The alarm starts before the sun even clocks in. BRRING. Not a cute little phone chime either. Not some gentle woodland fairy sound like, “Good morning, champion.” Nah. This thing sounds like a robot goose getting stepped on. BRRING. BRRING. The room is dark. The floor is cold. Your hoodie is somewhere in the shadow zone, probably plotting against you. Your shoes sit by the door like two silent witnesses. Nobody is watching.

Every coach has talent. Some find themselves in the bubble more often then not. Right there knocking on the championship door. The basket no longer has the strength of a backboard. Its just made up of another bubble. Not just one bubble but many. Its finding out the differences in culture of those teams bound for the bubble and those made of something a little different.