The NCAA Men’s Final Four is an all-out extravaganza. Everything about it screams top dollar. The motto, “The Road Ends Here,” is brought to life in every detail, from the star-studded hallways to the treatment of the players and even the media.

But the real MVPs aren’t the media, the players, or the programs. It’s the crew. That includes everyone from the ushers handing out transcripts to the security guards at every court entrance checking credentials, to the stagehands on standby with the platform and confetti for whichever team gets crowned champion. These people transformed a concrete dungeon into a space covered with carpet, curtains, stages, chairs, tables, and elite signage.

San Antonio has been an incredible host for the Final Four. Nothing is too far apart, and everything is within walking distance. The weather was perfect, not too hot and never too cold. And the city’s culture? It pops like no other. Restaurants along the Riverwalk have stood for over 80 years, some still managed by the fifth generation of the same family.

As a college basketball player by day and a sports journalist by night, I experienced this week from a unique perspective. I sat courtside, front row, at the National Championship game. I got to see on-court mannerisms and interactions that the average viewer or people sitting five rows behind me would miss. My favorite moment came during the Duke-Houston game when Cooper Flagg had the ball up top. With two minutes left in the first half, Caleb Foster shouted, “Go at his a**! Go at him!” It led to a Cooper and-1 bucket.

This plastic, laminated credential opened doors I never imagined, introducing me to people I’ve only seen on TV. I even got to take a picture with Hall of Famer Carmelo Anthony. I told him I’d kill him in a game of king of the court—three dribbles. Okay… I didn’t tell him that, but I’m pretty sure he knew from the look I gave him. Okay… the look was a smile with all 32 teeth showing—but hey, you get the point. I also met one of my most hated college guards ever: Nolan Smith. This time, I did tell him how much I hated him—but also that I respected him, which I do. He’s a Duke legend.

I walked the same tunnel as Dr. Julius Erving. I fist-bumped Marcus Morris nine times—we’re cool like that. And I had the pleasure of interviewing legendary referee Danny Crawford. He couldn’t have been kinder. He sat with me for five minutes and didn’t just answer questions—he gave life advice.

I also built real relationships with some of the players. Joseph Tugler of the Houston Cougars was one of my favorites. We got to a point where, if he saw me, he’d tell the other reporters, “I’m answering his questions first.” That’s the kind of connection you can build in this business. I witnessed it firsthand at the annual U.S. Basketball Writers Association Awards Luncheon, where I was surrounded by sportswriting legends sharing stories of lifelong relationships formed over the years. It really was amazing to be in that room and soak up the wisdom from those who came before me.

This entire week has been more than I could have ever asked for. Everyone I’ve met has been welcoming, helpful, and inspiring. This experience is something I couldn’t have dreamed of when I first applied to be part of the Sports Capital Journalism Program. I am forever grateful for the opportunity.

By Alec Millender

Comparison may be the thief of joy, but somehow I find myself overjoyed comparing the two chapters of my life. Back in India, I played basketball through school and college. I was a starter, won a few trophies, and loved the game. But the court was outdoors, tucked into a corner of a park, baking under the sweltering Mumbai sun. The scores were modest, if both teams combined for 40 points, it was a good day. And even fewer than the field goals attempted were the people in the stands.

College sports just didn’t matter much in India.

So, the idea of tens of thousands of fans rallying behind a college name, millions tuning in on national television, and tens of millions of dollars at stake? That genuinely stunned me. Sure, I’d followed the NBA and knew the hype around certain college players before the draft. But watching it unfold up close, that was something else entirely.

On the flight to San Antonio, the only program I really knew was Duke, its history and its roster. But I was there to cover the Florida Gators and the Auburn Tigers. I started doing my research, taking notes, and the more I read about Florida, the more impressed I became. I never let that admiration seep into my coverage, but it was not easy. As the days passed, the basketball knowledge sunk in deeper, and my excitement for tipoff hit a fever pitch.

I asked questions. I spoke to the players. I lived in the locker rooms and breakout rooms. And I loved every second of it. Little did I know, this was just the calm before the storm.

I came in with no expectations of being immersed in the NBA world I adore. But by the end of the weekend, after the Hall of Fame press conference and all the surrounding festivities, I felt like I could name a full, competitive NBA roster of future stars that I met. And that was the beauty of the experience: As the event went on, the shine of stardom faded, and what remained was the clarity of professionalism.

Back to the Final Four, with a renewed love for the game and an even greater thrill knowing where I’d be watching from. Floor seats for a tournament like this would cost thousands. But for me, they were priceless. Sitting beside the very people I hope to one day compete with, on the court, in the media room, and at the U.S. Basketball Writers Association luncheon, I felt nothing but excitement for the road ahead.

What unfolded on the court felt like a fever dream. Every game was competitive, every moment electric, every performance historic. Being just a few feet from the action made me feel like I was a part of the history books. I saw the love for college sports, the reverence for student-athletes, and the pure, passionate embrace of the amateur game.

My favorite moment — the one that replays in my mind like a highlight reel — was watching Walter Clayton Jr. drop 34. It felt like he couldn’t miss. The rim looked like it was on fire. That moment will stay with me as he continues to carve out his career.

The city was incredible. The weather was kind. The food? Even better. And knowing we narrowly missed a storm in Indianapolis made me savor this experience even more.

I’m leaving Texas with a heart full of memories, a notebook packed with stories, and a sharper pen. I tip my cowboy hat and pull on my Gators T-shirt as I head back to reality, knowing I’ve just lived a dream.

By Joshua Miranda