Dear Mr. Ridnour,
Ask any student at Oregon, and they’ll say yes, they would tie you to a lamppost next to Mac Court. Yes, they will lock you in your house and camp outside on guard for a few months. Yes, they will ambush you in class, kidnap you and hold you for ransom.
The ransom? One more year.
One more year in lightning yellow. One more year of oh-my-gosh-where-did-that-come-from passing. One more year of slicing defenders like they’re birthday cake and hitting the Mac Court floor like it’s a swimming pool.
Talk to any student, and please, don’t even mention those dirty three letters. NBA. National Boring Association. The Next Best thing to Archery league. Nobody Brings it Association.
You really want to go to the NBA? You think Pat Riley is going to love you like Ernie Kent does? Think Vince Carter isn’t going to slice the tires on your new Lexus if you don’t pass to him enough … in practice?
C’mon, Luke, you were made for college ball. You were made to make the college girls swoon, and the girls love those curls. After the game Saturday, two girls waited at the top of the locker room stairs long after the game was over. One clutched a photo of your curly locks to her chest. “He is sooo fine,” she said. “I knooow,” her friend said.
Get to the NBA, and that conversation is held in a skybox.
“Who’s that rookie point guard?”
“Shut up and mix me a cosmopolitan.”
You’re not a mixed drink, Luke. You’re a beer. A non-alcoholic beer. A guy who turned down Playboy’s All-American team because of your rock-solid faith. You didn’t want to go to the Playboy mansion.
But in the NBA, Luke, the Playboy mansion comes to you. The limos are long and the champagne is bubbly. It’s another world. So stay in ours just a little longer.
I know, we’re a hassle, we here in the
media. We tell you what to do, try to form your opinion for you. But we here in Eugene are pussycats compared to the lions who cover the NBA. During your three years on the team, the hardest question I’ve asked you is, “How do you deal with academics when you’re on the road?” In the NBA, every reporter’s going to ask questions like “So, Luke, what about that test you cheated on in third grade?” every day.
I could go on. But enough about the NBA. What about Oregon?
What about Aaron Brooks coming in here next year? Sure, he’s talented, but remember your freshman year? Bad passes? Frustration? Struggling to learn a system? You don’t think you would’ve benefited from the tutelage of an NBA-bound point guard?
If you stay, next year’s team can practically sew the Final Four patch onto their jerseys before the season starts. Think about it. A healthy Luke Jackson, a three-point firing James Davis and you for the senior leadership. An older, smarter, battle-tested Andre Joseph to supplement athleticism. An older, smarter, hopefully bulkier Ian Crosswhite starting alongside an older, smarter Matt Short or Jay Anderson. Brooks, Jordan Kent and Adam Zahn coming off the bench. That should send chilly shivers up your spine. Chilly shivers.
Am I in denial about the fact that you’re NBA-bound? Hell yes. I’m in denial about this as much as I was in denial that Onterrio Smith could leave early, that Gary Payton could ever get traded from the SuperSonics, that there could ever be a hockey team in Phoenix. Denial is a sports fan’s middle name.
Denial also explains why thousands of fans chanted at you this weekend, audibly willing you to stay. I won’t leave you with those three words, those words that cascaded on you like a waterfall all weekend. You probably wake up in the middle of the night with those words ringing in your head.
I will, however, leave you with three words of advice.
Watch for kidnappers.