Jay Mariotti Ncaa Basketball

Is it me, or is the bluegrass spiked with cannabis? In Louisville, there stood Casanova Rick Pitino, lambasting the media for reporting "a total fabrication of the truth" when, in truth, he lived an extraordinary lie for years and didn't reveal his sin -- having unprotected sex with a woman in a restaurant -- until his legal mess required it. In Lexington, you have Long John Calipari, earning a record $31.65 million to coach the Kentucky Wildcats after fleeing another scandal in a career filled with them.

And on a highway in Lawrenceburg, there was Billy Clyde Gillispie, Calipari's deposed predecessor, so intoxicated according to a police report that his speech was slurred, his eyes were red and glassy and he had trouble opening the glove compartment of his 2009 Mercedes to retrieve his insurance card. "He was confused about how to unlock the vehicle and took several tries to unlock the glove box," the report said of Gillispie, who spent the wee hours Thursday in Franklin County jail after his DUI arrest.

And to think we debated, with considerable vigor, whether Michael Beasley or Derrick Rose had better character traits before last year's NBA Draft. Turns out the answer was "none of the above," which shouldn't shock anybody who knows how teenaged basketball phenoms are pampered, enabled and, in the end, used up like chew toys. Rose is the new poster child for academic fraud, having scandalized an SAT test and reduced Memphis' runner-up finish in the NCAA Tournament to a vacated, forgotten rat hole.

As for Beasley, he is a troubled soul who needed help and was fortunate to find it this week. He has checked into a Houston rehabilitation facility and is receiving treatment for stress-related problems that apparently include drug and alcohol issues. This came after a photo on Beasley's Twitter account showed a small plastic bag that appeared to contain -- well, you know -- and included recent postings that didn't suggest a well-adjusted mind:

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We take you to a living room someplace in America, where Rick Pitino is sitting with a mother, a father and a talented high school prospect. He is staring at the family with those dark, penetrating eyes, selling the tradition and virtue of University of Louisville basketball, trying to convince them why Jimmy Jumpshot should avoid the temptation of John Calipari and his rejuvenated program at Kentucky to sign with the Cardinals.

Suddenly, inevitably, Mom pops the questions: How can you take care of my son when you, Rick Pitino, acknowledged having sex with a woman at a table inside an Italian restaurant after closing time? And how can I respect your morals, Rick Pitino, when a married father of five and a devout Roman Catholic discreetly pays the woman $3,000 because she needed, uh, health insurance to cover an abortion? And why would I send Jimmy to Louisville, Rick Pitino, when you could be fired for cause at any time if the university decides you've violated a contracted morality clause for acts of dishonesty, "moral depravity" or "willful conduct that could objectively be determined to bring public dispute or scandal" during your tenure?

If LeBron James dares to venture online and see himself scorched by the masses, he might as well do some instructive Web-surfing, too. I suggest he call up a dubious Michael Jordan clip on YouTube, where a certain John Rogers, CEO of Ariel Investments, beats him in a one-on-one game at his "Flight School" basketball camp. What's funny is how Jordan opens with trash-talk -- "Don't be mad at me. I'm just too good for you," -- only to be schooled on three driving, twisting layups.

And how did the Greatest Player Ever respond to this professional embarrassment, which he knew was being taped? Oh, by hugging and congratulating Rogers, then willingly absorbing verbal abuse from comedian Damon Wayans while the other campers howled.

Whether it was arrogance, defiance or one last chance to kick start a fading coaching career, Tim Floyd knew exactly what he was getting into. And he had every chance to wiggle out of the trap when Rodney Guillory, a parasite known around the USC athletic department for his unscrupulous dealings with a Trojan basketball player, wandered into Floyd's office without an appointment three summers ago and offered him fool's gold.

"How would you like to have the best player in the country?'' Guillory said. "Have you heard of O.J. Mayo?''

Editor's Note: The following is an updated version of Monday's original column.

CHICAGO -- Don't make the fatal mistake of giving up, of saying you're exhausted by the sleaze, of surrendering to the hopeless truth that college basketball is just a corrupt one-year pathway to the NBA. The Derrick Rose cheating case is maybe the most alarming, disgusting example yet of why we must continue to fight abuses within the educational system. Barack Obama is passionate enough about sports to battle Bowl Championship Series politics and invite teams to his backyard every day, it seems.

Isiah Thomas once cornered me in a hallway and issued a warning, mob-boss-like. "If you squeeze me again, you'll be sorry," he said. I'm not certain what warranted the threat -- and it's nice to know I haven't awakened to a horse's head in my bed -- but it was a classic snapshot of what King Isiah was like when he ruled the world, when he was a two-time NBA champion, when he was the best little man who ever played the game.

Now, years later, he is humbled, deleting the mountains of scandalous cache in his personal hard drive and rebooting himself amid the smallest of templates. He is escaping New York, where his dreadful tenure as boss and coach of the Knicks was exacerbated by a sexual-harassment case against him, and attempting to salvage his career and life at Florida International University, where a basketball team that hasn't had a winning season in 10 years played to average crowds of 693 fans last season.

DETROIT -- They celebrated together, arm in arm, bouncing and hugging and laughing and ultimately crying as the confetti buried them. It isn't the best time for traditional brand names in America, with even the surest things reduced to chilling vulnerability in a volatile, wacky world. But the North Carolina basketball name, a constant for ages in this country, remains safe and secure.

DETROIT -- Maybe it's his folksy arrogance, the Huckleberry Hound-with-an-attitude rub. Maybe it was the way he lectured TV reporter Bonnie Bernstein, saying, "I could give a (bleep) about Carolina right now" when she asked about his future plans after his 2003 national title-game loss. Maybe it was the Kansas button he wore last year, a weird show of allegiance for an ex-employer in the championship game after the Jayhawks had whipped his Tar Heels.

Or maybe America simply is growing weary of North Carolina, the powder bluebloods who dominate April like azaleas at Augusta and fools on the 1st.

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DETROIT -- On command, when a local kid named Durrell Summers lifted off and nearly decapitated Stanley Robinson with a vicious dunk, a moving wave of green-swept humanity rose and rocked. Yes, your honor, this was a ridiculous homecourt advantage, a home-FIELD advantage of about 45,000 local crazies in a 72,500-seat football stadium, an advantage in ways freakishly unprecedented in the fiercely neutral extravaganza known as the Final Four.

Ford Field is guilty as charged.

And not a soul with a conscience should complain about it.

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