Gonna set this Dance alight/ Cause Saturday night’s the night I like/ Saturday night’s alright alright

During a full immersion into the hoops extravaganza that stands among the greatest since Sir Charles busted Naismith’s last peach basket, I thought of an eve in the iconic summer of ’70.

The Mailman and I were sitting on my back stoop, deciding to smoke one joint after another, in perpetuity or until we ran out, to see where it took us.

Rollin’, rollin’, rollin’.

At one point along the way I wondered aloud, “What if in the future, they discover this stuff’s really healthy for you?”

To which my less sanguine, less romantic, more practical partner in crime deadpanned, “I don’t believe that’s the discovery they’ll make.”

We did not OD. Although we might have visited an alternative reality. Or two.

Nor did I last night after the Houston comeback over Duke somehow bested the bloodbath of Gators chomping Tigers. But if the Blue Devils had somehow tied on that last possession, I’ve no doubt I would have had to check myself back into treatment this morning.

No mas, fully sated, I pleaded.

Best national semi combo platter ever?

No clue. But I doubt there’s any mo’ better.

It was a lot o’ basketball.

A hoopaholic’s smorgasbord.

Some random observations:

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Florida star PG Walter Clayton is the first dude to post a thirtyburger in the the Elite Eight, then do it again in the semis since ’79. That Sycamorean Hick from French Lick, ya know, Larry Bird.

Which got me wondering. The baller started his career at Iona under You Know Whom. How come he wasn’t playing for offensively challenged St. John’s?

Asking for a friend.

 * * * * *

Todd Golden > Bruce Pearl/ Student > Mentor.

By the by, Roger Ayers and fellow zebras let those two squads go at it. Was worthy of SEC title game in Atlanta Dome . . . in football.

It was fair, but it was fierce. No amputation, no foul.

 * * * * *

During Jellyroll’s between games musical interlude, his drummer was wearing a Louisville Cardinal jersey.

I’m advised his name is Cody Ash. Grew up in Mt. Washington, attended Bullitt East, played in U of L’s Marching Band.

Cool.

 * * * * *

During the abundance of pregames hypothesizing, a significant majority of which was hagiographic rhapsodizing about you know whom and his mates who hail from Krzyzewskiville, here’s a take I personally never heard.

How young the team is. How many rookies play a whole lotta minutes. How those youngsters for the most part are Duke’s go to guys. How in the tournament experience and maturity usually prevail.

There’s a reason Carmelo Anthony’s such an outlier.

Well, kids, that Cousin Vinny yout had a great deal to do with the Blue Devils’ meltdown. They were unable to deal with the Houston’s relentlessness, physicality and resilience for the full forty.

The Cougars broke Duke.

Neophyte Jon Scheyer was bested by Kelvin Sampson who has been around the block a few times.

The look on Scheyer’s face late when it was unraveling reminded me of that of his mentor Coach K in ’86. When the “best team,” maybe the “best team ever” was beaten.*

*Big smiles are appropriate when contemplating the memories.

Lots of data to tell the tale.

The Coogs were +11 on the boards. 18 ORB leading to 18 or 19 second chance points.

Duke bigs Maluach and Ngongba played 25 minutes combined. With nary a rebound between them. Zilch.

Duke made one FG in the final 10:31.

J’Wan Roberts shot 150 FTs a day in the offseason, so he could convert those two at the end. Tyrese Proctor missed the front end of a 1+1. Make FTs Win Game.

Duke suffered what some call the Gonzaga Syndrome. Untested during the season in the down ACC, they weren’t ready for cockfight.

Houston made 10/22 triples.

Scheyer’s last minute play — clearing out for Flagg — was uninspired and predictable.

 * * * * *

Wonder how those IU fans who ran Sampson out of town are feeling this morning?

 * * * * *

If Monday night’s title game is anything like these, I’ll need to keep in touch with my Hoopaholic’s Anonymous support group.

— c d kaplan