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Chapter 6: Louisville
🕑 Added 2025-10-14 00:40:15 +0000 UTCMarch 18, 2007 | Nationwide Arena - Columbus, Ohio
“Good evening, everybody, and welcome to Columbus, Ohio. Round of 32 action here at Nationwide Arena! Alongside former All-American Marcus Hale, I’m Ryan Carter. We’ve got a classic tonight: the Texas Longhorns and the Louisville Cardinals, two programs with history, pride, and a ticket to the Sweet Sixteen on the line.”
“Yeah, Ryan, this one’s gonna be fun. You’ve got Louisville — Coach Rick Pitino’s group — they come at you in waves. Full-court pressure, traps in the corners, all gas, no brakes. And on the other side? Texas, led by two freshmen who don’t play like freshmen. Kevin Durant — 6’10”, unstoppable from anywhere on the floor — and Ethan Cross, the kid who’s been lighting up courts since he got to college..”
“Ethan Cross has been the story of the tournament so far — 28 a night, controlling tempo like a veteran point guard. And he’s not just scoring; he’s defending, passing, doing a little bit of everything. And Durant? Well, what else can you say? He looks like he was built in a basketball lab.”
“Meanwhile, Louisville’s got balance. Terrence Williams — athletic, explosive wing. Jerry Smith — deadeye shooter. Edgar Sosa — fearless freshman guard, not afraid of the moment. And you can’t forget David Padgett, their big man, who makes everything run from the high post.”
“This matchup’s got everything you could want — star power, contrasting styles, two elite coaches, and a trip to the Sweet Sixteen up for grabs. You win tonight, you start thinking about banners. You lose, it’s heartbreak season.”
“The arena’s packed — half burnt orange, half Cardinal red — and you can feel it in here, Marcus. The noise, the tension, the anticipation.”
“Yeah, Ryan, this is what March is all about. Legends are born in games like this.”
“The officials check the table. The ball’s at center court. Durant and Cross on one side, Pitino’s pressure on the other.”
“Here we go. Texas. Louisville. Round of 32. Let’s dance.”
.
Half the arena glowed burnt orange, the other half pulsed in Cardinal red. The air was thick with sound — chants slamming against each other like drumlines in a war.
Behind the Louisville bench, students in red ponchos beat thundersticks in rhythm:
“LOU! — IS! — VILLE! LOU! — IS! — VILLE!”
The Texas section fired right back, stomping their feet against the bleachers until the risers shook:
“TEXAS! FIGHT! TEXAS! FIGHT!”
(This was the most common type of chant I’m used to hearing going to my college games. Most of the game was just boring chants..)
The chant clashed midair, a deafening roar splitting the arena right down the middle.
Up in the student section, a group of Cardinals fans waved a white bedsheet scrawled with WELCOME TO PITINO’S PRESSURE COOKER. They jumped in unison, arms pumping, voices ragged:
“TURN! THEM! OVER! TURN! THEM! OVER!”
Across from them, a pack of Longhorn fans answered with foam horns held high, chanting until their throats cracked:
“YOU! DON’T! WANT! THIS! SMOKE!”
A brass band in burnt orange blared the fight song — Texas Fight! — trumpets blaring, drums shaking the stands. Louisville’s pep band fired back immediately with Cardinal Rule, tuba and snare snapping through the din.
The floor vibrated.
Kids behind the baseline waved cutouts of Kevin Durant’s face the size of stop signs. Others had Ethan Cross’s name painted across bare chests: E | T | H | A | N!
“OVERRATED!” screamed the Louisville side.
It was chaos, pure and alive — sound layered over sound until it felt like thunder in a closed dome.
The referee stepped to center court, whistle in his mouth.
The noise surged one last time:
“LET’S! GO! TEXAS!”
“CAR-DI-NALS!”
“LET’S! GO! TEXAS!”
“CAR-DI-NALS!”
Then—
TWEET.
The whistle cut everything. Silence collapsed in a heartbeat, tension replacing volume.
The ball went up.
The whistle sliced through the noise. The ball went up — leather spinning, bodies rising.
Padgett and Damion James met in mid-air, fingertips brushing. The ball tipped backward toward half court.
D.J. Augustin burst out of the circle and snatched it clean before two red jerseys could collapse.
“Here we go!” Ryan Carter shouted over the roar. “Texas controls the tip, and Louisville’s already showing pressure!”
“Watch that 2-2-1,” Marcus Hale added. “They’ll trap you in the coffin corners before you can blink. You beat it by thinking faster than they move.”
On the floor, two Cardinals swarmed D.J. before he even looked up. The crowd rose in anticipation, clapping in rhythm — CLAP-CLAP-CLAP! — the Louisville section screaming, “TURN! THEM! OVER!”
Ethan sprinted to the right slot, palms open, eyes calm. D.J. reversed the ball — one bounce, one pass. Ethan caught it on the run.
“Texas looking organized here,” Marcus said.
Ethan whipped a diagonal dart to Damion flashing middle. One touch, pivot, no dribble. The ball skipped across the floor like lightning to A.J. Abrams on the far wing.
“Beautiful ball movement!” Ryan said, voice rising. “The Longhorns slice through the press like it isn’t even there!”
A.J. steadied, jabbed once, and reset to half court. The press broke, but the noise didn’t.
“DEE-FENSE!” the Louisville fans chanted, stomping their feet. The band behind them blared a brass line that sounded more like a battle cry. Across the arena, burnt-orange horns rose, chanting back, “TEXAS! FIGHT!” until it became a single roaring heartbeat.
Louisville settled into a 2-3 matchup, the wings sliding like mirrors. Ethan raised one hand, eyes cutting through the shifting red jerseys. He pointed to the nail. D.J. fed it clean. Damion caught, pivoted. The defense pinched.
From the booth, Marcus barked, “Here comes the help—watch the corner!”
The ball zipped out of Damion’s hands. Cross-court. Flat. Clean.
“Corner-corner-skip—there it is!”
A.J. Abrams caught in rhythm — feet set, shoulders square, release high and pure.
The arena froze for a heartbeat.
SWISH.
The net snapped tight and the place detonated.
“Texas on the board early!” Ryan Carter called over the chaos. “A.J. Abrams buries it, and the Longhorns are rolling!”
The orange half of the arena became a storm — students waving horns, towels, anything they could grab.
“HOOK ’EM! HOOK ’EM!” they screamed.
Across the way, Louisville fans booed so loud it rattled the microphones.
“OVERRATED! OVERRATED!” they chanted, pointing down at Ethan and Kevin as they trotted back on defense.
Pitino clapped once — sharp, commanding. “TURN IT UP!” he barked.
The Cardinals guards nodded, eyes narrowing. They tightened their press, bodies low, ready to bite.
The broadcast caught it all.
Marcus’s voice cut through the frenzy: “This is what Pitino lives for. He wants chaos. He feeds off panic. Texas handled it once — let’s see if they can do it again.”
Ryan added, “We’re barely thirty seconds in, Marcus, and it already feels like a Final Four game.”
The roar of the crowd rolled like thunder, chants crashing into each other from both sides of the arena. The game had officially caught fire.
The made three barely sat down before Louisville snapped it in. Sosa jogged it at D.J., Padgett drifted to the nail like a lighthouse.
“Here comes the high-post hub,” Marcus said. “Padgett at the elbow, and if Texas is late on the tag you’ll see that Spain back screen.”
Hand-off, re-screen—Jerry Smith ghosted behind the roll to clip the big. Ethan never waited for the catch; he stepped on the air time, a palm in the pocket where the lob wanted to live. Sosa bailed to a skip. Terrence Williams ripped baseline, Damion slid chest-first, and the pull-up rattled out.
“Texas is early, not just fast,” Ryan said.
Pitino couldn’t stand still after watching his team nearly unravel on the second trip down. He stepped off the bench, tie half-loosened, voice cutting through the crowd.
“Space it out!” he barked. “Middle’s open, move the ball!”
Another near-trap. The ball skittered loose for half a heartbeat before D.J. scooped it. Pitino slapped his palm.
“Settle!” he shouted. “Eyes up! Don’t rush the pass!”
Louisville’s diamond press tightened again, claws out, but Texas steadied. The ball reversed, Ethan flashed middle, and suddenly the trap looked ordinary.
Then came the moment.
Louisville’s McGee picked Ethan up full court, chest out, sneakers squealing against the hardwood. Arms wide, chopping steps, a wolf ready to hunt.
The crowd rose as the noise built — half the arena chanting:
“DEE-FENSE! DEE-FENSE!”
while the burnt-orange half fired back, louder:
“E-THAN CROSS! E-THAN CROSS!”
Ethan didn’t care much for the noise. Europe was far crazier. He just let the ball breathe — one slow bounce, then another. Calm. Measured. The trap crept closer, waiting for him to pick it up.
He stepped just over half, eyes forward.
Then—pop.
Left-to-right crossover — lightning fast, violent, surgical.
McGee froze. His feet tangled. His knees wobbled. The entire building gasped.
Ethan slid back, smooth as silk, into a one-dribble step-back. Rise. Release. Perfect form, hand hanging in the air.
Splash.
OHHHHHHHHHHHH!
The arena detonated.
Ryan Carter almost fell out of his chair. “OH MY WORD! ETHAN CROSS JUST SENT HIM BACK TO LOUISVILLE! STEP-BACK THREE — ABSOLUTE FILTH!”
Marcus Hale was laughing mid-sentence. “God gave him that last name for a reason! He crossed his soul right out of his shoes!”
On the court, McGee tried to find his footing, shaking his head. His teammates groaned, hands on their heads. Even a few Louisville fans behind the bench were laughing in disbelief.
The Texas bench exploded.
A.J. Abrams threw his towel like a fastball. D.J. Augustin sprinted halfway down the court pointing at Ethan.
“OH MY GOD, BRO!” D.J. yelled. “YOU KILLED HIM!”
Damion James just paced in circles, both hands on his head.
KD jogged up beside Ethan, wide-eyed, grinning ear to ear. “You didn’t have to do him like that!”
Ethan cracked a grin — small, almost guilty — but his eyes were already on the scoreboard.
Barnes didn’t smile. He stepped to the sideline, clapping once, loud.
“Timeout!” he barked. “Now!”
TWEET.
The whistle cut through the chaos, but the crowd didn’t die down — it only shifted.
Texas fans stomped the bleachers, chanting louder now:
“E-THAN CROSS! E-THAN CROSS! E-THAN CROSS!”
Louisville’s side booed, jeered, pointed.
“OVERRATED!” they screamed, trying to drown it out.
Pitino yanked McGee toward the bench, face stone-cold. “Get him out,” he snapped to an assistant.
Marcus Hale on the call couldn’t hold it in: “You have to sub him. You get crossed that bad, you need to find your self-esteem in the locker room.”
Texas gathered at the bench, still buzzing. Towels flew. Fists bumped. Ethan and KD slapped hands, laughing under their breath.
Barnes slammed his clipboard down, but even he couldn’t hide a smirk.
“Alright,” he said, voice steady again. “That’s over. Now breathe. Early reads only. If the trap comes, trust your spacing. If they tag, float. Don’t chase highlights—make smart plays.”
He looked at Ethan. “Good job. Now don’t go hero-ball. They’ll bait you.”
Across the court, Pitino paced like a storm, barking adjustments to his staff.
The scoreboard flickered:
Texas 31, Louisville 27 — 6:17 left, First Half
On the broadcast, Ryan recapped, still catching his breath.
“Cross is doing what he does best. Eleven points on six shots, three assists, a steal. He’s dictating everything.”
Marcus nodded. “And Durant’s cleaning up the glass — eight and five already. You can’t double both.”
Out of the timeout, Texas slowed it down — precision now instead of fireworks. Ethan shifted gears, the tempo of a pro. Two dribbles. Space. Pull-up. Swish.
“That’s the difference,” Marcus said. “He’s not just highlights. He’s control. That’s an NBA rhythm.”
The crowd buzzed, riding the wave. Every pass, every stop drew cheers and groans like punches in a heavyweight fight. KD blocked a layup, Damion wrestled for a rebound, and A.J. drilled another corner three.
By the time the horn sounded for halftime, the arena was shaking — sweat, noise, and adrenaline blending into something wild and alive.
The score read: Texas 44, Louisville 39.
Texas Locker Room — Halftime
The door flew open.
Chaos followed.
Shoes screeched across the tile. Towels flew. The locker room echoed with laughter and hollers.
"Bro, did you SEE his ankles fold?!" A.J. Abrams was doubled over, slapping the whiteboard.
"Man looked like he stepped on a trapdoor!" Damion added, wiping sweat off his neck.
Even KD couldn’t help it. "Nah, we gotta send that tape to ESPN'."
Laughter exploded around the room.
Ethan shook his head, sitting down at his locker, towel over his shoulders. A crooked smile curled on his lips. But underneath it he felt a little bad for McGee.
At least it wasn’t JaVale McGee.
Ethan sighed.
"I didn’t mean to do him that bad," he muttered.
KD heard him and chuckled. "Nah, you say that but you just keep doing it. Don’t act like you feel bad for them."
The whole room roared again.
Barnes walked in, arms crossed. The noise dimmed, but not all the way.
He stared at the board, then back at the players.
"That was fun," he said. "Now finish the job."
He pointed at Ethan.
"Nice move. Now forget it. Second half's coming, and they’re gonna come for you harder. They always do."
Ethan nodded.
Second Half
The horn blared.
Texas jogged back onto the floor, sweat still clinging to their skin, adrenaline buzzing through their veins. The five on the floor: Ethan, D.J., A.J., Damion, and Durant — the lineup that started it, the lineup expected to finish it.
“Second half underway here in Columbus,” Ryan Carter announced as the whistle blew. “Texas with a five-point lead, but if you know Rick Pitino’s teams, you know no lead is ever safe.”
“Expect more pressure,” Marcus Hale said. “More trapping. More chaos. And I wouldn’t be surprised if Pitino throws some junk defenses just to break the rhythm.”
The Cardinals didn’t waste time. They came out in a box-and-one — four defenders in zone, with Sosa face-guarding Ethan.
“Box-and-one on Cross!” Marcus shouted. “Pitino pulling out every trick he’s got.”
Ethan didn’t force it. He jogged into the corner, dragging Sosa away from the play. D.J. handled top, reversed it to A.J., then inside to Durant. One jab, one dribble, fadeaway over the top.
Bucket.
“Too easy,” Ryan said. “Durant makes it look unfair.”
Louisville pushed back. Terrence Williams drove hard, spun in traffic, finished through contact. The Cardinals bench leapt up, screaming for an and-one, but the ref waved it off.
Back the other way — Texas slowed it down. Cross jogged it up, still blanketed. He gave it up early, then got it back after a double screen freed him up on the wing.
Pull-up three. Splash.
“Ethan Cross!” Ryan roared. “The freshman’s got sixteen!”
Pitino barked again from the sideline. “Hard show! Trap him!”
The trap came hard on the next possession — two bodies, hands high. Ethan spun out of it, split the defenders, and floated a lob over the top.
Durant caught it in stride and punched it down.
“Cross to Durant — that’s money every time,” Marcus said.
Louisville stayed in it. Padgett hit a pick-and-pop three. Sosa got a steal and laid it in. The crowd surged — red half on their feet.
Timeout Barnes.
The huddle was tight. Voices sharp.
“They’re sending doubles,” Barnes said. “So punish ‘em. Ethan — keep reading it. Don’t fight it. Let the game come to you.”
Ethan nodded, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Got it.”
Out of the break, the Longhorns responded.
D.J. split the trap and hit Damion on a cut. A.J. knocked down a transition three. Ethan, reading the floor like a quarterback, found soft spots. Pull-up elbow. Floater in the lane. Quick pitch to KD for a corner dagger.
“Texas pulling away now,” Ryan said. “This feels like a statement.”
With five minutes left: Texas 71, Louisville 59.
Pitino called time. His clipboard was shaking.
Ethan walked to the bench, chest rising and falling fast. He sat, sipping water, towel draped over his neck.
“Keep it tight,” Barnes said. “Run clock, but don’t lose aggression. They’re gonna press until the horn.”
Louisville tried. They sent traps, flew for steals, hit one more three.
But it was over.
With thirty seconds left, Ethan waved to Barnes.
“Sub?”
Barnes nodded.
The crowd stood.
KD came out too. Arms around Ethan’s shoulder.
Applause swelled.
“Twenty-four points, eight assists, four boards for Ethan Cross,” Ryan said. “Durant adds twenty-two and twelve. Texas is going to the Sweet Sixteen.”
Final: Texas 79, Louisville 67.
The horn sounded. The handshake line formed. Ethan hugged Barnes.
“We’re not done,” Barnes whispered.
“I know,” Ethan said, eyes already looking ahead.
Sweet Sixteen next.
.
Against Louisville
Ethan Cross — 24 points, 8 assists, 4 rebounds, 2 steals.
Kevin Durant — 22 points, 12 rebounds, 3 assists, 2 blocks.
Comments
Victor De Paula
Don't stop, this work is very good
