The skeptic's take on college hoops: Kansas beware

Kansas? They don't know.

Yeah, they've seen the film; they've seen the stats; they've probably even seen the press clippings, but they don't know.

This has got to be said, because I have heard some of you tell me "Kansas? They know." They know basketball. They know scoring, dunking, rebounding. They know Rupp Arena and the Final Four. They know ball. Kansas? They know winning.

You are wrong, for this reason: They don't know.

And I will tell you all there is that they do not know.

They don't know about the thunder.

Tell me, does Kansas know about Jadwin Gym? About thousands of screaming fans, unleashing minutes of pent-up rage, howling across the court into the gaping void of the indoor track beyond?

Oh no, they do not know about that. Don't even try to tell me that they know, because I will turn to you and tell you to your face: they don't know.

They don't know about the terror.

But wait. Hold on. What about the New Jersey cold? The blistering mid-50 degree weather with the wild, broiling, furious, vengeful partly cloudy skies? Do they know about that?

Do they know about the Nassau dew point?

I said stop. Just a second now. Let me think on that. Do they know, or do they not know. Let me run over that one a few times. I got to step back. Oh no wait, I don't:

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They don't know.

So don't come around here with this "they know", because I will tell you directly and in short order and right there on the spot in broad daylight: They do not know.

But there's more to this. What about George from the Haven? Do they know George? Do they know chicken parm, $3.65 cheesesteak, right now in the Italian bread bag, grape Snapple chasing, give me the spices, show me the grease, handlebar mustache, crew team on the wall, salt-pepper-ketchup, walking my lazy rump down Nassau because I got to have it before the game to fill my stomach with all that goodness and love and sodium, and the man behind the counter telling me "Wysocki" with a faraway look in his eye before he hands me my foot-and-a-half meal of champions?

OH MY! THEY DO NOT KNOW!

Oh, I got to catch my breath. I hope you do not start to think that they know in the meantime. No, keep your mind on pause while I collect myself. Just keep calm for a spell; I had this awful feeling that you started to think that they knew. I must be at my best to tell you just what it is that they do not know.

Ok, I'm on it now. I can feel this. We must talk basketball, because what if they know basketball?

What if Kansas comes to Lot 21 and begins to believe that they know the ways of the hoop? The Jayhawks have seen nets cut down. They have put the NCAA Crown on their collective midwestern head; they know what it is to hang the banner from the ceiling, a tear rolling from Danny Manning's eye, a smile rolling across Roy Williams' face. You could see that Kansas might, just a little, on the side, on the sly, just only that much . . . know.

But they do not know.

I can assure you that they don't know about Ahmed slashing the lane. I promise you that they have not seen Konrad hit the floor, or Bechtold escalate, or his Escalade, or Logan swat, swat, swatting shots into the third row. They have never witnessed the kids in the stands battle over that rejected ball with a fury unlike any delivered before or since or ever again in the history of man or any other such angry-runt bearing species or order, pummeling each other, their moms, their sisters, their own selves on occasion, just so that they can have that ball, that souvenir ball from the Trenton Times or Infiniti.

They cannot know the rage.

And so it is that I have tried to tell you about their knowledge. I have strained to make you understand that they do not understand the hardwood of Jadwin or McCosh 50. I have beseeched you to follow me down this road. Now let me take you further.

Let me show you the light, for Kansas can see only darkness.

In Kansas City, in Topeka, in Dodge, in other Kansas towns that I cannot think of, such as possibly St. Louis, in all of these places, but most particularly in Lawrence, home of the Jayhawks, they do not know.

And it will not come to them. They will not know.

We will bring our devastating shot-clock wasting, our scintillating ceaseless circling, our catastrophic layups, our hoagies, and we will keep them from knowing.

We will bring Coach Thompson III, the mighty band and its drumsticks of doom, Professor Fleming and his words of waifs and wenches, the silky soft serve of Wu Hall, and we will deny them that enlightenment.

Yes, we will bring Forbes, we will bring Holder, we will bring Prospect and Firestone. We will bring this University, and it will overwhelm them, for it all comes down to this one final question:

Do they know Princeton?

Please. They don't know.