The five of us spend more than twenty minutes with our necks craned in the silo. We do not dare check our watches, or so much as act out of turn. There is no verbal exit strategy. We are all committed to the bit.
Two children make their unaccompanied return through the curtain. They sit on the bench, certain that we are paid actors, but uncertain to what end. They try to see what we see, to feel what we feel, to know what we seem to know. They even go so far as welcoming future heads that emerge through the velvet. More than anything, they want to get it.
But they, like all to come after, never will.