NEW ORLEANS — It came for him as it comes for all of us, that line of zeroes, sudden as a scream. The minutes became seconds, and the seconds became fractions, and then the void arrived.
The most anybody can hope for is to see it coming. Now, here it was, high above the hardwood, framed against a cavernous dome, the clock counting down its final moments on a lonely figure below.
It came for him as it often does, on its own terms, without sentiment, or glory, or any hint of regard for mortals’ best-laid plans. Sitting on a stool at the far edge of the Superdome’s elevated court, Mike Krzyzewski heard the buzzer sound, and he rose to his feet to leave.
