“If you build it, they will come.”

That’s how America got so big. We called it Manifest Destiny a century and a half ago. The country remains mired in that hubristic mindset today.

A nation much younger than now expanded relentlessly and inexorably toward the Pacific. It was our right, we believed. There was divine justification.

Manifest Destiny: “To overspread the continent allotted by Providence for the free development of our yearly multiplying millions.” Journalist John O’Sullivan so branded that vision in the 
mid-19th century.

So we stretched our borders, east to west, north to south.

And they did come — the adventurous, the set-upon, immigrants, illegals and indentured — developing a can-do mentality. Nothing was beyond our reach, no dream too grandiose. American swagger evolved.

So we built accommodations bigger and taller and wider, skyscraping the heavens, strafing the countryside.

And, because we are addicted to new and shiny, we tear down and build again.

It is our wont, an imperious ostentation that sets our nation apart.

If you build it, they will come.

That is how we remember the quote, of course, though it actually reads, “he will come” — not “they” — in the romanticized cinematic ode to a more pastoral, long-lost America. An homage to the halcyon days of hickory and horsehide, to “Say it ain’t so” Shoeless Joe, swinging his Louisville Slugger.

For the film, producers built a baseball diamond in cornfields outside Dyersville, Iowa. And the ghosts of Joe Jackson and his pals, the type of sporting gladiators nation-states have revered for centuries, came and played. So the fans also came, both in the film and real life, trying to recapture the bucolic.

If you build it, they will come.

That quiet ball diamond midst the cornfields is far from our default idea of destination. It is but a quaint counterpoint. We love our sports heroes, their games and the venues where they battle. As constant reaffirmation of O’Sullivan’s proposition, we build ever larger, more commodious stadia to watch them perform.

Jerry Jones, who built a billion-dollar temple to his Dallas Cowboys, is not aberration but paradigm. Hallowed, staid and utilitarian no longer satisfy. We desire — no, crave — neon and luxe palaces for our sports idols to compete, where we can savor their endeavors in splendid comfort.

Vegasize those American dreams.

Goodbye, Freedom Hall.

Hello, Yum! Center.

If you build it, they will come.

Thus this monument to a city’s pride was once conceived. Now it is done. Louisville’s Parthenon, its Colosseum, sits grand, glitzy and imposing hard by a bridge and interstate paralleling the Ohio, close to the spot where our burg was founded. A daring endeavor in insecure financial times, its future viability unknown, The Yum! stands as testament to dogged determination.

The city’s fathers, its dreamers, its schemers, its university wanted bigger, mo’ better.

The deal’s been done.

The question now: Will they come?

So far, yes, they have. Fueled by a fawning fervor, tickets — free tickets — have been gobbled up to tour this object of civic pride and fascination. First to come, for a christening, the luminaries who made it happen. Then, corporata, for whom this edifice stands as a confirmation it tops the pyramid of power. Then Cardinal fans, whose loyalty has been tested in extremis. Then John and Jane Q. Public to come and gawk at this palatial experiment in civic responsibility.

The Eagles broke in the place. How appropriate.

Their music is slick, pristine, pretty to a fault. And the band is in it for the Benjamins. It is said the members don’t even talk to each other offstage. Yet $180 tickets were sold with impunity.

Such exaction is all too familiar to Louisville Cardinal basketball fans, whose loyalty has been taxed to the limits to pay for the team’s abdication from Freedom Hall. A season’s seat in the corner, not between the baskets, 30 rows up, runs $101/ game, factoring in the mandatory donation.

When told this, Marc Winston, a New Orleanian married to a Louisvillian, in town for a family visit and to attend The Eagles concert, offered this perspective. “My seats to the NBA New Orleans Hornets are in the fourth row at mid-court. I pay $85 a seat.”

If you build it, they will come.

So far, at least. For The Eagles. For the Cardinals inaugural men’s and woman’s basketball seasons.

Other than that, The Courier-Journal, in its special Oct. 10 section on all things arena, reported only 11 other events scheduled through March. So it is certainly legitimate amid all the hoopla to ask how this place is going to meet its debt service. The newspaper reported that Standard & Poor “will consider downgrading the arena bonds to ‘junk’ status as early as next year because of concerns about the TIF (tax increment financing) revenues being available for paying off debt.” There are rumors bond rating agencies might make that move sooner.

But that’s a worry for another day.

For now, the denizens of our city, as well as the community’s movers and shakers who made this happen, are glorying in this stunning achievement. Sitting in absurdly expensive seats, munching on $11 turkey sandwiches, quaffing $6 beers and $4.25 soft drinks, citizens savored “Life In The Fast Lane,” and will root on an undermanned Cardinal team. Or, if so inclined, simply ignore the games and gather in any of several large areas set aside to eat, drink and schmooze.

The hope is that the place will reignite an appreciation for downtown, foster the belief that center city is a safe, fun place to socialize, dine and be entertained. The hope is that the magnitude of the project will fuel interest and investment from an expanding corporate America.

If you build it, they will come.

Let it be said, let it be done.

Labor Day, summer’s traditional end, marks the kickoff of what has evolved as America’s favorite pastime.

How and why the nation turned its wandering eyes from the bucolic pastures of baseball to the thunder of headgears and the grandeur of script Ohio that define football is a semester’s course unto itself. Suffice it to say the changeover occurred sometime after Joe Willie wrenched the pigskin planet off its axis in Super Bowl III, but way before ESPN greenlighted Brett Favre’s life into a daily soap opera.

Football is now the deal.

And this autumn, in this city, in this commonwealth, there are cultural considerations that make the season just over the horizon the most fascinating ever. Perhaps even a portent of significant social change.

The state’s three major football schools have new coaches. By odds-defying coincidence, the triad of new leaders are men of color.

Willie Taggert at Western Kentucky and Joker Phillips at UK are alums who now lead the charges of their alma maters. Their stories are worthy.

But nothing like that of Charlie Strong, tapped to lead Louisville’s Cardinals out of the football wasteland, where it has been deposited by a coaching fraud who turned a national contender with talent and Heisman-quality leadership into an also ran.

How Strong traveled the circuitous, impediment-laden byways from the rural burg of Batesville, Arkansas to the University of Louisville is not epic in the Homerian sense. But it is poetic nonetheless, a fable of fortitude and forbearance, how what is good and right can eventually prevail despite pitfalls.

When Charlie Strong was born and raised a half century ago in Batesville, Arkansas, hard on the edge of the Ozarks in “Deliverance” country, it was a town of 5,000. It is less than twice that now. Yet it’s still produced its share of favorite sports sons. Like NASCAR’s Mark Martin, a contemporary of Louisville’s coach. Former major leaguer Rick Monday was born there. So too, Ryan Mallett, now the quarterback for former U of L coach Bobby Petrino at Arkansas.

As it turns out, football wasn’t Strong’s favorite endeavor as a kid.

“I loved baseball. Centerfield. But when I was old enough I had to work in the summers. At my uncle’s service station. So I switched to a winter sport.”

It is that work ethic — taking care of basic business first — that has guided Strong along his career arc.

Quarterback Adam Froman explained to SI.com’s Andy Staples that it’s not difficult to follow when you see Strong jogging before sun up and lifting. “He’ll get in there in the weight room, and just put 315 [pounds] on the bar and start repping it out.”

Defensive tackle Gregg Scruggs: “He works hard. He makes us work hard.”

Charlie Strong’s resumé proves it makes a difference.

Perhaps the most impressive of stats is this. According to Strong’s bio at the University of Florida website, in 64 of 92 games when he was defensive coordinator, the Gators tallied points off turnovers. In 70% of the games, Strong’s defense scored. Stunning.

Which acumen is why he’s coached in 21 bowl games, including 14 played in January. Then there are those two national titles while directing the Florida defense. In 2009’s title battle, the Gators held the highest scoring offense in college football history to 14 points, a mere fifty points under Oklahoma’s per game average.

Charlie Strong’s leadership capabilities have been on display for years.

While preparing for that BCS title match against the Sooners, Florida mentor Urban Meyer told the press, “Do I think Charlie Strong would be a great head coach? No question about it. Do I think he’s deserving? No question about it.”

A decade ago, while coaching at South Carolina, Lou Holtz told the Columbia (S.C.) State: “Charlie Strong should be a head coach. He’s anxious to be, and he and I have talked about how you get a head coach’s job. I know we’re going to lose him eventually.”

Years before that, while at Notre Dame, Holtz recognized Strong’s potential and became a mentor, giving the then position coach a binder and advising him to fill it with ideas how to lead his own team. Then to take it on interviews to prove he was ready.

The problem, well documented and oft discussed, is that those interviews rarely came. When they did, many — nay, most — were a sham.

Charlie Strong is black. Strike one.

Victoria Strong, Charlie’s wife, is white. Strike two. Strike three.

Sad to say, but true.

Strong has spoken frankly of an interview he had with a school he knew already had secretly hired another coach, but needed to feign diversity.

But Strong carried on, never whining. Yet never afraid to publicly discuss the reality of discrimination. He told the Orlando Sentinel in 2009, he’d heard too many times to gloss over them the murmurings why, despite his credentials, he was being passed over.

Of one particular position at a southern school he didn’t get, he said, “Everybody always said I didn’t get that job because my wife is white.”

To the credit of Tom Jurich, who hired Strong without needing to see that binder, it wasn’t a hindrance at all. Nor has it been for this community which the coach says “has embraced us (he and family) and taken us in.”

The reactions of fans have been almost unanimously positive.

“He’s everything you want in a head coach,” says one local businessman, who purchased one of the new boxes at Papa John’s but asked not to be named. “His football IQ is off the chart. He’s the real deal. He’s going to be very successful.”

Long time fan and alum, Dr. George Nichols: “We will be a success within three years. I’ve heard Strong speak twice. Very impressive.”

Truth. Charlie Strong is already a success.

In the classroom. He has not one but two Masters degrees.

On the field. He has been lauded as the country’s best defensive coordinator.

Naturally, he expects and has asked a lot of the Cardinals. “He works us hard every single day,” says defensive end Malcolm Mitchell. Yet there is respect. “I love this coach,” adds Mitchell.

But this stalwart man’s moment has arrived. At half past three on the first Saturday of September, with hip hop blaring from the PA and cheerleaders tumbling and fans screaming, head coach Charlie Strong will at last stride onto his own turf.

“I enjoy being captain of the ship. But it means there’s a job to do.”

Thus head coach Charlie Strong will savor the moment but be focused. Knowing he will have traveled the longest route through the most detours to the stadium, he will be ready.

You can’t help but wonder as the intro coninues. Are these white kids from Philly really going to tackle Phil Spector? Dare they emulate the greatest voice in rock & roll, Veronica Bennett?

Or will they extrapolate the song into something unrecognizable, something white? Like Vanilla Fudge turning “You Keep Me Hangin’ On” into garage band psychedelia.

Then, in a turn as exhilarating as it is unexpected, David Bielanko’s raspy, weary voice reaches out from the jungles of Nam. The memory so strong, even though he’s actually back stateside, the images are strong and true and resonant. You can feel the sweat and grit and fear.

(Note: I couldn’t find the album version anywhere on the www. It’s purer than any of the live versions. So here it is. No visuals. You’ll probably be directed to a page with just a player. After you listen, hit the return button on your browser to come back. There’s a raucous live take on the song at the end of this article.)

Round Eye Blues

Last night I closed my eyes/ 
And watched the tracers fly/ 
Through the jungle trees
/ Like fireflies on a windy night/ 
Pulled up and onward by the breeze
/ I can still hear the far off tin-canny sounds
/ Of their machine guns come unwound
/ And I was shakin’ like Little Richard/ 
And I was sweatin’ like ol’ James Brown

/

Viet Nam and soul music. It worked for Coppola. It works even better for the Bielanko brothers, who are the magnificent bar band Marah.

Over by my window sill
/ The moon was still/ 
On my cigarettes and wine/ 
Sometimes that’s where I pray to Jesus
/ Sometimes there’s where I pray to die/ But I could still sense the circling danger
/ Of those invisible bastards of a piss-hot day/ 
I was shakin’ with ol’ Proud Mary/ 
I was sittin’ on the dock of the bay/

The rhythm continues. Yes, it’s Phil Spector, but it’s hard to figure out the connection?

Take the hits boys take the hits/ Don’t smoke your bible and don’t lose your wits/ 
Because the sky is filled with shrapnel
/ And your eyes are filled with tears

/ Hold your breath boys hold your breath
/ Finger your trigger and welcome death/ 
Because the chopper’s filled with your gut-shot friends/ 
Your hearts are filled with fear/

There’s that coda again during a short instrumental break. No flourishes. No castanets this time, just he insistence that adds gravity to this cautionary tale that’s wrapped around an icon of a song.

Fables tell of men who fell
/ With swords dangling from their chest
/ The old guys down at the taproom swear
/ The Japs could kill you best
/ But late at night I could still hear the cries/ 
Of three black guys I seen take it in the face/ 
I think about them sweet Motown girls they left behind
/ And the assholes that took their place

/

Then the chorus again, the lament of lost brothers, the helicopter imagery that is such a part of Viet Nam memories. For those who were there and those who weren’t.

The chorus again.

Your hearts are filled with fear.

Then a lonely horn, forlorn. And, yes, the signature castanets.

So won’t you please/ Be my little baby/ Be my baby now . . .

Here me now and believe me later. Little Feat is the most unappreciated band of rock’s halcyon days.

Period.

Bill Payne’s piano. Richard Hayward’s and Sam Clayton’s syncopated percussion. A southern sensibility that is both traditional and innovative. And, of course, Lowell George’s intelligent, nuanced, evocative and clever lyrics. Oh yes, there’s his signature slide guitar stylings, which legend says was taught to him by Bonnie Raitt.

When this album was released in ’73, the band, with a few personnel adjustments, had put out two albums to considerable acclaim, “Little Feat” and “Sailin’ Shoes.” Both are worthy of your attention.

But “Dixie Chicken” put it all together. The sultry funk. The aroma of magnolia and marijuana. The slinky sensuality. Plus it rocks and you can dance to it.

How about a taste of the title tune, with some superstar help:

In case you miss the rock & roll elegance of that cautionary tale, here are the lyrics:

I’ve seen the bright lights of Memphis/ And the Commodore Hotel/ And underneath a street lamp, I met a southern belle/ Oh she took me to the river, where she cast her spell/ And in that southern moonlight, she sang this song so well

If you’ll be my Dixie chicken I’ll be your Tenessee lamb/ And we can walk together down in Dixieland/ Down in Dixieland

We made all the hotspots, my money flowed like wine/ Then the low-down southern whiskey, yea, began to fog my mind/ And I don’t remember church bells, or the money I put down/ On the white picket fence and boardwalk/ On the house at the end of town/ Oh but boy do I remember the strain of her refrain/ And the nights we spent together/ And the way she called my name

If you’ll be my Dixie chicken I’ll be your Tenessee lamb/ And we can walk together down in Dixieland/ Down in Dixieland

Many years since she ran away/ Yes that guitar player sure could play/ She always liked to sing along/ She always handy with a song/ But then one night at the lobby of the Commodore Hotel/ I chanced to meet a bartender who said he knew her well/ And as he handed me a drink he began to hum a song/ And all the boys there, at the bar, began to sing along

If you’ll be my Dixie chicken ill be your Tenessee lamb/ And we can walk together down in Dixieland/ Down in Dixieland, Down in Dixieland

Now, that’s a song, kiddies.

My favorite song on the album — truth be told, my favorite Little Feat tune of all — is “Fat Man In The Bathtub.”

Check it out:

Okay, some more over the top praise. Little Feat is the most underrated band of all time. How’s that for devotion.

Anyway, as happens so much, it was too good to last. At least in the group’s best incarnation. George, founder, leader and most aggressive drug advocate, broke the band up in the late 70s, casting aspersions on his bandmates Payne and Paul Barrere. Lowell George died not long thereafter of a heart attack, probably drug induced.

In ’88, the remaining members, with some additions, reconstituted. The group’s first gig was on the Riverboat President at the New Orleans JazzFest. (Did you have any doubt, we’d end up there?) Bonnie Raitt sat in on slide.

The band has evolved through the years, and still gigs. Various personnel changes on the periphery haven’t changed the essence of the group. They’ve put out any number of albums through the years, including some amazing live shows. Most all deserve a listen.

“Dixie Chicken” is still the standard.

As a senior in 1956, he starred on Louisville’s team that ruled Madison Square Garden and has been a fixture at Freedom Hall since 1963 after his pro career ended.

He’s red and black to the core. His business card includes a photo of him in his Cardinal uniform and reads “1956 NIT Champs.”

“What I remember is that a lot of people thought Freedom Hall was going to be a white elephant. It’ll never be what they want.

“I was in the service, but made it back for the first game in Freedom Hall. The place was packed. Charlie (Tyra) broke his record. Tommy Hawkins played a great game for Notre Dame.”

U of L contested its first tilt in Freedom Hall on Dec. 21, 1956. By that time, two other games had already been held there: Ed Diddle’s Western Kentucky State College Hilltoppers (later to become WKU) bested San Francisco, 61-57, several days earlier in the official inaugural. Bellarmine played an “exhibition” versus a squad from Fort Knox.

The Cardinals whipped Notre Dame, 85-75, before 13,756 fans in their first bout at the Hall. It was in that game that Tyra, cover boy on the first-ever Street & Smith College Basketball Yearbook, tallied 40, including a perfect 18 for 18 underhanded free throws. Sophomore guard Harold Andrews scored a dozen in his first start. Bill Darragh scored 17.

Darragh, a season ticket holder to this day, remembers that game as well as the Cards’ other two wins at the fairgrounds that season. U of L moved permanently from the Jefferson County Armory (Louisville Gardens) the following season.
“Freedom Hall was big, new and shiny. We liked the Armory, but the locker room was like a furnace room. It was dirty and dingy. Playing at Freedom Hall was exciting…

“In the Christmas tournament we beat St. Louis. It was payback. They’d beaten us earlier in the season. Against Dayton, I missed a shot that would have won in regulation. But it made a good friend happy. He’d bet on us. We won and we were able to cover the spot in overtime.”

It was an auspicious start to what’s been an amazing run in the Hall, given the school’s 680-plus wins against fewer than 150 losses there. This Saturday, that long, successful run will come to a close when the Cards play their final game in Freedom Hall. Next season, the team will move into a new downtown arena, leaving behind a place they’ve called home for more than five decades.

Upon its completion in 1956, Freedom Hall was heralded as the “biggest hall south of the Mason Dixon Line,” surpassing Reynolds Memorial Coliseum, home of North Carolina State. It had supplanted UK’s Memorial Coliseum for that honor.
It was a time that predated the concept of “naming rights.” Charlotte Owens, a senior at DuPont Manual High School, beat out 6,500 others, winning an American Legion naming contest, submitting the name Freedom Hall. She won $1000, and her teacher raked in $250.

It was a different era: “Alan Freed’s Rock, Rock, Rock!” was playing the Loew’s on Fourth Street. “Teenage Rebel” was at the Uptown at Bardstown Road and Eastern Parkway, as well as the Dixie and Twilite Drive-Ins. But then again, some things don’t change: The headlines in The Courier-Journal addressed who would pay for a new Louisville/New Albany bridge, and college basketball dominated the sports page (although at the time, the Cards were struggling to build a reputation, meaning the Kentucky Wildcats reigned supreme in the local media).

Some of Louisville’s most memorable bouts in Freedom Hall came against Memphis State, a fierce rival, particularly in the early years.

Phil Rollins recalls one Memphis State game in Louisville that resulted in a Memphis player being hauled out in handcuffs.

“I sit in the L Club section by the court,” says Rollins. “The guy reached over and grabbed a folding chair from the table right in front of me.”

That Memphis Tiger’s name is Fred Horton. Louisville won the contest over its heated rival, 102-73, on March 6, 1971. The chair-swinging Horton, who fouled out of 9 games that season, didn’t make it to the final buzzer, having been marched out of the gym by police after he was corralled by an assistant coach.

Former Cardinal Mike Grosso has the rest of the story.

“It started the year before, my senior season. Our game in Memphis was really rough,” says Grosso, adding that Horton was the worst.

The Cards won that March 4, 1970 game, 83-82.

“As we’re running off the court, (Cardinal) Al Vilcheck sucker-punches Horton. The guy turns around and thinks I’m the one that hit him. He comes after me. So I have to punch him.

“We needed a police escort to our hotel. We had to be guarded there and couldn’t go out for a meal…

“The next year I was in the pros in Milwaukee. I pick up the paper and there’s this little story about how Horton had been walked out of Freedom Hall. I just started laughing. I know Vilchek did something to provoke him.”

And while there are countless fond memories of Cardinal victories in their soon-to-be former home, some of the most heartbreaking defeats seem more indelible.

There was the lost weekend late in January 1982, when the Cardinals fell to Virginia Tech, 76-78, on a Saturday; then to Virginia, 56-74, the next afternoon.

There’s the Chet “The Jet” Walker game. The seventh-ranked Bradley University Braves came in Feb. 10, 1962, against a U of L squad that finished the year 15-10 without a date for the post-season.

Before a school-record crowd of 17,347, Louisville led 79-72 with 1:24 to play. Bradley scored eight straight. All-American Walker jammed a follow at the buzzer for an 80-79 win. The C-J commented on “the atrocious officiating.” The game story also had this memorable quote: “They (Louisville) forgot the prairie maxim of ‘Don’t turn your back on a dead Indian.’”

Few Cardinal fans forget the misery of what’s known as the Rex Chapman game. Louisville alum and longtime fan Trooper Handel tells this tale.

“My most memorable Freedom Hall story is from December of 1986. We were the reigning national champs, and I had two student season tickets low in the end zone. My grandmother from Owensboro — Rex’s hometown — was my date for the annual Kentucky game… Midway through one of the most humiliating defeats I have ever experienced, Grandma peeled off her Louisville sweatshirt to reveal a Kentucky version underneath. ‘Go Rex’ she shouted. 85-51 was the final. Rex went off. Grandma had a blast.”

But back to the best of times …

Longtime fan Charlie Bensinger recounts one of his favorite memories in Freedom Hall: “My old fraternity brother Bruce Kramer lives in Memphis. He wanted me to get tickets for him and some friends for the ’86 Metro tournament here … 21 of them.

“So there I am in the middle of all these Memphis State fans, really enjoying it.”

Louisville won that one easily, 88-79.

A week before, Louisville beat Memphis State in the regular season finale that provided arguably the single loudest U of L moment ever in Freedom Hall.

The Cards were down one with just seconds to go. Tiger star Andre Turner had free throws that would have sealed the game. (It was the last season before the introduction of the three-point shot.)

Turner choked at the line. U of L hustled the ball up court, got it to Milt Wagner, who launched one from the corner. Turner doubled his trouble by fouling Wagner, who, as all old-school Card fans know, was money at the line.

Louisville went from certain defeat to certain victory in seconds. Freedom Hall rocked with an ecstatic din. Before even shooting his free throws, Wagner circled the charity stripe area, arms raised in victory. Of course he then made the baskets, resulting in a 70-69 win that catapulted the Cardinals toward their second NCAA title.

Similarly, a 75-65 win over Ohio State on Dec. 19, 1979, proved a harbinger of Louisville’s first national championship. The Buckeyes came to town ranked second in the country. U of L had just lost starting center Scooter McCray to injury, forcing coach Denny Crum to insert Scooter’s pudgy younger brother, freshman Rodney, into the starting lineup. The Cards overcame an early deficit to prevail.

CBS announcer Clark Kellogg was a star on that Ohio State team.

“Oh my, yes, I certainly do remember that game. Hotly contested. There was so much talent on the floor, future pros. A big win for Louisville.”

Another victory that makes real old-timers smile is the 70-69 victory over Eastern Kentucky, then a major rival, on Jan. 4, 1961, before 9,257, the biggest crowd that season.

The Cards were down by five with two minutes remaining, then down by three with 48 seconds on the clock. The Cardinals cut the lead to a single digit with 15 left. Eastern’s inbounds pass went off a Maroon — EKU’s mascot at the time — out of bounds. Players scrambled for the ball. The clock was running and U of L had no timeouts left.

Referee Max Macon stopped the clock, a controversial call that allowed Louisville one last shot. Here’s what Courier-Journal reporter Johnny Carrico wrote: “Ron Rubenstein looped a 25-footer from the northwest corner to nullify a great performance by the underdog Maroons.”

Referee Macon actually gave an interview after the game. Wrote Carrico, “Macon said he stopped the clock because, ‘There was too much confusion going on, with both Eastern and Louisville players grabbing the ball.’”

Eastern coach Paul McBrayer declined comment after the game, but was reported to be most upset.

The most memorable home win in the last decade was the Tennessee game in December 2001, Rick Pitino’s first campaign as Cards coach.

Down six with 35 seconds to play, Cardinal guard Reece Gaines banked in a trey to cut the lead to three. Louisville stole the inbounds pass, and Bryant Northern hit another triple from the top of the key to tie the game. The Vols came down, scoring a layup to reclaim the advantage. Without calling timeout, Louisville hustled up court, where Gaines hit yet another three to take the lead.

U of L held on for the win when Tennessee missed a close-in bank shot at the buzzer.

There are so many vivid images from the hundreds of U of L games at Freedom Hall.

Wes Unseld nabbing a rebound, turning in the air, then flicking his unique two-handed over-the-head pass to Butch Beard at mid-court to start a fast break.

Jerry King and Milt Wagner hitting every key free throw at crunch time.

Ricky Gallon’s afro.

Marquette coach Mike Deane flipping the bird to the crowd after stealing a win.

Taquan Dean and DeJuan Wheat hitting important treys when games were on the line.

Darrell Griffith elevating for a 360.

GO * CARDS * BEAT * PURDUE

Lancaster Gordon, then a freshman, running around the court, index finger raised, after an improbable come-from-behind win.

Jerome Harmon’s sadly wasted athleticism and talent.

Beau Zach Smith’s one made sky hook.

Those intense games against Memphis State in the ’70s and ’80s.

Kenny Payne’s rainbows launched from Phillips Lane.

Francisco Garcia coming off the court early in his career and straightening Rick Pitino’s tie.

Luke Whitehead landing on his head.

Cameron Murray melting down as his final season ground to a conclusion.

Marques Maybin’s first appearance at Freedom Hall after a motorcycle accident left him paralyzed.

The standing ovation that could have lasted through the night celebrating Wes Unseld’s last game.

Larry Wiliams jive talking opponents as a jinx when they’d head to the charity line.

Clifford Rozier never passing the ball back out of the post.

Bud Olsen’s bounce passes.

The Memphis State loss in the late ’80s when the Tigers ran out to a 24-0 lead.

Denny Crum’s double knit leisure suits.

The Doctors of Dunk warm ups.

The first night fans were urged to wear red.

Marv Selvy’s 70-footer against Wichita.

The evolution of the Cardinal Bird mascot.

The Voice of Freedom Hall, John Tong’s, unique introductions.

The energy of the crowd at a snow game against Charlotte.

Herb Crook slithering in for a sneaky board and follow shot.

Ellis Myles lying on the hardwood after blowing out his kneecap.

Dana Kirk’s deer in the headlights look when he needed a timeout late for his Memphis State Tigers, realizing he’d already bagged his limit.

Samaki Walker’s triple-double against Kentucky.

Dwayne Morton’s missed dunk at the buzzer against Western Kentucky.

The invention of the “high five” by Derek Smith and Wiley Brown.

The befuddled look of opponents when Smith and Brown communicated in Pig Latin.

Nate Johnson dribbling it off his knee early in games.

The genius of Denny Crum in his prime, outwitting whoever happened to be sitting in the coach’s chair on the visitor’s bench.

The celebration in Freedom Hall after the 1980 championship win.

Seeing Freedom Hall for the first time after John Y. Brown’s stunning renovation.

The longtime Cardinal home was built for a horse show, and has been home to ice shows and tractor pulls and concerts and car shows. But, in the minds of most around the country, Freedom Hall always was one of the nation’s premier basketball venues. Charlotte Owens’ moniker is immediately recognizable to every hoops fan as the Home of the Louisville Cardinals.

The place has serious history. There is the allure.

“Freedom Hall was a big reason for coming to Louisville,” says Mike Grosso, who transferred from South Carolina in the mid-1960s. “I considered St. John’s and got a call from Adolph Rupp. But this was the venue.

“The whole Freedom Hall experience separated U of L from other schools when I was playing.”

Freedom Hall is inextricably entwined with Louisville Cardinal basketball.

She’s a solid old broad, sturdy not sexy; a proud gal, full of hoops history.

I was at the Notre Dame game in December 1956, an 11-year old already more in love with Cardinal basketball than anything else in life. It was a magical night that helped propel U of L to the upper echelon of the college game.

I’ve missed only a few handfuls of games since. It has been ballast, a way of life. Get to the gym early, savor the scene, stay to the end, bitter or sweet.

Alum and longtime fan Fred Smart puts it all in perspective.

“I don’t remember what game it was — North Carolina maybe — but it was a big one, on national TV. Just before the introductions, the teams were warming up, the band was playing, and the cheerleaders were out there, and the announcers were finishing up their pre-game. There was the buzz in the place, the energy. And I looked around and said ‘I just love being here.’”

God willing, Fred Smart will be at Louisville’s final game in Freedom Hall against Syracuse this Saturday. So will I. And, like the night I would have stood and clapped forever after Unseld’s final game, I shall linger and allow the memories to reign over me.

In the end, I shall reluctantly walk away, head bowed, full with the moment and certainty that a grand experience that has sustained me for a half century will be a thing of the past.

And I will bid a sad adieu to the thrill and excitement of Louisville Cardinal basketball in World Famous Freedom Hall.

Let’s start with Hugh Jarrett.

In the early sixties, the most important radio station in the land was 50,000 watt clear channel WLAC-AM in Nashville. It had morphed through the decades into an outlet which played blues and R & B to an audience that spanned the eastern half of the northern hemisphere.

In the winter and spring of ‘62-’63, Robbie Robertson listened. Johnny Winter listened. So did my buddies and I, eschewing homework to twist and turn the wireless knobs in our bedrooms to catch every funky beat. Spinning the platters were the legendary quartet of John R (Richbourg), Hoss Allen, Gene Nobles and Herman Grizzard.

Between shilling for White Rose petroleum jelly, Royal Crown pomade and mail order specials from Randy’s Record Shop in Gallatin, Tennessee (7 records, pure vinyl, either 45 rpm or 78, your choice), they exposed a generation to this whole world of black music that would, as John Lee Hooker sang, “rock the nation.” These deejays were white guys — much to many listeners’ surprise — who adopted black southern patois and rode the night train to notoriety.

At some point, Hoss Allen decided to become a rep for the station and gave up his DJ gig, replaced by Jarrett, known to acolytes as Big Hugh Baby. A former member of the Jordanaires, the gospel group that became Elvis Presley’s back up singers, Big Hugh was master of the double entendre. Such that he opened his phone lines during his nighttime double shift to college and high school kids like me in need of an airwaved 55 gallon drum of White Rose or a Big Hugh Baby bird. Which sounded disarmingly like one of Uncle Joe’s beer and sausage farts. (Several years ago, I tracked Jarrett down to a small station in Georgia or Alabama, where he had a weekly gig, playing gospel music. I wrote him an email. He never responded.)

I called in from Florida during spring break in ‘63, and still have some of the White Rose left almost a half century later. 55 gallons is heap o’ petroleum jelly. It helps me get better, but I never get totally well.

When “Live at the Apollo” was released in the spring of ’63 — it was recorded 10/24/62 — Big Hugh played the album all the way through. Every night. It was epiphaniac, you know, like an epiphany.

What I can say is at the time I’d never heard anything as powerful or emotionally stirring. And, all things considered, probably haven’t since. I just tried to explain it all to my sweetie, and the juices started flowing again.

From Fats Gonder’s seminal intro — “It is star time. Are you ready for star time?” — to Hubert Perry’s pulsing, propulsive bass on “Night Train,” this performance is nothing but  visceral energy from start to finish. To a kid growing up in a middle class home in middle America, this was other worldly. James Brown was more than “the hardest working man in show business,” he was a pied piper to another ethereality.

Here’s James Brown singing “Please, Please, Please.” (It is not from this album. It’s probably from the T.A.M.I. Show, recorded in late October, 1964. At the time, Brown was doing essentially the same show as ’62. This will give you a flavor of it, until you go out and buy “Live at the Apollo.”)

The album almost didn’t come about. Brown was signed to King Records, whose owner Syd Nathan wouldn’t lay out the cash to record the live performance. Brown knew better, and had the wherewithal and foresight to underwrite the project himself.

Upon release it became an immediate sensation and a portal for white American teens who knew the Beach Boys were good, but not quite enough.

Brown and his entourage were skin tight that Wednesday night this was recorded. They’d been doing the set for a good while, and five times a day for almost a week at 253 West 125th Street, where the lines were long despite the biting cold.

It was the time of Cap’n Crunch and “How’d ya like a nice Hawaiian punch?”

The week this album was recorded, JFK blockaded Cuba.

But this set of music was funk that cut through the junk. The hit singles of the day were “Sugar Shack” — haven’t heard much from Jimmy Gilmer and the Fireballs lately — and the Singing Nun’s “Dominique.” The album charts were topped by Andy Williams’ “Days of Wine and Roses,” and Allan Sherman’s “My Son, The Nut.”

The live show Syd Nathan didn’t want to pay for spent 66 weeks on the pop charts, bulleting at #2 in the summer of ‘63.

That fall, my first college concert at Washington & Lee, then a small antebellum all-male, all-white university in rural Virginia: The James Brown Revue.

I was ready for star time. Still am.

James Brown’s “Live at the Apollo” is no less powerful today than the night it was recorded. It’s a thirty minute shot to the solar plexus. Listen and you’ll want to jump back and kiss yourself.

It’s the best live music ever recorded.

Those into Oldies but Goodies surely know without much brain racking that he sang “Mother In Law” The Top 40 song with the classic call and response. The lyrics in full:

(Mother in Law) Mother in Law/ (Mother in Law) Mother in Law

The worst person I know/ (Mother-in law, mother-in law)/ (Mother-in law, mother-in law)/ She worries me, so/ If she’d leave us alone/ We would have a happy home/ Sent from down below

Mother in Law/ Mother in Law

Satan should be her name/ To me they’re bout the same/ Every time I open my mouth/ She steps in, tries to put me out/ How could she stoop so low

I come home with my pay/ She asks me what I made/ She thinks her advice is the constitution/ But if she would leave that would be the solution/ And don’t come back no more

Mother in law/ My……mother in law

Well, the lyrics “Mother In Law” are sung on the record by a fellow named Benny Spellman, a two hit wonder himself (“Lipstick Traces (On A Cigarette)” and the original of “Fortune Teller”). The former of which two releases caused consternation to our Mr. K-Doe because of his lack of involvement in the projects.

Anyhow, a pal’s wife was in New Orleans recently and somehow hooked up with Spellman’s daughter. When he shared the story with me, I began riffing about K-Doe, perhaps the most eccentric of singers in a town that also produced the likes of Bobby Marchan (“There Is Something On Your Mind”), among other wackoids.

I mean, really, read that gravestone again to get the full effect of K-Doe’s faux sense of grandeur and importance.

So I shared the gravestone with my pals, then shared them another K-Doe tale. There are many.

One of the features of many of the yearly New Orleans JazzFests has been a Dew Drop Inn Revisted concert. That was the name of the local R & B club during the hey day of 40′s, 50′s and early 60′s. Maybe 15 years ago I went to one of the Revisted concerts in the ballroom of one of the hotels during the week between JazzFest weekends. Dave Bartholomew led the Big Band. They trotted out old stars, like Al “Carnival Time” Johnson and Marchan. Each sang their hit or hits. Next.

K-Doe was always a part of these shows, but he had only the one song to do. Yet his ego wanted a full set. He’d be tanked up, in his cups — he was what my mother would call a “shikker” (drunkard) — and he’d come out and do “Mother in Law,” stretching it out for as long as he could. So, on this night, he’s done the song and band is still vamping and K-Doe is trying to stretch it out more, and he shouts “Everybody who loves Ernie K-Doe, on your feet.”

The crowd is dutiful and into the spirit and does so. People are clapping, getting into it. After a bit, he goes “Everybody who loves Ernie K-Doe, wave your hands.” And so we do for another little bit, the band still running the chords in the background. Then comes, “If you love Ernie K-Doe, get out your handkerchiefs and wave them for Ernie K-Doe.” Those that are so equipped do so. So now he’s dragged this on for three, four, five minutes, the guy’s on the side of the stage, running the show, are looking to get him off the stage. Then, the coup de grace, our man shouts “Everybody who loves Ernie K-Doe, down on your knees.”

They then walked him off stage.