From the Sports Desk

A Word About Scotty Thurman

The shot stopped the game. Time didn’t.

That’s the part people forget.

When Scotty Thurman rose up and drilled that jumper to win a national title for the Arkansas Razorbacks over Duke Blue Devils, the arena froze. History locked in. The ball dropped through, and everything felt permanent.

But permanence is a feeling.

Time is a mechanism.

I was living with Katie then. Watched the game with Tony and David. We were young enough to think moments stacked — that the people in the room would always be in the room.

Tony’s gone now. Cancer.

David too.

Katie faded out of my life after six years, for good reasons. No blow-up. Just drift, like tides pulling different directions.

Coming back to Fayetteville after 30 years away has been good. Grounding. But it’s also layered. Same streets, different roster. Places don’t just hold memories — they hold versions of you. Every familiar corner has a ghost of who stood there before.

That’s what time actually does. It doesn’t argue. It doesn’t make announcements. It just keeps moving the pieces, whether the game feels finished or not.

The shot proved everything that needed proving. Skill under pressure. Nerve. Alignment of stage and performance. But alignment isn’t a monument. It’s a window. And windows move.

You think the achievement buys breathing room. Another season. Another cycle. Another chance to stack something on top of it.

Time doesn’t stack like that.

It re-prices immediately.

Nothing about the beauty of the shot changed. The banner still hangs. The memory still hums every March. But the room changed. The faces changed. The version of me in that room doesn’t exist anymore.

That’s the caution.

The game can stop.

The crowd can roar.

The proof can be undeniable.

Time still moves.