UPDATED: Aug. 1 at 12:56 p.m.

A stone-faced Michael Gbinije stands at center court.

“You know this is insane right?” he asked.

It was a dark and stormy night in Syracuse, also known as “Wednesday.” Inside of the Carmelo K. Anthony Basketball Center, four orange fold out chairs sat in the center of the gym. It was dead silent, with only the echoes of Jim Nantz calling the 2003 National Championship on an endless loop to break the tension. On one side, Gbinije, guard Trevor Cooney and freshman forward Tyler Lydon sat impatiently.

On the other side stood Jim Boeheim.

“It’s the only chance I’ve got,” said Boeheim sarcastically — even in times of distress, Boeheim sticks by his sarcasm like a 700-year old tick on a deer.

The players were silent for a moment. Cooney pulled out a wad of Big League Chew from his pocket and threw it in his mouth. After missing the first time, he tried again, this time successfully.

“If we do this, I get to take all the threes,” he said, giving Gbinije and Lydon a death stare before they can say anything.

Boeheim interjected, “Trevor you know I can’t let yo-”

“All the threes!” Cooney roared.

The plan was simple: fly to Indianapolis, break into the NCAA headquarters and steal the secret documents from the halls of the NCAA in order to repeal Boeheim’s nine-game suspension. The execution would be the tough part. Everyone knew that Mark Emmert had redesigned the NCAA, with its defense upgrade including sharks with laser beams on their frickin’ heads, security guards with semi-automatic NERF guns and John Thompson as head of security.

But desperate times called for desperate measures. Lydon felt it was an appropriate time to contribute.

“I have a suggestion,” he mumbled, as if to say it accidentally.

Boeheim gave Lydon a death glare reserved only for freshmen. The same glare that left legends like Michael Carter-Williams and Dion Waiters on the bench to freeze next to the lesser thans: video coordinators, medical staff and, god forbid, walk-ons.

Gbinije put on his non-prescription glasses and began to pace in front of a whiteboard with the season’s goals written on it. In Boeheim’s signature Comic Sans handwriting was the only goal for the 2015 campaign: “Average less than 60 points per game.”

The point guard shuddered at the grisly combination of basic computer font and sheer offensive horror and turned toward his audience.

“We all know Lord Emmert has made his palace impenetrable,” he said. “One cannot simply walk into the NCAA.”

“Sweet ‘Lord of the Rings’ ref,” Lydon said.

Boeheim yelped at the forward in a shrill tone reserved for coaches who have dealt with college students for 40-plus years. Like many Internet trolls, when Coach yelps, it normally signifies a one-star review.

“As I was saying, there’s a side entrance with two guards that is reserved for special guests and University of Miami boosters.” He continued, “That’s where we hit them. First the two security guards. Trevor, we’re going to need one of your signature long form jokes with no punch line.”

“Oh, like the one about the chicken who won’t cross the road?” said Cooney excitedly.

“Precisely. We’ll leak to the press that we are delivering a gift of peace in order to make amends with the NCAA. Once Lydon and I sneak Coach into the building in our Trojan Orange, we’ll navigate through the piles of money from their lucrative television deals until we reach Emmert’s office,” Gbinije said. “Then we grab the papers, change the word ‘suspend’ to ‘can immediately coach basketball’ and bolt out of there. All before Trevor finishes his joke.”

Gbinije removed his non-prescription glasses for effect, and took his seat. He let the plan marinate for a few moments, like a knock-off slider from Kimmel, before he lost his patience.

“So what’s the deal? Who’s in?” he asked nervously.

Boeheim picked his nose, affirming he was in. He then pointed to Lydon, giving him permission to also nod yes. Cooney took his time before replying.

“In,” Cooney said, “but there’s one thing I don’t understand about this whole thing…”

The room fell in silence to Cooney’s feet, it’s his stage to clear any grievances he may have, after this point, there’s no going back. He puts away his Big League Chew, bites his middle two fingers in a nervous fervor. After a breath, he delivers:

“Why male models?”

Danny Cuneo is a senior television, radio and film major. Just like Usher’s “Confessions” there will be a part 2. He can be reached at dacuneo@syr.edu.

Published on November 3, 2015 at 9:25 pm