Good day.
It’s been a while.
As many of you know, I procreated. There is another NIT fan in the world, and he doesn’t know it yet, but he hoots and hollers when he’s hungry, and I’m bullish on the lung capacity. Imagine if that guy gets a megaphone one day. Maybe walks around the NCAA T*urnament’s Final Four yelling into said megaphone. You know Joshua? From the battle of Jericho? You never know what will happen if you pace around a hostile compound and you have faith.
We will be catching this website up on college basketball over the next couple weeks, as the days begin to lengthen again, the sun poking its head over the horizon earlier and earlier in the hopes of getting a better peek at what’s feeling like a Louisville-centric NIT Final Four. First, though, I want to tell you all a story from the night my wife went into labor.
We’d gone to some friends’ engagement party that evening, and I don’t know if my wife absolutely adores these friends or was simply conned by the hippie who taught our labor & delivery class, but long story short: Her water had broken earlier in the day and we didn’t know it. It wasn’t until after the engagement party, and after a trip to Dairy Queen, and after a phone call with my brother (who was on I-80 West in Indiana, heading back to Illinois late at night) that she raised the possibility she might be in labor. We got to the hospital at about 12:30 AM, and sure enough, the child was on his way. I got her settled, and I went home,, either to pack our things and bring them to the hospital or pack my things and make a run for it while I still had time to get away.
I got back to the hospital at about 4:30, and we had a lot of things so I had to make a lot of trips back and forth to the car. It’s a weird feeling, walking through a hospital carrying bags. It feels like someone should stop you and ask where you’re going, or stop you and ask what’s in the bags, or stop you and say, “Hey man, this is a hospital. Show some respect,” even if you thought you were showing respect and your North Texas hat with grass and sweat and (somehow) rust stains is extremely respectful in its nature.
By the time I’d unloaded all our things in the room and moved the car to the parking garage, it was getting close to 5:00 AM. They’d unlocked the side entrance again. The black cat who watched me park my car had jumped back into his preferred drain pipe. (I did not get the full story from the cat. He wouldn’t talk.) So there I was, at the West Entrance, at 5:00 AM on Sunday, November 10th, walking into the hospital for the birth of my child.
Of course, I had my phone on Disturb, by which I mean I did not have my phone on Do Not Disturb. Usually, I have my phone on Do Not Disturb. I’m easily disturbed, and I have a lot of tweet notifications set up because I’m scared of missing news about the NIT. So, at 5:00 AM on Sunday, November 10th, as I walked into the hospital for the birth of my child, it came to pass that my phone began to buzz. What’s this? I thought. Is Barret responding to my texts asking him to go to my house and take Fargo to the boarder? Is my wife telling me the baby arrived while I was moving the car? Is Jed Hoyer inviting me to try out for the Cubs at a highly inconvenient time?
It was Jon Rothstein.
Specifically, it was tweet notifications from Jon Rothstein.
“Stay hungry, Stay humble”
“Every day is a gift.” – Art Loveley
“We must use time as a tool, not as a couch.” – John F. Kennedy
Some people have hobbies. I watch college basketball. Follow me on Instagram (Instagram.com/Jon.Rothstein) for EXCLUSIVE material not seen anywhere else.
Bobby Hurley has won several big non-conference games during his tenure at Arizona State. A victory today at Gonzaga would usurp all of those previous triumphs. The Sun Devils will be pushing a boulder up a hill at The Kennel.
Some of you might not know who Jon Rothstein is, but the short explanation is that he’s a college basketball reporter and he’s a nut and I love him. He’s a cross between a college basketball Woody (the Toy Story guy with the string in his back, not the slang term for an erection) and a college basketball news feed unto himself. He is wacky, and he brings me joy, and if he ever took up arms against the United States government I am very sorry but I think I would have to join his cause.
Others of you do know who Jon Rothstein is, and you’re nodding in silent knowledge. You know what this meant to me, feeling my phone buzz with Rothsteinisms from across the country as dawn prepared to break on the biggest day of my life so far. Rothstein was with me. Rothstein was there. As I drifted off to sleep on a hospital couch, grabbing two quick hours before the nurse came in and encouraged us to order food THEN because the cafeteria kitchen was SLOW, Jon Rothstein was somewhere in the ether, unwittingly buzzing my pocket to rest as only Jon Rothstein can.
But literally all of this is beside the point.
The point is this: Jon Rothstein sometimes claims not to sleep during the college basketball season. This is believable, because again, the guy’s a nut. But that first tweet of the day hit right smack dab at 5:00 AM Texas Time. And that means one of two things. Either Jon Rothstein is waking up at a time other than 6:00 AM New York Time—an earlier time, one that gives him a moment to stretch his fingers and open his phone and type an unattributed four-word mantra before pressing send—or Jon Rothstein schedules those early-morning tweets.
I think it’s the latter.
Nobody could be that consistent.
Not even a college basketball Woody.
