This Wildcats team may not be as talented as Jay Wright’s two championship squads. But they proved their worth in a hard-nosed win that puts them back in the Final Four.
SAN ANTONIO – Villanova guard Collin Gillespie grabbed the final rebound and sprinted across the court at the AT&T Center. He threw the ball toward the ceiling and unleashed a medieval scream. Anyone who caught that moment, brief as it was, would never have believed that Villanova and its Super Senior guard had just won a game so ugly, and so bruising, that it left a mark—several, really—that could be felt next week in New Orleans.
The contrast was evident immediately, the gulf between what Villanova had accomplished and how much it had cost them made painfully clear. While fans waved signs that read WE BELIEVE and the Wildcats’ mascot hopped on the back of a male cheerleader, the ladder taken out for net cutting remained empty, as did the makeshift stage set up for the celebration.
Instead, Gillespie beelined for a teammate. Most Wildcats gathered in a corner near their cheering section. They were surrounded by photographers, security guards and team officials, everyone huddled around guard Justin Moore, who had fallen late in the second half and was unable to rise without assistance. Armchair doctors across the country wondered if Moore had torn his right Achilles tendon, lowering the championship hopes of a team with shallow depth and an already hobbled captain in Gillespie.
Villanova (30–7) players wore championship hats as they checked on their fallen comrade, the juxtaposition striking, still. On any other night, with any other ending, the celebration would have been not just heightened but justified. This is a program that’s 20–3 in its last six NCAA tournaments, the mere three losses in five previous NCAAs owing to a pair of national titles, won in 2016 and ’18. This is a team that doesn’t feature an NBA lottery pick, that wasn’t a powerhouse all season (like Arizona, the region’s top seed) and wasn’t a trendy analytics darling (like Houston, the fifth seed and the Wildcats’ opponent Saturday night). While pundits questioned Villanova’s depth and the talent in its rotation, the Wildcats did what they have done all season. They won, moved forward and proved a lot of people wrong.
An obvious question lingered afterward: at what cost?
Jay Wright understandably wanted to save next week for, well, next week. He spoke, instead, of the pride that bubbled as he watched his team—playing a “true road game,” discounted, the Cougars’ late run, the Wildcats’ composure, the big shots. To Wright, Saturday spoke to a veteran roster, guys “who have been in the moment before.” No, he would not apologize for making another Final Four. He didn’t have to. “It feels great, man,” he said. “Never gets old. It’s the ultimate.”
Reality hit quickly, in the form of a question. How was Moore? An x-ray revealed no broken bones, Wright said, adding that an MRI will be performed when the team arrives back in Pennsylvania. “Probably not good,” Wright said, smile fading.
Before the injury, before tip-off even, Villanova jogged on court under the strangest circumstances. The Wildcats were the higher seed (No. 2), the more experienced team and the program with two national titles in the last six seasons. They were also underdogs against a lower seed with younger players, and, after watching Houston dismantle Arizona late Thursday, it wasn’t that difficult to see why
Houston had athletes, a veteran coach in Kelvin Sampson, played suffocating defense and displayed efficiency on both ends of the floor—the exact kind of makeup that portends a championship season. Despite losing three starters from last year’s Final Four team, then losing both its top scorer (Marcus Sasser) and its most talented Cougar (Tramon Mark) before Christmas, this Houston team wowed. When the Cougars knocked out Arizona on the same night Gonzaga lost, they became KenPom’s highest rated team left in the tournament. They said they didn’t pay attention to such rankings, but how, then, did they know about them?
Perhaps the expanding bandwagon had a point. But Villanova seemed to present its own matchup problems, and those were being overlooked. The Wildcats were balanced, if not deep; they also led the country in free-throw percentage, their 82.6 percent on pace to set a Division I men’s record, and Houston fouled a lot. Villanova didn’t mind the tortoise pace the Cougars force opponents into; the Wildcats preferred slow, steady and stealth. Maybe Villanova could out-Houston the Cougars. Maybe.
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A version of a home-state crowd filed into the arena to find out. During warmups, a group of Houston players gathered near the sideline to goof off and block each other’s shots. They laughed whenever someone swatted one. They certainly seemed loose, and they knew the crowd would roar behind them.
The Cougars won the tip, and, right away, a contest that lacked artistry—for anyone who’s not really into bruises—began the only way it could have: with a thud. The game came with its own soundtrack: the thwack of bodies colliding, the crash of players spilling to the hardwood like a pileup on the interstate, the grunts of large athletes trying to move other larger athletes and more than a few short cries in pain. Anyone who closed their eyes and just listened might have wondered if they had been transported from an arena to a horror movie.
