Stories involving family in sports can be overwrought or overly sentimental. The story of the Hurley family is neither.
I didn’t know if I’d ever see someone like Bobby Hurley in the NCAA Tournament again. This March, he’s back.
By Andrew Pridgen
He was the Kid ‘n Play generation’s answer to Maravich—punky and gaunt and off-putting—awkward to the point of believability. When Bobby Hurley initiated his dribble drive it’s like the rest of the court became one of those wood labyrinth games where you try to work the four knobs to navigate the impossible.
Hurley, the evasive marble.
It wasn’t just about handles for him, or the first step, or the no-look or the effortless floaters down low to the capable-in-the-clutch hands of Christian Laettner or Grant Hill or Thomas Hill; Hurley was like a chef, my JV basketball coach told me. He took ordinary ingredients and whipped up flavors nobody had ever tasted.
After willing Duke to back-to-back NCAA Tournament championships in the early ‘90s, a feat that…
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