The Trapdoor.

February-March 2007. The trapdoor of the scaffold will open. And that right quick. You know this and still dread the noose. In Hooville they are conditioned to the annual ritual that occurs as the dead of winter surrenders to the moonsoons that turn Virginia clay into the morass.

The pine floor hasn't yet disappeared from below. Yet. But it only nurtures the apprehension. Like most gleams of hope tend to do.

You find the hope aggravating. It makes this time of year far more emotionally complicating than it's been in years past. It's simpler to pretend that you don't care about a team that loses to Iowa State, Providence, and Western Kentucky. Can't win on the road. Don't play past St. Patrick's Day. But they do play awful well at U-Hall. The disappointment becomes less disappointing, almost comfortable. This time around, all the familiar symptoms were there. L to Purude in Indiana, Appalachian State and Utah in Puerto Rico.

Knotted hemp continues to weigh on top of the spine, constrict the Adam's apple over the burns of other seasons. Pete Gillen. Gary Forbes, Keith Jenifer.

Travis Watson and Donald Hand.

The trap still holds. Road W's against North Carolina State, Clemson, Maryland, and (Singletary-willing) Virginia Tech. First place in Devil's Den, the slaughter pen that is ACC basketball. Any instant you expect to look up. Give the nod to the hangman. "Let 'er drop."

8-2 appraoching the Anniversary of the St. Valentine's Day Massacre. The zenith of the program in the 21st Century. Adam Hall. The poster shot in your head is indelible. You can see his face through the window of the glass. Legs akimbo. Clearing the cro-magnon ridges of the head of Shane Battier. The rim strangled by his hands. The ball, an afterthought.

And now, a new image. At the 2:23 mark below. The stare of death into the ESPN camera. Mind the point. The personal communication of a solitary message to every individual watching the screen.

"Fuck you, hangman." We're going to dance a little longer, floor intact.