What Is The Final Four?

Good question. Thanks for asking.

A lot of people waiting to see some basketball teams float down the San Antonio River Walk. Across the street, there was a line outside a Margaritaville.

What Is The Final Four?

Glad you asked! Walking around San Antonio all week, I’ve been wondering that myself. What I’ve learned, maybe more than anything, is that it’s a convention with a dash of basketball mixed in. There’s been at least one actual convention, run by the National Association of Basketball Coaches. Then there are a lot of things that seem convention-y: Conferences, panels, invite-only parties that don’t feel like parties at all.

And otherwise, the men’s Final Four is …

Heavily barricaded. At the start of major sporting events, it’s common for no one to know how the media is supposed to get in the building. Like, if you can believe it, the volunteers, most of whom are retirees, aren’t typically clued into the security plan. And in San Antonio, a big part of that security plan is fences. Lots and lots of fences, turning the area around the stadium into a total maze. So on Thursday, after I was turned away from the fan entrance, I wound up walking down a train track on the side of the Alamodome. Turned out it wasn’t the right way. The fences might have been a hint. The right way, though, offered two options: Uber or walk along the shoulder of a highway ramp. I made the decision with two Marriott employees, who were in the same pickle. You know what we chose because I’m alive to type this.

The world wide leader in logo’d polo shirts. This is mostly due to the coaches convention. In half a block Friday, I saw two Kentucky polos, then one for Boise State, then one for Division II Seton Hill University in Greensburg, PA. Go Griffins.

A little (or a lot) like fraternity rush. I didn’t do Greek life in college, so those who did can pelt me with well actually’s. But I sure know a bunch of networking, professionally speed-dating dudes when I see them, starting with the quarter zips and chinos. I can’t take credit for the speed dating line. On Friday, while standing in the lobby of the Grand Hyatt — which, to my knowledge, was the epicenter of schmoozing for the week — a conference commissioner told me: “This whole thing feels like the most insane kind of speed dating. Everything is let’s make a deal, let’s make a deal, let’s make a deal.” A deal, of course, could mean a million different things. TV rights. Overpriced consulting firms. Coaches looking for a break. After leaving that commissioner, I walked toward the exit and heard someone say: “So, like, we’re good?” I turned around in time to see the other guy nod. Seems like they were good. (To be clear, I schmoozed some, too. I just don’t own a quarter zip.)

Momentarily scary. Here’s where I muse about the River Walk. If you’re traveling to San Antonio at any point, it’s important to know that almost everything downtown is branded as being the BLANK River Walk. That includes two different Hampton Inns, which I learned when I went to the wrong Hampton Inn for an interview with former ESPN insider/current St. Bonaventure basketball general manager Adrian Wojnarowski (for a story coming in the near future). During the day, the River Walk is pretty damn charming, a little like Amsterdam if you squint until your eyes are almost closed. Then at night, it’s like Bourbon Street mated with a Rainforest Cafe (and there actually is a Rainforest Cafe). Saturday morning, I strolled along the River Walk, taking in the charming side, wondering if I should check out the Briscoe Western Art Museum. Then a man posing as a bush, crouched in a flower pot, scared the absolute crap out of me. I screamed an expletive that starts with f (you’re welcome, mom). Once I gathered myself, I warned a nice-looking couple, just in case they rounded the same corner. Curious, excited even, they charged straight into the prank.

All about the sponsors. The whole NCAA not allowing anything but Powerade cups in the stadium? Tired story, told a million times, though I was impressed by the station, manned by three people, that had one job Saturday night: Pouring Cokes, Diet Cokes and Sprites into said cups, adhering to the terms of what better be a lucrative deal. But beyond that, I was more struck by another moment of corporate sponsors ruling our entire lives. On Friday, between open practices, Reese’s ran an on-court competition for some kids, a relay race that included carrying a bunch of Pizza Hut boxes. It was girls vs. boys. A bunch of people in Reese’s shirts did a lot of jumping and hyping. The girls dusted ‘em. I fell for the whole bit by writing this paragraph.

A proof of concept. At one point, wandering near the media room, I latched onto a tour for future Final Four hosts. Some lanyards in the group read “Indianapolis 2026.” Others read “Las Vegas 2028.” Which made me think, my god, this is all going to be that much more insane in Vegas three years from now. Take every tortured reference to churros and the River Walk this week and replace them with gambling and The Strip. Whew.

Where some people still can’t say a star player’s name. Okay, this one is forced, just bear with me a second. On Saturday, I tried to predict the future and wrote more than 1,000 words on Auburn star Johni Broome to cover the Auburn-Florida game. When Florida won, that wasn’t going to fly, so I scrambled to put together a story on the Gators’ ridiculous backcourt. But since I did some very serious investigative reporting about Broome’s first name, I gift you a snippet of unpublished copy:

Ten, 15 years ago, if you were a youth sports parent near Tampa, Florida, you might have seen a woman stalk to the scorer’s table or press box. You might have seen this once or a dozen times, in a gym with stiff bleachers, at a baseball field on a brutally hot day. Julie Broome had a routine. If someone was announcing names, she knew they would stumble over Johni Broome, which just wasn’t going to work for her. So Julie, never shy, told them to say it right — JUH-NYE, like dye — or only say her son’s last name (BROOME, like broom).

Truth is, she and John Broome Sr. only expected to have two kids. They named their first, a boy, John Broome Jr. They named their second, a girl, Jade’a. All of them had the same three initials, making them the JAB Four. But 16 months after Jade’a was born, Julie was pregnant with their third and final kid, another boy. They wanted to turn the JAB Four into the JAB Five. They thought about building off Julie, though Julius didn’t move them. Instead, they took the “i” from her name and tacked it onto her husband’s.

Technically, the pronunciation is JOHN-EYE. He just goes by JUH-NYE, knowing most people will say it fast, if they don’t butcher it altogether. As recently as this week, as he’s done his whole life, Broome quietly, patiently corrected a reporter who called him Johnny. He had, at that point, played 167 college basketball games. He had scored 2,683 points. But in some ways, the mistakes, the thousands of Johnnys over the years, were part of Julie’s plan.

“I wanted my kids to be themselves, to be unique, to be one of a kind,” she told me. “And with that comes a unique name.”

Still, yes, the biggest basketball event of the year. Quite simply, the semifinals were sick. Walter Clayton Jr. scored 34 for Florida, becoming the first player since Larry Bird — Larry Bird! — to score 30+ in the Elite 8 and Final Four. Then Houston beat Duke after an all-time meltdown for the Blue Devils, which was really tough news for Cowboys, Lakers and Yankees fans. The basketball was good. The lack of a true underdog wasn’t felt. But as I watched the night unfold, I kept thinking about another weird thing about Final Four week: A lot of people I talked to had left before the games began.