Rutgers and St. John’s tip off exhibition game on October 17, where the latest crazy journey started six months ago today. (Photo by Jaden Daly/Daly Dose Of Hoops)
Before I fill this space with thousands of other words to come, let me get through the obligatory stuff first. It was on this day in 2009 that this outlet came to be, initially with no direction and someone who had no clue how to drive. It’s fitting that I use that metaphor here, for two reasons: First and foremost, as everyone who knows me even remotely well can attest, I don’t drive, nor do I even have a license. When you’ve spent each of your almost four decades on this planet in a part of the largest city in the United States that has had a train station no further than around the corner from you all your life, the only thing a car would represent is a bill you don’t need, be it gas, insurance, or any other incidental expenditure that comes with owning an automobile. So it has come to pass that I’ve functioned through 38-plus years with a non-driver New York State ID and a sense of direction so strong, I should probably sign some kind of NIL deal with Google Maps, solely because Garmin is essentially obsolete considering you have a GPS on your phone unless you’re living under a rock.
The second reason is because, if you didn’t want to do basic math in that last rambling paragraph, Daly Dose Of Hoops is now 16 years old, and at 16, one can—unless he or she is anything like me—obtain his or her learner permit to drive the open roads. I guess, through osmosis or maybe all those years of reading maps and atlases growing up, that I was able to figure something out, and I’ve managed to steer the ship this long without wrecking or hitting anything significant. So stay with me here, if you’re so inclined, as I recap 78 live games, offer some introspection on certain matters, and pay tribute to those who shaped us, entered our lives, but unfortunately departed before they could ever find out how much we loved them.
First, the decision to cover what ultimately amounts to 32 fewer games in this now-concluded campaign than the 110 of 2023-24 was a calculated one. As I get older, I become more susceptible to burnout. I’m not perfect, I can’t avoid it sometimes, but the load management days multiply now compared to seasons past when I would routinely be in five different gyms over a seven-day span. After shifting coverage somewhat in 2023, I kept the same footprint this time around, just spaced out a little more to keep myself fresh and the content I inevitably churned out as optimal as possible.
It began in the middle of October, with St. John’s visiting Rutgers to return an exhibition game the two former conference rivals contested a year before in Queens. This skirmish at the RAC was the public’s first glimpse at Dylan Harper—you’ll hear his name called many times more before this behemoth finally reaches the finish line—in a Scarlet Knights uniform, but the debut of his equally talented freshman classmate would have to wait, as Ace Bailey was nursing an undisclosed injury at the time. For the Red Storm, it was the first dance for Kadary Richmond in red after donning Seton Hall blue on the other side of the Hudson for the past three years. In the end, it was Zuby Ejiofor offering the first indicator of what was going to be a monster season, delivering 27 points and 13 rebounds to give the Johnnies an unofficial victory. At the same time, it should have been looked at as a warning sign of what lied ahead for a Rutgers team still trying to find itself in the frontcourt after losing Cliff Omoruyi to the transfer portal and Alabama in the offseason. A week later, I revisited the place in which I was introduced to the college basketball media, Carnesecca Arena, to watch the same St. John’s team place eventual CAA regular season champion Towson in a vise the way it would many other opponents over the next several months. That day, though, quickly became one everyone in the college basketball world would want to forget.
I only covered Amir Abdur-Rahim once, when his South Florida team came up to Long Island last season to play Hofstra at the end of November. The Pride won that game by 19, but USF had a competitive streak in the final minutes of the second half that suggested something better would soon come. The Bulls proceeded to win 16 of 18 conference games in the AAC, and 25 games overall in Abdur-Rahim’s first and only year at the helm. At 43 years old, Shareef’s younger brother had a special quality about him to not only lead young lives, but impact them and also be an inspiration to those older than him on top of that. His mantra was two words, but more effective than the majority of life creeds:
Love wins.
Amir’s press conference in the 2023 NCAA Tournament, when his Kennesaw State team nearly upset Xavier, opened the eyes of the nation to how gifted he truly was. But on October 24, 2024, he was hired by a higher power when complications arose during a routine procedure he had gone for. Amir Abdur-Rahim, who had seemingly yet to truly live his life and was just getting started in carving a name and legacy for himself in an unforgiving business, was gone. He may have only been in the game for a short time, but those who observed him for even just a few minutes will always have a story to tell. Sadly, this loss was just the first of several that was felt by those who operate this outlet, be it myself here in New York or any of my other writers. I’ll pay more tributes to more deserving people before this retrospective is finished.
With October out of the way, the regular season opened up here in an unexpected place: Jadwin Gymnasium in Princeton. Fordham backing out of a home-and-home series with Iona due to the Rams getting a guarantee from St. John’s allowed Tobin Anderson to schedule a series of his own with the Ivy League power Tigers, who looked dead in the water when the Gaels opened up a double-digit lead midway through the second half. But an unconscious comeback from Xaivian Lee and Caden Pierce—two more people whose names will be called again before I’m through—allowed Princeton to overcome the deficit and send Iona spiraling to a one-point loss after holding a 16-point advantage. It was a microcosm for what would be the state of affairs for a majority of a star-crossed season. The Gaels’ next two efforts, at Hofstra and at home against Delaware, fell the same way.
Rutgers started the season, as noted previously, with considerable promise and tangible hype surrounding the arrivals of Ace Bailey and Dylan Harper. The former would need two more games before he made his debut against Monmouth, but Harper electrified the RAC in much the same vein his brother, Ron, did several years ago. Dylan was the X-factor in routine victories over Wagner and Saint Peter’s to open the year, even as the Peacocks threatened to pull off the upset in the latter before Harper took the game over from the final media timeout to the final buzzer. In the Monmouth game, Bailey made quite the impression in his debut, but the star that night was the Hawks’ Abdi Bashir, who made ten 3-point field goals en route to 38 points against a normally stingy Steve Pikiell defense. Rutgers still got through the first two weeks of the season undefeated, though, which was more than one could say about the other high-major program in the Garden State.
Seton Hall was going to be a transitional team to start the season, largely due to attrition and having to replace four of its five starters. Al-Amir Dawes and Jaden Bediako graduated last May, Dre Davis transferred to Ole Miss after receiving enough of a financial package that would help him provide for his girlfriend and daughter—something Pirate fans understood and supported—and Kadary Richmond made the bold move of taking his talents across the river to St. John’s, something not so warmly received by the blue and white backers. Still, the breadth of transition was not realized in full until the first three games of the year, when Seton Hall barely escaped Saint Peter’s, lost at the buzzer to Fordham on a Jackie Johnson III runner, then fell one point short in a 49-48 rock fight against Hofstra. Shaheen Holloway’s “I gotta figure it out” refrain became all too familiar, even as The Hall appeared to have righted the ship with a Charleston Classic win over VCU that would be the highlight of the year for at least three months. To the Pirates’ credit, however, their defense remained in top form three days later when holding Wagner to just 28 points, the lowest total surrendered by the program since 1947.
Before it went overseas for the Baha Mar Hoops Championship, St. John’s left the United States with a 4-0 record after comfortably defeating New Mexico in what stood at that point as the Red Storm’s most impressive win of the young campaign. Later that week, I made a two-night trip to 120th and Broadway to see just how much potential Columbia had in an undefeated start under longtime good dude Jim Engles. I left the first leg of that Levien doubleheader beyond impressed with Geronimo Rubio De La Rosa.
This site is no stranger to covering Dominican guards wearing No. 15 who are also bucket-getters—does the name Jose Perez ring a bell?—but Geronimo did things that were almost unheard of in that part of Manhattan on the Saturday night before Thanksgiving against Stony Brook. Three records were broken or tied between his 37 points, 14 made field goals and 9-for-13 effort from deep. Oh, and he was a plus-35 against the Seawolves, too. The Lions didn’t need him as much two days later against New Hampshire, but the pieces around him demonstrated that a strong team chemistry was finally beginning to yield positive results in an Ivy League where the climb into the top half of the standings from the bottom is steeper than the top of the conference from the middle.
Usually, the final Saturday in November is marked by me taking the day off to watch Michigan against that team from Columbus. I didn’t have any reason to be confident in the Wolverines pulling an upset at the Horseshoe, so I made the surprising decision to put myself through a doubleheader. In the first half, Monmouth—led by Jack Collins and the aforementioned Abdi Bashir—scored its first-ever win against Seton Hall, a win in which head coach King Rice admitted he scheduled too hard the first month of the year to fund his program, but was able to get a well-deserved reward for his players staying the course. Later that day—and for the record, the Wolverines won their fourth straight on the gridiron against the team who must not be named—St. John’s returned home and handled business against Harvard, but for the second time in five weeks, I left the grounds of my alma mater mourning someone whose mere presence among us in the world made us feel like royalty just for having occupied the same air as him.
Lou Carnesecca was more than just a legend around these parts. If you knew anything about St. John’s, you knew who he was. If you got to experience a game there at any point in his life, chances are you were able to observe the phenomenon Looie was, for better or worse. Even if you didn’t get to enjoy him in his prime and were only exposed to him in retirement like I was, the old man—and I use that term affectionately in reference to him—was like many other warm-blooded, warm-hearted Italians, much like my family has always strived to be as well. If you met him once, you had a friend for life. Talk to him for just two minutes, and he had a gift of making you feel important, like you belonged, and that you’d known him forever. It was always something I took for granted as an alumnus, knowing I’d usually just have to look to my left to see him in his traditional seat a few rows up from the home bench at the bandbox eventually rechristened from Alumni Hall into his honor. Looie always made us feel safe, in a sense, regardless of the quality of basketball in that building or the stakes of each contest. After St. John’s defeated Harvard, Peter Vecsey—the longtime symbol of New York hoops royalty—was the unfortunate bearer of bad news, sharing that Lou Carnesecca had died on November 30, five weeks shy of what would have been his 100th birthday.
St. John’s next game, and first since its patron saint’s passing, was an 11:30 a.m. tipoff against Kansas State initially scheduled to be a blackout for what was expected to be a capacity crowd in attendance. It quickly became a celebration of life.
Say what you want about Rick Pitino, and we all have—good, bad, or indifferent—through the years, but you cannot deny his respect for the legends of the game or their place in its history. Kansas State’s Jerome Tang paid a magnificent tribute to Carnesecca with a purple sweater, but Pitino—in the most poignant of moments—honored his former competitor and colleague with a custom-made sweater bearing Looie’s classic chevron design from the 1980s that was literally collaged from old photos and taken to a Calvin Klein seamstress to bring it to life. After St. John’s overcame a first-half deficit and defeated the visiting Wildcats by 17 points, Pitino then laid the sweater at midcourt, putting as delicate a bow as possible on a life well-lived.
That weekend following Carnesecca’s passing was one in which this site, and the Metro Atlantic Athletic Conference as well, lost one of its biggest fans when Michele Patsos passed away at the age of 47, far younger than she should have left us. A fireball of unbridled energy, and someone who was always happy to see anyone she knew, Michele was—in a lot of ways—the perfect complement to her husband, Jimmy, the former Loyola and Siena coach who shared her gregarious personality and ability to make you laugh unexpectedly and make sure you never took yourself too seriously. Michele engaged fans on social media, too, and when Jimmy was on the bench at Siena, would frequently tweet from the stands with the caption, “let’s go Saints!” When the MAAC would hold conference calls at various points during the season, Jimmy was usually one of the popular subjects every time, for better or worse. And when I got on to ask him something, his introduction was almost always the same.
“Hey, Jaden! How are you? My wife loves you, by the way.”
I loved her, too. Anyone who knew her did. And it breaks my heart for Jimmy to become a widower so soon after he found someone who was just as perfect for him as he was for Michele. May her memory always be as much a blessing as she was whenever we crossed paths.
On a lighter note, Seton Hall dug itself too deep of a hole against Oklahoma State later that weekend in Newark, but Rutgers managed to win two games in a key December week, first fighting off Penn State and then overcoming a double-digit deficit to defeat Seton Hall for the second year in a row as Dylan Harper added his name to the annals of New Jersey’s fiercest rivalry with a three at the buzzer to sink the Pirates. Later that night, UConn put to rest whatever remaining doubt surrounding its winless voyage to Maui by jumping on Gonzaga early, withstanding a punch, and pulling away to win an eighth consecutive game at Madison Square Garden, the building that has become a third home court for the Huskies in their three decades among college basketball’s elite. Sam Federman, who I’ll get to again in the acknowledgments before I wrap this meandering script up, wrote a sidebar that encapsulated the Garden experience better than anyone else in that building could. It kicked the ass of the column I wrote about Dan Hurley and the younger contingent of UConn players growing in tandem after the Maui debacle, largely because Sam’s a better writer than I am, especially with features and thought-provoking pieces like that one. I’ll link it here so you all can enjoy it just as I did when editing it four months ago.
Hofstra was shorthanded when defeated by Temple when the Owls came to Long Island, and St. John’s routed DePaul in a game that later became notable for being the lone appearance for 7-foot freshman Khaman Maker this season. The next two games I covered after that, though, were two of the better ones I had the privilege of watching this season.
After fighting off traffic on Interstate 84 for three hours, because I made the mistake of taking a 3:00 bus out of New York when I should have left earlier, I got to the Hartford Civic Center—yes, I’m still an old-timer and I still remember when the Whalers called that building home—hashtag screw you Peter Karmanos (hi, Jerry Beach!) literally after the national anthem and just before the tip as UConn hosted Xavier in the Big East opener for both sides. It was the first game I covered to go to overtime this season, and after Dante Maddox draining several threes that wouldn’t normally go in any other night, Alex Karaban finally put the Musketeers away in the extra session. I was impressed enough with Sean Miller getting his group—which had battled enough injuries to the point where Xavier had more questions before Christmas than it had answers—to nearly knock off the two-time reigning national champions that I wrote a separate piece on Xavier after the UConn words were filed. Three days later, Princeton showed its potential as an Ivy League power when Caden Pierce went down the floor with a timeout in his team’s pocket and defeated Rutgers at the Prudential Center to validate Mitch Henderson’s trust and confidence in his senior forward, as well as Xaivian Lee, who—shocker—came up clutch when it mattered most, as he always does.
Three games after Christmas were covered to end the calendar year, the first two a doubleheader at St. John’s, where Joe Tartamella’s ladies gave Creighton all it could handle before falling short, while the men made short work of Delaware. The next day, Harvard took advantage of Iona’s inability to hold a second-half lead. But yet again, I ended a month remembering someone whose influence on my own career was, and still is, profound and vast, someone I once aspired to be in my youth and after the holy trinity of Enberg, Scully and Summerall, my next greatest influence.
My apologies for breaking the fourth wall here, but to recap this season without mentioning Greg Gumbel would be not only a disservice to his memory and legacy in the game of college basketball, but gross ignorance of how much he meant to the sports world and how much his affable, unflappable style on the air resonated with fans from every walk of life. Some 30-plus years ago, closer to 35, one of the first things I ever wanted to do with my life when I eventually came of age was host an NFL pregame show. In my earliest sports memories, pregame shows were almost a taboo of sorts because my father cared not for the analysis before kickoff, just that he would get to watch his beloved New York Giants as soon as possible. Back in those days—the early 1990s—CBS was the home of the NFC, and when I finally did get to experience The NFL Today, I was hooked. Greg Gumbel was the reason why.
As I matured and the nature of sports programming evolved, so too did Greg’s own versatility. He eventually moved into play-by-play and anchoring CBS’ Olympic coverage before the network was later outbid on that front. And so when my fire for the broadcast industry was rekindled, my ultimate endgame would be the inverse of Greg Gumbel’s curriculum vitae. Whereas he hosted college basketball studio coverage and worked NFL play-by-play, my aspiration would be the other way around: To welcome football fans into my world every Sunday and paint the word picture on the hardwood. That objective might be out of reach at the moment, but it’s still one I’m working toward, even if in the shadows and rather silently as I continue to raise this adolescent of a website. If Greg Gumbel could do anything, why can’t I, or anyone else? And now that he’s gone, having left us at the end of December after a battle with cancer hardly anyone knew about, I feel as if my mission in this industry is to accomplish any and all I set out to do, regardless of height, depth or logistical boundaries. It’s the least I can do for someone I never got to meet, but left an imprint on my career without even realizing it.
Rest in power, Mr. Gumbel, and long may you reign.
The new year started for me with William & Mary making a statement on Long Island by decisively rolling over Hofstra in a game that served as my baptism to the coaching ability of Brian Earl. My southern compatriot who does his own epilogue every year will no doubt mention Brian’s brother, Dan, and the work he did in guiding Chattanooga to a Southern Conference regular season championship and eventual NIT crown. Marist would hold off Iona the next day to further an impressive start for the Red Foxes that would end just short of a MAAC championship, and St. John’s started an impressive 2025 by turning back Butler at Carnesecca Arena. But the highlight of January was a trip to the place that has recently been billed the basketball capital of the world by its inhabitants, somewhere I had somehow never been prior to three months ago, but upon discovering that it was accessible by public transportation, it became doable and therefore, a reality.
The basketball capital of the world, finally checked off the bucket list. (Photo by Jaden Daly/Daly Dose Of Hoops)
Gampel Pavilion. Storrs, Connecticut.
All told, it’s essentially an all-day outing for me to get to and from Storrs, but as the operator of an outlet who has counted UConn among the site’s top priorities the past two seasons, it was a labor of love. And even if James Breeding and Ron Groover were on the whistle when the Huskies hosted Providence, it mattered not in the grand scheme of things. For the record, the media setup at Gampel is nowhere near as bad as everyone makes it out to be. I also happen to think the WiFi there is a lot better than it is in Hartford, but I might be on an island there. Anyway, UConn went down double digits against the Friars for most of the day, but took advantage of getting sent to the free throw line down the stretch to prevail.
Before I get into the next stretch of games I covered, I need to again acknowledge the loss of a longtime friend. I apologize for how somber and morbid the first half of this comes off, but sometimes we’re forced to realize there are circumstances in life, happenings we have no control over, that tear themselves and leave us holding the bag with our misdirected grief. It hits even worse when someone younger than you is taken way too soon. That’s how I felt when I found out that Jon Stanko passed away, and part of me still wants to go back and tell myself it didn’t happen.
I first met Jon Stanko back in 2011, my first year covering Iona. At that time, he was a sophomore there and just beginning to get involved with Iona athletics. That year, I would usually see him setting up broadcast equipment, handing out stats during timeouts, doing postgame standups or cutting video highlights. From there, he worked his way into the broadcast booth, first as Iona’s women’s basketball radio analyst alongside Nick Guerriero, and ultimately into play-by-play work both in and out of basketball. Jon would go on to call the Gaels’ 2018 MAAC championship—a record-tying third straight tournament title at the time—and get a highlight-reel dunk from TK Edogi in the final seconds to punctuate the moment. By that time, he had ascended the ranks to become the secondary men’s basketball contact and the great Brian Beyrer’s tag team partner in New Rochelle before leaving for a production assistant gig at Barstool Sports. Say what you want about Barstool, but for someone like Jon whose drive and energy knew no limit, it was the perfect place for him to spread his wings and inspire a new legion of people to do more and be better. And he still came back and worked the table at Iona after that, too, so it wasn’t like we wouldn’t see each other at games. Until last April, when he received news no one ever wants to hear.
Jon was diagnosed with Stage 4 adenocarcinoma, a gastric cancer that originates in the lining of the glands. Just over eight months later, he lost his battle, only 32 years old. But Jon packed a lot into those 32 years, and even when brought to his knees by a real bitch of a disease, still found the time to get married, go to work until it was physically impossible, and keep everyone updated on his own condition while also staying devoted to his other passions, which included reviewing movies, watching The Bachelor and being as unapologetic a Taylor Swift fan as I am a Michigan football fan. Knowing him, he’d probably think CBS didn’t pan to her in the Arrowhead Stadium suites enough when she was at Chiefs games, and he’d probably harbor a subtle amount of jealousy toward Travis Kelce. That’s the Stanko I’ll always remember. The kid never had a bad day in his life, and could take on an unbelievable amount of stress and somehow compartmentalize it to where he’d find a way through the organized chaos before you or I would even be able to figure out where the hell to start.
Rest in power, buddy. You had style, and I promise that we’ll never find another like you.
That same day after I found out Stanko passed, I ended up in Piscataway to watch Rutgers take on Wisconsin. The game was a blur, and the Badgers won. That’s all I got on that one. I was back there two times more in the next week, once for a loss to Purdue and again for the Scarlet Knights defeating UCLA in the wake of the California wildfires that had Mick Cronin concerned about his family and his home. Also in January, Seton Hall outlasted DePaul in overtime, and Mount St. Mary’s used a second-half comeback to down Manhattan on the road and serve notice that it was not going away quietly in the MAAC. I’ll get into The Mount more as this goes on, but the first thing I noticed walking out of Draddy that night was the connection Donny Lind had built and cultivated with his players in just nine months. It wasn’t surprising, as Donny is a Shaka Smart disciple, but it’s never easy for players to buy into a first-year coach when they’ve been accustomed to doing it another way longer. That connection would manifest stronger and greater later on.
Hofstra picked up one of its few bright spots after the new year by defeating UNCW at home, while St. John’s knocked off Villanova and Georgetown to remain perfect in January. Quinnipiac won its third straight against Iona that same weekend. Two weeks after my Gampel Pavilion debut, I went back to Storrs to watch UConn host Creighton. I came away having been baptized to Jamiya Neal, as the Arizona State transfer led the Bluejays past the Huskies. It was still a better game than I’d have watched if I stayed home and covered Kadary Richmond’s return to the Prudential Center, which St. John’s won comfortably. As it turned out, I got both the Red Storm and Seton Hall in the next few days to come, with Seton Hall losing to Marquette and the Johnnies needing overtime to prevail over Xavier.
Two more games rounded out my first month of the year, with Michigan State defeating Rutgers at Madison Square Garden, and Manhattan dominating Iona at home to begin a close to the season that signifies just how much the Jaspers turned the corner after being left for dead just 25 months prior. February, though, would begin on a positive note, and in a locale I wanted to visit previously but had to pull the plug on at the time.
Fiserv Forum in Milwaukee, site of this year’s annual crazy road trip. It could be a regular visit moving forward. (Photo by Jaden Daly/Daly Dose Of Hoops)
I was initially going to go to Milwaukee three years ago when Seton Hall visited Marquette in January of 2022. I scrapped that trip due to a COVID surge in Wisconsin the week before I was supposed to go, coupled with just a bad feeling about traveling at that time. I knew, though, that I would ultimately make good on that voyage. I did when UConn was welcomed into Fiserv Forum on National Marquette Day, and it ended up being one of the best game atmospheres I’ve ever experienced.
Marquette fans, a lot of whom I’ve gotten to know on Twitter over the years and can’t thank enough for putting up with me—let alone appreciating me—in that time, were fired up before the tip and still were even as the Golden Eagles trailed by double digits. Introducing the starters to Where The Streets Have No Name was merely the icing on a blue and gold cake, as was finally meeting Tim Blair, who has run Cracked Sidewalks about as long as I’ve run this site. There’s still no better place for advanced stats and longform pieces whenever I need some more Marquette information. Fiserv, an absolute palace of an arena, by the way, was also where I first heard of the Luka Doncic trade, as I was walking out of the media workroom with the legendary Ben Steele. Why can’t Fordham get guys like Luka or Anthony Davis? By the way, UConn—behind a masterful shooting performance from Solo Ball—went into Milwaukee and beat Marquette for its biggest conference win of the season.
Three days later, the Golden Eagles followed me home to Madison Square Garden, where St. John’s put Shaka Smart’s team in a vise down the stretch and first proved it could be a legitimate contender. Four days later, Hofstra fell to Stony Brook for a second straight time in a clash for Long Island bragging rights.
February was a light month for me, with only nine games covered, the last six in two bunches. Manhattan’s zone defense in the second half was enough to knock off Merrimack and get John Gallagher to not only believe in his team, but for his players to believe in themselves. The next day, Seton Hall took advantage of UConn’s struggles inbounding the ball to stun the Huskies for a fourth straight year in Newark, and St. John’s rounded out the holiday weekend with a gritty win over Creighton. The next weekend marked Monmouth coming back from a 16-point deficit to steal a win at Hofstra, Iona getting to the wire ahead of Manhattan to kickstart a late surge to its own season at the Hynes Center, and St. John’s sweeping UConn in a commanding showing at the Garden that signified, at least this season, a changing of the guard atop the Big East.
And so begins March.
Usually, March is hectic from start to finish for me, it’s become that way since I ramped my schedule up over a decade ago. Between the various conference tournament sites, plus any commutable NCAA Tournament sites, there’s a fair chance that I spend more time during the month in another city and/or state than I do sleeping in my own bed. I’m proud to say that this year was the opposite of that, as I didn’t do any heavy lifting travel-wise until the month was almost over, but I did do something that a proud cross section of my following would affectionately refer to as “sicko shit.” I’ll describe that part a little later.
First, I’ll get through what was left of the regular season, which involved St. John’s moving its regularly scheduled Carnesecca finale against Seton Hall to Madison Square Garden due to increased ticket demand, and racking up a third consecutive sellout to enter the Big East tournament on the highest of highs seen around Union and Utopia in a quarter-century. The Pirates threw everything but the kitchen sink at the Johnnies, but in the end, it was the Red Storm who clinched an outright regular season title for the first time in my lifetime. Three days later, Seton Hall fell short again, this time at home to Creighton. Manhattan’s last two games before the MAAC tournament were wins, a 90-point output against Sacred Heart and then a comfortable victory over Siena before getting to Atlantic City. For the second straight year, I ended up covering a tripleheader on the last day of the regular season, something I decided on at the last minute since my initial Connecticut double plan would have cost me more than I was willing to spend. Hotels near Mohegan Sun, even off the property, are too expensive when the Big East women’s basketball tournament is going on, so seeing Seton Hall against UConn and then the Pirates’ women’s team in a quarterfinal was simply not cost-effective.
So after leaving Draddy at the under-12 timeout in the second half, I went up to Iona to watch the Gaels get a jumper from Adam Njie in the final seconds to down Sacred Heart, then followed Sam Federman—more on him later—into Connecticut to watch Fairfield play its way into the MAAC tournament behind a courageous and authoritative outing from Prophet Johnson to beat a Quinnipiac team that had already clinched a regular season championship two days prior. I mention the MAAC tournament now because I actually didn’t get to cover it this year, the first time since 2011 that I missed it in any capacity, not counting the COVID year of 2020-21 where I did everything virtually. With neither of the local teams playing in the opening round, I passed on Tuesday night at Boardwalk Hall, and I was up here in New York for the duration after that thanks to the Big East. Fortunately, the site was well staffed in Atlantic City, so my presence wasn’t going to make or break things.
My Big East tournament experience started with Seton Hall ending a year the Pirates would like to forget at 7-25, being eliminated by Villanova. It continued on with St. John’s going wire-to-wire against Butler, Marquette narrowly defeating Xavier in an instant classic that featured Kam Jones and Ryan Conwell doing the Jack Nicklaus/Tom Watson Duel in the Sun impression (GOOGLE IT KIDS), and UConn turning back Villanova as Alex Karaban donned Superman’s cape to lead the veteran Huskies to victory. In between those last two games, though, was the best showing of the tournament. It came as DePaul nearly upset Creighton, leading by as many as 17 points before coming up short in double overtime. I wasn’t planning to write anything on that game, but after what Chris Holtmann and the Blue Demons did at the Garden, it would be an injustice if I didn’t.
Semifinal Friday saw St. John’s defeat Marquette convincingly, while Creighton held off UConn in a battle of two of the better teams the conference has seen in recent years. It led into St. John’s offering up another second-half takeover on championship Saturday, as the Red Storm waltzed to its first conference tournament crown in 25 years. I’ll admit, I wasn’t dripping with joy or overcome with emotion personally at the outcome, but I did enjoy the result for some other people more connected with St. John’s than I am, like former point guard turned Fox analyst Tarik Turner. Steve Masiello, as well. My relationship with Mas has already been captured in this space, so I won’t talk about that again. What I will talk about, though, is how the natives around St. John’s—and you know who you are—deserved the championship with which they were rewarded. I tried to speak directly to them in this championship column last month, because that was the audience that needed to be catered to. I don’t always agree with you, but I damn sure understand you.
Before I go any further, I need to acknowledge my final tribute to a fallen comrade, one whose passing became known during the day session of the Big East tournament quarterfinals and someone whose loss is now amplified with what passes for journalism in some corners of the world these days.
I never got to meet John Feinstein, but through his various TV and radio appearances and countless books, I felt like I’d known him forever. We had even interacted several times on Twitter, and he couldn’t have been any nicer, especially given his stature compared to where people like me are.
When the great Dick “Hoops” Weiss—and I’ll mention Hoops again toward the end because he’s become such a valued piece of my own career—broke the news of John’s passing on March 13, Madison Square Garden may as well have become a ghost town. John meant that much to all of us in this business, a true titan who didn’t necessarily command respect as much as he received it effortlessly just for being himself. John wasn’t a gatekeeper. He didn’t look down on you if you weren’t at an outlet with a six-figure circulation. He learned from us the same way we learned from him. More importantly, he didn’t forget his roots. He loved mid-major basketball, particularly the Patriot League and the Ivy League. It makes sense, too, because someone as smart as him would appreciate the intellect and thinking man’s game much more than your regular basketball fan. He left his mark, indelibly so, on the sports media industry. A Season on the Brink should be required reading for every aspiring sportswriter, and a reminder that you should never sacrifice ethics or morals for access or wanting to be liked by your subject. It’s something even I can still learn from. I just wish I had gotten to meet the legend. If nothing else, the conversation between the Duke alumnus and the kid from New York who grew up a North Carolina fan would have been an all-timer. As I tie that all together, part of me is happy to know that he and Dean are sharing some corner of the world together one more time.
Rest in power, John.
Now, back to the actual reason why I wrote so many words about this season. After I found out who was going where on Selection Sunday, the site had a unique crossover in the first round of the NCAA Tournament, with High Point in Providence and UConn in Raleigh. The Panthers and Purdue were the first to take the floor in Rhode Island, and High Point’s traveling party left quite the impression. As someone who only observes the Big South from a distance and lives vicariously through the southern bureau chronicling it live and in living color, I had no idea what to expect. I ended up having multiple fans tell me I need to go down to the Qubein Center next season. I’ll have to check my schedule to see if it works out.
Anyway, after Purdue got the better of High Point, the season unfortunately ended in a loss for the Panthers—something Brian will definitely handle better in his look back than I ever could—but for me, it ended with a new friend in Alan Huss.
Alan, who I’m proud to say will get to see me a couple more times every season now that he’s returning to Creighton to be the heir apparent to Greg McDermott when Mac hangs it up on one of the most underrated tenures in recent memory, couldn’t have been anymore gracious if he tried. Upon introducing myself, he complimented Brian and his work, and proceeded to give me whatever was necessary to make sure the site sent his group out on the highest note possible. That locker room interview was also memorable for Chuck Culpepper of the Washington Post serving as my tag team partner on it. Chuck was inducted into the USBWA Hall of Fame the day of the national championship game, as was longtime friend Kevin McNamara, so being there for the both of them was a proud day for me to have been associated with such legendary people who are also Hall of Famers in life.
I didn’t watch any of the McNeese-Clemson game due to writing the High Point result, so I went back out to watch Arkansas and Kansas before handling business in the nightcap, which was a St. John’s waxing of Omaha. Catching up with Jordan Sarnoff, who went out there after graduating from FDU last year, was another highlight in Providence.
Now, for the aforementioned sicko shit.
My reason for flying to Raleigh eight hours after wrapping up a game in Providence. (Photo by Jaden Daly/Daly Dose Of Hoops)
With UConn in Raleigh, I knew it would be an affordable flight should I choose to take it. I did, not even eight hours after walking out of the Providence Civic Center (yes, I’m old, it’s either the Civic Center or the Dunk, and I won’t hear any different). On top of that, Mount St. Mary’s ended up there after winning in Dayton, so I got two games out of the deal even though The Mount was going to be the sacrificial lamb to Duke. But after a decade of interacting via social media, I finally got to meet Brian Wilmer in person, and sharing a workspace with my now-second in command for three games was an honor and a privilege. We both wrote some awesome stuff on Donny Lind and the work he did in his first year in Emmitsburg, which acquitted well the league that has long been this site’s backbone.
Before UConn, Florida took on Norfolk State, giving me the chance to get reacquainted with Walter Clayton, Jr.—another name you’ll hear called once or twice more before we’re through—and Rob Jones, the Norfolk State head coach who has been long overdue for a step up the past several years. Florida won comfortably, but the Spartans—with a pair of former Rider rotation pieces in Christian Ings and Tyrel Bladen—fought valiantly. Finally, the Huskies bent, but did not break, in dispatching Oklahoma to earn a second-round showdown with the Gators that I regrettably did not make it back down for because I wouldn’t have been able to get a flight back home that Sunday night.
So after walking out of the arena in Raleigh at about 1:30 in the morning, I stopped at a Waffle House for a quick bite, then got a 6 a.m. flight back to Boston before taking the train down to Providence for the second-round games there. If that’s not sicko shit, I don’t know what is. Purdue defeated McNeese in the first of two games that Saturday, then Arkansas became the lone double-digit seed to make the second weekend as the Razorbacks knocked off a St. John’s team that had a bad shooting day at the wrong time, with RJ Luis missing all but three of his 17 attempts.
Providence to Raleigh, and back. (Photo by Jaden Daly/Daly Dose Of Hoops)
With St. John’s out of the picture, a UConn win in Raleigh against Florida would have sent me to San Francisco for the West regionals later that week. It wasn’t to be, but at least I was able to watch that from home. In retrospect, maybe that was for the best, because I’d have had a hard time trying to find the right words for Dan Hurley’s emotional concession of the college basketball throne.
So after I didn’t get the San Francisco trip, I ended up taking the sure thing in the form of the East regionals in Newark. With no real local angle, I did get to enjoy—as impartially as possible—Alabama’s record-setting performance in splashing 25 threes as part of a 113-point explosion against BYU, before writing that and going home during the end of Duke’s win over Arizona. Two days later, the Blue Devils cut down a net at the Tide’s expense, the second No. 1 seed to win a regional final after Florida rose from the ashes against Texas Tech, with the other two top seeds joining them a day later to complete the field in San Antonio.
Florida, Auburn, Houston and Duke.
I won’t lie to you, I didn’t exactly do backflips in the home office when all four No. 1 seeds reached the Final Four. From a business standpoint, there was no local or team the site had covered during the season to boost traffic the way UConn did a year ago, so it wasn’t going to be as good as my first one just off that alone. Still, you expect the worst and hope for the best. As Josh Adams likes to say: Buy the ticket, take the ride. Little did I know that getting in line for that ride would bring something that delivered more than I ever expected.
Between Walter Clayton and Kevin Hovde, the latter of whom was a Florida assistant coach that the site will get to know a lot better in the coming months upon his introduction as the new head coach at Columbia, the local angles were there. Then, there was Kelvin Sampson.
I’ve been critical of Kelvin in the past, largely stemming from how his tenure at Indiana ended. I admit that I had him all wrong once I shared a room with him at his pregame press conference two weeks ago. The coach who was subject to way more ridicule than he deserved, especially now when almost everything under the sun is legal these days, turned out to be a throwback who embraces his old-school roots and ways in a generation that is deviating sharply and quickly from what made the sport what it is. I’ll have a few more words to say on that subject, too. Sampson’s presence at the Final Four, and how he prefaced it by talking about his upbringing as a Michigan State graduate assistant, when he and Tom Izzo would cordon off the parking lots in East Lansing to form a makeshift court, resonated with me and my place in the ever-changing media landscape. I don’t know if you can call me an old-school journalist considering I’m still 16 months away from turning 40, but I’m certainly nothing like what the industry is turning into, or at least I’d like to think that I’m not. Anyway, I walked out of my first encounter with the veteran Houston mentor appreciative of the time I got to listen to him, and with a new perspective of my place in a world in which I know I belong, but found myself unsure of its value in some circles. Again, I’ll expound on that point toward the end. Let me talk about the damn games for a minute here, alright?
In the de facto SEC championship between Florida and Auburn, the Tigers had a nine-point second-half lead before the Gators—much like the UConn and Texas Tech games—chipped away. There isn’t much I can say I haven’t seen Walter Clayton, Jr. do, and even a 34-point performance on the biggest stage in the sport offered a sense of deja vu at first blush. Still, Florida coming back and winning kept the local angle alive for the national championship. The second game was interesting to watch play out.
That watch began in the media workroom, as I was writing a Clayton-centric gamer on the heels of the Florida win while keeping one eye tuned to Houston and Duke on one of the many screens near the press tables. With the Blue Devils leading most of the way in the first half and up double digits in the first few minutes after the intermission, I went back out into the Alamodome to watch its conclusion, hoping that Houston would somehow make it interesting. After all, who wants to see a blowout in a Final Four game? When Duke got its advantage up to 14 points with less than nine minutes to play, the Cougars looked dead in the water. But then, Houston remembered what brought it to the dance. The 14-point deficit became 11. Then eight, then six. Then three after Emanuel Sharp buried a triple to bring the game to a one-possession margin. Then one after two more Cougar free throws.
Then, Keith Kimble made a call that will revere him in Texas’ largest city, and likely require his use of a police escort if he ever officiates a game in Durham. Kimble called Cooper Flagg, the national player of the year and consensus first overall pick in this coming June’s NBA Draft, for an over-the-back foul while attempting to climb the ladder for a rebound. It sent J’Wan Roberts to the line for Houston, where he made both shots after both teams had gone into the double bonus. Suddenly, Duke’s 14-point cushion—the one that appeared insurmountable just eight minutes of game time before and almost a half-hour in real time prior—was gone. And to heighten the drama even more, Flagg came up short on a go-ahead basket at the other end following Roberts’ free throws. Houston got two more points at the stripe, and with nine unanswered points in the final 33 seconds to cap off a 15-1 run and 25-8 close to a game where it held Duke to just 1-of-9 shooting down the stretch, the Cougars completed the fifth-largest comeback in Final Four history and booked themselves a date with destiny opposite Florida.
In this industry, you never know who you’ll find in your immediate field of vision sometimes. The gentleman in front of me on the way to the locker rooms and press conferences, with his two daughters and young son, was the last person I ever expected to find at that point in time, at that moment.
Everyone who is anyone in this business has a Jim Nantz story, for better or worse. By some stroke of dumb luck, mine involves meeting him in the wake of his alma mater pulling off one of the more improbable comebacks in the sport and catching the narrator of so many great moments in the soundtrack of our sport fandom at a rare loss for words.
“That was incredible,” he finally managed to say, in that legendary Jim Nantz voice that was equal parts reverent and shocked.
Without knowing it, he wrote the lede for my column that night. Hello, friends.
Two nights later, we danced one more time. Florida and Houston, maybe the best possible matchup for the basketball purists, were the teams that decided the national championship. And much like it had done in the second half against Duke, Houston did what it does best, staking itself to a 12-point lead after staying within earshot early and capitalizing on a bevy of Florida mistakes. The problem was nobody remembered to tell the Gators the game was over.
With Clayton struggling, he still found a way through. A conventional 3-point play to tie the game at 51 was his first reminder that he wasn’t ready to come this far just to go home empty-handed. Another and-1, followed by a three not too long after, kept Florida alive. Then Houston fell victim to the same suffocating defense that the Cougars used to beat Duke, with Florida pressuring all the way to the final buzzer in one of the more chaotic ends to a season I can remember, as Houston couldn’t get a shot off in a 65-63 final that will be a classic for years to come.
It’s often said that it ends in a loss, and for 350-plus teams, that’s usually the case. That credo is felt much stronger at the mid-major levels, where programs, players and coaches don’t even get one go-round on this stage most times. But for Walter Clayton, Jr., a product of Iona for the first two years of his career, and the MAAC at large, it ended in a win as one of their own reached the summit after turning down a chance to win a national title—maybe even two—in another discipline the way Clayton did when he passed on an offer from Kirby Smart at Georgia to play basketball instead of football.
And that was how it ended ten days ago, with the Florida Gators standing as national champions for the third time in their history. In a sense for UConn, the previous titleholder, it was perhaps fitting that the team that needed all 12–or 15 if you’re old enough to remember those days—rounds of a heavyweight fight to survive the Huskies and their bid to make history ended up being the one to win it all.
The aftermath of my second Final Four. Blue and orange actually do look good together when they don’t celebrate the Knicks, Islanders or Mets. (Photo by Jaden Daly/Daly Dose Of Hoops)
If you’ve managed to read all of this and stay with me this long, I appreciate you more than I already do. When you make as many stops along the way as I do every year, it gets harder to recap everything in detail, so thank you for indulging me and not walking away. Before I officially wrap up my 18th year in the business and 16th operating this outlet, let me start playing myself off the stage by thanking all those who make it possible, and have made it possible for so long. This could also take on a life of its own in the coming paragraphs, so please be patient once more.
I lead this off once again, and always will, with my mother. Julie Daly is many things in this world: My mom, my role model, my hero, my best friend, my sounding board, my oracle, my peace, my reason for starting this outlet from scratch because she thought it would be a reasonable way to get in the door in case I couldn’t get on the air somewhere. Now she hates when her only child is always on the road going to some random game and either coming back after midnight or a week later in the case of the Final Four. My inspiration to be just a little better each day comes from the fact that my greatest achievement in life is being able to call myself my mother’s son. And if I did nothing else after this and left the world tomorrow (don’t worry, that’s not happening), I’d be satisfied just holding that title.
To the coaches and players I and all my other writers have covered, I thank you for letting us into your exclusive world for the past five months and giving each of us the opportunities to not only tell your story, but share it with a larger audience. Without you, we wouldn’t be good at what we do, would we? There are a few I’d like to mention individually, if I may:
To Tobin Anderson, your willingness to embrace all of us who covered you at Iona made it enjoyable to go to the Hynes Center again. It’s not easy replacing someone like Rick Pitino, but Tobin’s honesty and accessibility, the latter of which was lacking before he got to New Rochelle—and that’s all I’ll say on that front—made Iona fun again, like it was with Tim Cluess in charge. I hate that Tobin won’t get a third year at Iona when he was certainly deserving of one, but sometimes Bart Simpson is proven right when he said show business was a hideous bitch goddess. To Dan Geriot, who will make me feel old the first few times I’m in the same building with him because I remember the Sweet 16 run at Richmond like it happened yesterday and not (checks notes) 14 years ago, I wish you the very best of luck and I look forward to getting to know you over the summer and years to come. As for Tobin, he landed at South Florida, where his announcement as part of Bryan Hodgson’s new staff is imminent. That’s an intriguing destination for someone who hasn’t left the northeast since getting into coaching, but one in which he’ll excel in fairly short order.
To Donny Lind, because last year’s epilogue had already gone to press right before he got hired as Dan Engelstad’s successor, thank you for being a deserving MAAC champion this year and recognizing the value of relationships in building a team. That’s a quality that’s being overlooked in the instant oatmeal that is the transfer portal and wanting to win now. Any coach that finds the time to connect with his players and still makes time to be a loving and devoted father earns extra points for that as well.
And that brings me to John Gallagher. Gal has prided himself on an all-inclusive family atmosphere since he got to Manhattan, and has had all four of his kids on the bench with him at times during his tenure at Draddy. It’s usually his two youngest, Jack and Mary, with him most nights, but Gal did something the last two years that I didn’t know could be done so soon: Heal the breach between Manhattan’s previous incompetence and negligence and a writer who covered the program closer than anyone, only to see two people he held in high regard discarded by the former administration and become jaded as a result. Gal made it easy to love the Jaspers again through his tireless energy and boundless optimism, and was rewarded with the first winning season for the program in a decade. Act three in Riverdale should be even better.
To Speedy Claxton, Shaheen Holloway and Steve Pikiell for not getting too low during uncharacteristically down seasons at Hofstra, Seton Hall and Rutgers, respectively. It’s rare that all three of those programs underachieve, but it underscores the gap between those with money and those without. The hope is that Long Island and New Jersey return to the status quo soon, because all three of those dudes can coach despite the Janet Jackson-esque reaction from fan bases trying to prove otherwise.
To Dan Hurley, who I’m sure had asked himself on more than one occasion this year how something so good could go so bad, how something so right could go so wrong, for still being unapologetic about himself when more people were quick to pile on and say he was bad for the sport because he gets a little demonstrative sometimes, that he’s going to burn out the same way Bob Knight did. That last part pissed me off every time I heard it. Those of you who don’t like Hurley will probably never change that stance, and those of you who love him for who and what he is probably always will. He has the support of this outlet going back to his time in Staten Island, and it’s refreshing that neither of us will let the other forget about those two years in the NEC. You can run, but you can’t hide. Hey, I wonder if Dan has this beauty on his playlist, because nobody asked about it in Arizona last year:
To the sports information directors I dealt with over the past five months, and on behalf of my staff to those my other writers worked with, thank you for accommodating our coverage, promoting both sides, and going out of your way to perform a thankless job. Once again, I’ll mention you all in the order I saw you during the year: Chris Corso, Steve Dombroski, Elliott Carr, Brian Beyrer, Max Rottenecker, Stephen Gorchov, John Tagliaferri, Peter Long, Gary Kowal, Steve Merrill, Jack Clark, Bobby Mullen, Kevin Wehner, Mike Ferraro, Pete Janny, Mark Vandergrift, Mike Sheridan, Nick Solari, Scott Kuykendall, Mex Carey, Bridget Delaney, Mike Demos, Drew Kingsley, Jordan Sarnoff, and even though I didn’t get to meet him in San Antonio, David Worlock for navigating the Final Four media setup like a champion.
I’ll also mention some people individually, like Dan Lobacz at Temple, who I got to see in December for the first time since he left LIU years ago; Mike Mahoney at Penn, who moderated the East Regional press conferences and is one of the best people I don’t get to see near enough; Mark Fratto, who emceed the Final Four pressers and is still dearly missed up here at St. John’s; Kenny Klein, the Louisville legend who actually filled in at St. John’s over the holidays while Steve Dombroski was away and was everything he was hyped up to be; Dylan Smith, the former St. John’s baseball contact who has since replaced Miles McQuiggan at the CAA and ensured that that league is still in excellent hands; and Joe DiBari, who I didn’t get to see this season since I didn’t cover Fordham, but remains among the special chambers of the heart because he was one of the first people to open his doors to this site when it was still expanding beyond the East River. I’ll be at Rose Hill a time or two to catch up with Mike Magpayo, who I haven’t seen since he was still with Kyle Smith at Columbia years ago. Speaking of 120th and Broadway, Kevin Hovde will be in the site’s sphere of influence for more than just a few minutes in a Final Four locker room, and I look forward to that too.
To everyone on staff for allowing me the privilege of editing your work and covering enough games to where I could spend more nights in the home office doing executive stuff. It begins with Brian Wilmer. Brian’s first year here last season went above and beyond any reasonable expectation I had for him after he finally made the move to a place that had wanted him for years, and that was already a high bar even if he didn’t have to duck to clear it. I keep forgetting not everyone is vertically challenged like me. Anyway, my second in command and boss of the southern bureau raised that bar this year and put it at a level that ten of me probably couldn’t clear. And his epilogue will exceed the total word count of this one, not to mention carry more meaning and more intrinsic value. I hate that it took so long to get you and I under the same roof, brother, but I love that it finally happened. We just don’t have photographic proof because neither of us are the type to be the center of attention or the stalker of cameras. Again, more on that later.
To Jason Guerette for balancing an expanding broadcast schedule with Seton Hall coverage, and enjoying the former more this season because it shielded him from most of the latter. That said, a steak dinner is still coming your way when you get back from Illinois and another year with the Gateway Grizzlies. It’s the least I can do after that much Pirate basketball the past five months.
To Jason Dimaio for taking the site overseas for the first time and being the first of our writers with an international byline, as he stepped up his St. John’s coverage this year on top of the work he already did at Hofstra. Jay will get more chances to cover the Red Storm next season, for reasons I’ll get to toward the end. He’s earned it, and he’s become a fan favorite in the process, so we’re gonna take that ball and run with it.
To Ethan Hurwitz for giving this site something it never really had, a true beat writer. His work with Quinnipiac this season was a level of coverage I haven’t had for any other team in recent memory, largely because everyone else has so many other mouths to feed. I’m not sure what Ethan’s future will hold as he gets his Masters next month, but if he doesn’t get a gig that pays him, he’s always welcome back here. The door is always open even if he does and still wants to contribute. We just have to get him an NIL deal for lemonade. Dole, Minute Maid, Country Time, you’re all on notice. E-mail dalydoseofhoops@gmail.com to negotiate, and we’ll take it from there.
To Connor Wilson for having as impactful a rookie year as possible, and giving multiple schools in the Nutmeg State the exposure they deserve. Replacing Pete Janny as he left to become the SID at Manhattan was no easy task, but between Ethan and Connor, we didn’t miss a beat. Connor not only handled the majority of UConn this year whenever I couldn’t get up there, he also took the site to New Britain for Central Connecticut’s dominant year, Yale’s Ivy League encore, Sacred Heart’s first year in the MAAC, and filled in for Ethan on a few Quinnipiac games too. He’s become the Connecticut version of what you say I am, and I couldn’t be more grateful or thankful for the willingness to go multiple places and introduce new parts of the region to our world while being an exceptional storyteller. I can’t wait for what he does to top that next season, which is something I said about the next person on my list.
Sam Federman is, quite simply, a tour de force. You can’t stop Sam, you can only hope to contain him. Good luck doing that, too. I’m honored that he was able to make this outlet one of his many organizations this year on the way to 106 games and a hell of a walkoff with the Houston-Duke finish in San Antonio. God, I wish I had as much capacity for life at 20 years old as he does for all things college basketball. He’ll say I big-timed him because I didn’t have anywhere near as much MAAC coverage as I normally do, but the truth is the league is in better shape with him as its point man now because he has more time and energy to devote to it than I do. That said, now that the tournament is moving up to get away from Big East week, I can go back to what I used to be in a sense, except now I can learn from him along the way. The son becomes the father, and the father becomes the son.
To Ray Curren for providing his unique spin of true journalism and advanced stats that even I don’t have the time to figure out, and doing it in parts of New England I’d have never been able to get to. Much like Brian, I’ve always admired Ray’s work from a distance and was honored when he offered his services for last year’s NEC championship game between Merrimack and Wagner. That led him to more opportunities here this year, and I always enjoy whatever content I get with his name on it. Everybody loves Raymond, and it’s easy to see. You’re always a part of the family as long as you want to be here, my friend.
To the southern bureau that Brian and I oversee, thank you for continuing to expand our influence and make a name for yourselves. Jacob Conley has been an indispensable part of the team covering Gardner-Webb, and even though they weren’t able to do as much as they’d have liked for various reasons, Jordan Ferrell and Justin Mathis will still be recognized for the work they did do. We couldn’t have done it without you.
To my other contributors this season, even if they were tied up with other commitments: Thank you for doing whatever you could, and you’re still part of the family. That includes Kyler Fox, Vinny Simone, Andrew Hefner, Ray Floriani and Bob Dea, all of whom made their presence known at some point during the year. I’d also like to acknowledge Mark Remsa, a Rutgers fan who has followed from a distance and offered to cover two games in Hawaii while on business, something I greatly appreciate. He ended up getting a conference champion on that trip too, because he was in Honolulu at the same time as UC San Diego.
To Jerry Carino for continuing to juggle multiple schools on his plate and not play favorites between one or the other. The way he does it is always something I try to emulate, and there’s nobody better to serve as the flag-bearer in the New Jersey media circle I’m proud to call myself a part of. Thank you for accepting me and helping me grow professionally, even as I push 40 and half a lifetime in this business.
To Dick “Hoops” Weiss for being more of a mentor to me than he’ll ever realize. It’s something special when you get to meet someone whose work you read as a child. It’s even more special when you get to work with him and he praises your work ethic for keeping the old-school way going as the journalism industry becomes a dying breed. My career is memorable even if I have no other bylines after this, just for having Hoops be a part of it for so long.
To Zach Braziller and Adam Zagoria for once again being okay with letting me be the third wheel at the Final Four. Zach and Zags get a pretty unfair reputation sometimes, because they’re good dudes at their core even if others don’t see it. Zags also formally introduced me to the great Mike DeCourcy in San Antonio, and Mike gets a shoutout for still being one of the best in the business so many decades later.
To Jerry Beach for helping me keep what I do and who I am in perspective and letting me realize I shouldn’t take myself too seriously. Nobody strikes a better balance between poignancy and irrelevance than Jerry. No, money down!
To Matt Edwards, since I just mentioned Jerry, it only makes sense that I follow up with someone who’s known Jerry for almost four decades, for supporting my work and adding his own spin on college basketball and UConn with his Dream Season podcast. I have to bring you on my own pod one of these days.
To Jon Wagner for always making Hofstra games enjoyable by tracking obscure stats and trends with me during each contest, something that made this season tolerable despite the bad basketball. I guess I should publish this at 4:17 in the morning in your honor, right? Thanks for being a great wingman on Long Island, and a frequent ride back to the train station in Mineola to help get me home faster.
To Joe Jarzynka, who shares not only a birthday with me—albeit nine years apart—but so many other common threads that make each game he covers alongside me an event, thank you for affording me a legacy that extends beyond the broadcast booth. Joe was one of my last descendants at WSJU, so to count him as a protege and watch him get better at what he does is a feeling I can’t put into words.
To Erika Fernandez, the little sister I didn’t get biologically but now have in spirit and on this long and winding road we both travel in this crazy, unforgiving business, for inspiring me and letting the both of us push each other to strive for better. It’s only a matter of time before you make a bigger name for yourself, hermana. Love you more than you know.
To Jon Alba for, like me, somehow finding a way back when he’s been dealt a rough hand and kicked in the ass more than he should have been. Seeing Jon—who I’ve known since he was in high school—on SNY, is another one of those proud parent feelings because he’s one of two people I can honestly say I knew was going places from the day I met him. John Fanta is the other.
To the UConn media contingent, even though the horde may not be what it used to be, for accepting the part-timer from New York as one of your own whenever we’re in the same building. Dave Borges, Joe Arruda, Dom Amore and Mike Anthony are some of the best people you’ll ever want to know. I’ll also add Marc Robbins, who I’ve known since my days in the NEC, when I’d run into him when he did Central Connecticut radio. It was great seeing him at the NCAA Tournament in Raleigh last month, and during each stop on the national championship run a year ago. You’re all awesome, gentlemen.
To Aaron Bracy for his support whenever I’ve ventured into Philadelphia, and also for writing A Soaring Season, which covers the 2003-04 Saint Joseph’s team and its run to the Elite 8. Now that the season is over, I can actually start reading that book in the coming days, review it, and get Aaron on the podcast to talk about it once I’m done.
To John Paquette for a 35-year career in which he made everyone’s lives easier, better, and more informed with his calm nature, consummate professionalism and selfless demeanor. I left John out when I acknowledged all the sports information directors previously, and with good reason. He deserved his own section here, because there is only a select group of people in our world who don’t know who he is. If you worked around the Big East in any of its iterations, you knew John Paquette, and he helped you out one way or another. I don’t know if I want to imagine a Big East without him or what it’ll look like not seeing him at Seton Hall or at a St. John’s game, or wherever else we crossed paths. He might have been the most unassuming person in a world of personalities and egos, and honestly, I think that quality was part of what made him so good at what he did. I wish him and his family all the best in a well-deserved retirement, and I’m honored to have worked with both him and his son, Phil, as long as I have.
Finally, I thank you, the fans. You could only read one word of any that I’ve written, or interact with just one emoji—or maybe even a simple “OK” (RIP, Ronnie)—and I’ll know you were there to support some crazy endeavor I attempted. That’s all that matters. If you love what I or my staff do, awesome. If not, I apologize, but I still appreciate you taking the time. The interaction is what always drives me. I’m a people person, a social butterfly of sorts. I value the people I get to see and talk to even more than the games themselves, and on behalf of everyone on staff, I can’t thank you enough for staying interested in what we’ve had to say so many years later.
I think I’ve said just about everything as it relates to the 16th year of the site and my 18th in the business, except for something else that has become a hot topic recently and been bubbling under the surface for me for a while. Please excuse the oncoming rant and latest Abe Simpson moment, but I feel like I have to get this off my chest now while I have the platform to do so.
“Do not be disappointed in your effort.”
Kelvin Sampson said that in his opening statement after Houston lost the national championship game, and it’s somewhat relevant to me here. I’m not disappointed in the effort I’ve made this season or any other one, but what I am disappointed in is the fact that it feels like my effort isn’t carrying the same value it once did.
The business is changing again, and for people who have been a part of it long enough, probably not for the better. With social media continuing to alter the way information is consumed, it has given rise to a different form of journalism, one that would almost certainly never pass in a bygone era. I’ve seen a lot more people credentialed for sporting events lately that normally wouldn’t get that golden ticket, and while I get the justification for it and the desire to put more eyeballs on the product(s), I don’t know if I can ever get with the uptick in homerism or fans abandoning impartiality while on press row.
I’m no angel, and I don’t profess to be one, because I’ve definitely done the subtle fist pump a few times. I won’t shy away from that, and I won’t deny that I’ve also had some “holy shit” moments in my media capacity either. And with NIL collectives being what they are, it’s also allowed donors to buy their way into the room so they can, if they so choose, have their cake and eat it too. I’m not the biggest fan of that, because I feel like it compromises integrity and clouds judgment because you have a vested interest one way or the other.
I grew up a North Carolina fan. That’s still well-documented, as are my thoughts toward Duke for a majority of my lifetime. But I’ll criticize the Tar Heels and praise the Blue Devils when the situations call for it. Anything less would be journalistic negligence. And getting back to the press row decorum, the incidents in recent weeks with Florida’s student journalist being an open book emotionally as she was watching the Gators win a national championship and this week’s cringeworthy segment involving the Atlanta Braves reinforced my views here. I’ve never been one to believe that every moment should be viral or require documentation. Personally, I hate the content creator label because I feel it’s as much of a pejorative as the blogger label before it, so I apologize if my stance of getting attention for the sake of getting attention is not the popular style in the room. I also know I’m the last person qualified to police how to be a fan, and far be it from me to do such a thing. I guess the best thing I can say in that regard is, to quote Sheryl Crow, if it makes you happy, it can’t be that bad. But if it turns me into even more of an anachronism among my colleagues and contemporaries, so be it. That might actually be the one label I’m willing to wear with pride.
Okay, rant over. And now that I feel better after venting to all of you, let me finally put this baby in the driveway the same way I always do, with the old Irish blessing:
May the road rise up to meet you. May the wind be always at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face, the rain fall soft upon your fields. And until we meet again, something I always hope happens sooner rather than later, may God hold you in the palm of His hand.
Without giving too much away, my 17th year running this outlet will hopefully have a little more of a shift in coverage come November. I’m not leaving New York or New Jersey yet, nor am I abandoning UConn, but my intent right now is to gradually expand into Philadelphia and the Big 5. With Kevin Willard back in the Big East at Villanova, plus Brian’s boy Darris Nichols now at La Salle, those are two opportunities right there, not to mention Fran McCaffery returning to his alma mater at Penn, St. Joe’s looking to finally return to the NCAA Tournament, or the hopeful resurgence at Temple and Drexel. I’ve long considered Philly my favorite city, and those of you who know me well know that The Palestra is my favorite venue in this crazy world of ours. I look forward to making more trips down there next season before, during and after the first and second-round NCAA Tournament games at the Wells Fargo Center, or at least as many as SEPTA will be reliable for. I’m hoping the proposed 9 p.m. cutoff doesn’t come to pass, because that would really complicate things for me. Anyway, I already know where some of the best places to eat are, so if you want to grab a steak or something, let me know.
I guess it’s the radio background in me, as well as my affinities for classic rock and ’90s pop and alternative, that always compels me to equate my college basketball experiences with a musical accompaniment. With that said, the first person in that arena to come to mind as I attempt to describe my journey this time around was Jakob Dylan.
So alone, and I feel just like somebody else
Man, I ain’t changed, but I know I ain’t the same
I’ve always been a one-man show by default. It stems from being an only child, it got compounded by trust issues early in my life, it became standard practice when I expanded the site and I was still the only one keeping it afloat until I cultivated and diversified a staff. But with that said, even in my solitude, I’ve morphed into a different person all these years later even if my core construction hasn’t been modified. I just take a different road to get where I’m going now compared to even two or three years ago.
So even though I drive it home with one headlight more often than not, I thank you all for always leaving the porch light on and the door open for me to join you in this excursion we’ve somehow all taken together, and keep coming back for more of. Thank you for making sure someone competent is always at the wheel, keeping me in one piece, and most importantly, keeping me alive.
God bless you all, and much love always.
Jaden Daly
Founder and Managing Editor
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