“These seats are great!” I shouted to my brother Greg over the crowd noise. We were just halfway up the stands with a perfect view of the action at the Philadelphia Spectrum. I’d driven up from Wilmington, Delaware, with my two boys, seven-year-old Matt and five-year-old Winston, to see my alma mater, University of Rhode Island, play Temple in the deciding game of the Atlantic 10 College Basketball Tournament. The winner would go to the NCAA tournament, aka March Madness. I was pumped. I never played college ball, but I’m a huge fan. These kids make shots on the court I couldn’t even make in my dreams. Amazing.
The first half was full of thrills. Then, at halftime, an official-looking man approached our row. “Excuse me, sir,” he said to me, “how would you like to participate in an on-court contest?”
I looked at Greg, puzzled. “Go ahead,” he said. “I’ll watch the boys.”
I followed the official to a small hospitality room underneath the bleachers. Three other fans were waiting. The official explained the rules. One of us would shoot from half court; if he didn’t make it, the next person would try from the three-point line. If that shot missed, the next contestant would shoot from the foul-line. If the first three failed, the last contestant got to attempt an easy layup. A successful shot won twenty-five hundred dollars!
We drew our shot locations from a hat. “Half-court,” mine read. Oh, great … The farthest away. Not a chance.
The fellow next to me pulled the three-point shot. “When we get out there, hurry up and shoot,” he said. “I am going to win this!”
I anxiously awaited our call onto the court. OK, God, I prayed silently, if I hit this, I’ll give you half the money.
Finally, I was handed the ball at half court. I wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans, dribbled and launched a high, arcing shot. The ball caromed off the backboard … and through the net. The Spectrum erupted.
I was still in shock the following Sunday when my wife and I attended mass at a Franciscan parish in a troubled area of Wilmington. The church had recently had a fire in the sacristy. After the service I told Father Barry and Brother David why I was making my large donation. “It was a miracle shot,” I said.
“More than you know,” Brother David replied. “Yesterday we got an unexpected bill for repairs following the fire. We wondered how we were ever going to pay it. Your donation—it’s for almost exactly the same amount.”
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