"I'm just trying to be a father now, son," said Ferdinand. "I'm concerned."
"I know it, Dad," said Lewis. "I appreciate it."
The restaurant was crowded and dark. A band was playing. The team members sat around, their emotions on the table now, and reminisced about the season, the game and all the games, ever. Someone telephoned Allen as Alcindor obliged the autograph-seekers.
"Signing and signing is O.K. for a while," he said softly. "But you know something about autographs? You know where they end up? Under the couch, in the desk drawers, stashed away in files and between letters and odd stuff. That bothers me."
Alcindor kept looking for Allen. Nobody knew when he was coming. "You know, I was going to dunk there at the end," Alcindor said. "I came out of the game before I could do it, but I really wanted to dunk one, especially for the rules committee. Lucius should be here. I bet he doesn't feel right."
Finally the night grew short and fatigue set in. Lucius Allen never arrived. Still the men of UCLA sat there, all of them, the three championships won, the yoke removed, the tension at last falling away. Lew Alcindor drank champagne, and the band played Days of Wine and Roses.