Duke can’t stand UConn because of 1999 and 2004. Kentucky can’t stand UConn because of 2011 and 2014. Kansas probably can’t stand UConn because UConn has more championships. North Carolina probably can’t stand UConn because Calhoun has more championships than Dean Smith. Indiana and UCLA probably can’t stand UConn because it’s the new blueblood where they once stood. Arizona can’t stand UConn for 0-5, and “goaltending,” and 2011. Syracuse can’t stand UConn. Georgetown can’t stand UConn. Washington DEFINITELY can’t stand UConn. And the rest can’t stand UConn because seriously, what the hell? You’re probably just tired of reading the word UConn.
I can’t stand UConn either, but not for the reasons most Arizona fans probably can’t. Is this hatred borne of jealousy? Of course. What they’ve done is no fluke. Let me be clear: you don’t win four national championships in 15 years on accident. Only two programs, ever, have won more in a shorter span of time: Wooden’s UCLA squads (11 in 13) and Rupp’s Kentucky squads (4 in 10). But UConn’s success is particularly galling for one specific reason:
I mean, look at that? You cannot find two programs more similarly situated than that. Ninety-five percent of all casual college basketball fans would not be able to tell the programs apart based on those stats alone.
Let’s go deeper. Arizona had been to one Elite Eight and two Sweet Sixteens before Lute Olson. UConn had been to one Elite Eight and three Sweet Sixteens before Calhoun. Arizona hired Lute Olson in 1984. UConn hired Calhoun in 1986. Olson won 587 games at Arizona. Calhoun won 629 at UConn . The only real difference was consistency. Oh, and there was one other thing:
National Championships
Arizona: 1
UConn: 4
Right. That. That’s really annoying isn’t it?
This is the argument I got into with a UConn fan once: our programs are far more similar than they are different. I just explained that his program had caught an unbelievable number of breaks in the NCAA tournament that we just never catch. He got offended and told me UConn won all of its championships because of never-say-die players who put the team on their backs and refuse to lose.
But playing 10 seeds and 8 seeds sure doesn’t hurt either am I right?
Again, there is nothing fluky about 4 national championships. But if we’re going to compare apples, let’s at least compare Granny Smith to Granny Smith, not Granny Smith to Macintosh. Arizona’s lost to a bunch of crappy teams in the first round of the NCAA tournament. Who knows how different our tournament history might look if that hadn’t happened. But UConn played in a few NITs too so that’s a wash. Regardless, in in the context of actual tournament placement we and UConn are very similar. So what is dissimilar?
Here’s a stat that might blow your mind: in six games at the Final Four or National Championship game level, Arizona has never played anything other than a 1 seed. Oklahoma, Arkansas, North Carolina, Kentucky, Michigan St., Duke. Each led by a Hall of Fame coach (alright, we’ll give Billy Tubbs a pass). Not a fluke in the bunch.
UConn has played some great teams in the Final Four and National Championship games, including maybe the best team to never win a national championship (’99 Duke). But here are some of the other seeds they’ve played in these games: 4 (Ohio St., 1999 Final Four); 3 (Georgia Tech, 2004 National Championship); 4 (Kentucky, 2011 Final Four); 8 (Butler, 2011 National Championship); 8 (Kentucky, 2014 National Championship). In fairness, the rest of the games (including the 1999 Duke game) were against 1 seeds.
Alright, fine, but what about getting to the Final Four? Well. Here’s where my irritation comes in: Since UConn played 10-seeded Gonzaga in 1999 (making their first Final Four), a year after Utah left us in pieces in our first Elite Eight without a subsequent Final Four, the highest seed they’ve met in the Elite Eight (3, Missouri in 2009) is equal to the lowest seed we’ve played (also 3, UConn in 2011). In that time they’ve played an 8 seed (Alabama, 2004), an 11 seed (George Mason, 2006, to whom they uncharacteristically lost), a 5 seed (Arizona, 2011), and a 4 seed (Michigan St., 2014). In other words, UConn (in the Calhoun + Ollie era) played a 3 seed in 1990; they played 1 seeds in 1995, 1998, and 2002. They lost all of those games. However, they have played a 3 seed or lower (as the higher seed) in the other six. Five of those times, they advanced to the Final Four.
We, on the other hand, have basically never caught a break in the Elite Eight, ever, except for the one year we beat three number one seeds, when we played the 10 seed in our region. Hell, even in the pre-Olson Elite Eight we played fucking UCLA (in LA of course). Let me put it another way: in the 10 Elite Eights we’ve played, going all the way back to 1976 (assuming we count UCLA as a 1 seed in that game) we’ve played the highest seed we could have possibly played in that game 7 times
1976: UCLA
1988: North Carolina – 2 (as a 1 seed)
1994: Missouri – 1
2001: Illinois – 1
2003: Kansas – 2 (as a 1 seed)
2005: Illinois – 1
2014: Wisconsin – 2 (as a 1 seed)
We have played the second highest seed we could have played 2 times
1998: Utah – 3 (as a 1 seed)
2011: UConn – 3 (as a 5 seed)
And then Providence in 1997.
Arizona fans are thirsty. Our Final Four drought has parched us. We have spent 12 years wandering in the desert of the Elite Eight, but really, we can trace the genesis of our Elite Eight tragedy back to 1998, where, in Anaheim, Rick Majerus and George Karl bled us dry on the floor of the Honda Center. What we need is some hope. And maybe some luck.
If you’re looking for that hopeful analog for Sean Miller’s career, you would do well to look at Jim Calhoun. Calhoun went to three Elite Eights from 1990 to 1998, playing a 1 seed, a 2 seed, and a 1 seed. Miller’s been to three Elite Eights in his career, playing a 1 seed, a 3 seed, and a 2 seed. Calhoun finally broke through in 1999, playing 10-seed Gonzaga. Another hopeful analog is actually my buddy, Bill Self, who didn’t break through until he played 10-seeded (and probably underseeded) Davidson in 2008 (which also represents the only time in Bill Self’s career that he was happy to have played a double-digit seed). And of course, although he had made two previous Final Fours, Olson beat a 10 seed on the way to his first title in 1997.
So basically, if we can catch a 10 seed in the Elite Eight at some point, we’ve got it made in the shade. Sometimes, all you need is one break.
