Hoop, There It Is

With the Big Dance Looming, Would-Be Cinderellas the Nation Over Start Trying on Slippers

IF THE PROSPECT of reading another story about Barry Bonds's rear end, and what he injected into it, makes you want to swear off sports forever, allow me to suggest you tune in to the various NCAA Division I men's basketball conference tournaments that are taking place this week. Not the behemoths like the ACC or Big East -- the amount of money involved there renders that game virtually pro anyway. No, check out the smaller conferences -- the Patriot League, for example, whose final will be tomorrow at 4:30. These players will never make it to the NBA, and almost certainly (but not always) will be cannon fodder for whomever they face in the first round of the NCAA Tournament. They play because they love the game, and when they win, they don't strut the sidelines and wait for the cameras to catch them in mid-scowl. They hug, they cry, they thank their coaches, and they get ready for the best week of their young lives. It's a refreshingly uncynical display, and it's enough to restore your faith in sports.