The Under Review - Issue 4 | Summer 2021

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mostly Goins just goes a little nuts and takes out a loan. Hires a few assistants. Sends them out west. He
manages to catch a few extra court storms a year, and the videos don’t exactly light up the internet, but
there is a market, and pretty soon Goins (who by this point has started drinking pretty heavily and become
obsessed with a creepy form of underground fame) is a known quantity. A pseudo-celebrity. He’s an injoke
for message board denizens and assistant coaches and desperate alumni, and some of these people
start showing up in the videos. They wait until the court storm’s moved to the second act, and then they
find the guy with the camera. You can’t miss him. It’s almost always Goins himself. They stand in front of
the lens and make faces. Hold signs. And Goins cuts around them pretty good, but he doesn’t eliminate
them completely (probably on account of he likes the attention (or the acknowledgement anyway)), and so
these guys (and it’s always mostly guys), they send the link around. Have their own little moment of lookat-me
minor fame, and it doesn’t end there either because even though Goins never publishes his location
(part of the mystery, he liked to say), a few enterprising fans replicate his algorithm and are then able to
guess, with alarming accuracy, where he and/or his staff might be on any given night, and then they just
spread the word on campus. They storm the court no matter what. Win or lose, and the whole thing
becomes orchestrated but no less interesting (though certainly interesting for different reasons), and this
goes on for a while until one night, at Gustavus (they say) or Augustana or Wartburg or La Crosse (and
maybe it’s a regional final or else a mere conference championship), the host team wins it late, and the
whole thing is ripe for adrenaline. For revelry. It’s classic textbook court-storm time, and instead what
happens is a race to the bleachers. To the camera. It’s all lost footage unfortunately, but word is it’s a
jumbled mess and mostly just shaking and the rustle of fabric, and Goins is under there somewhere, and
he’s sweating. Breathing. The chanting around him is rhythmic and sort of primally deep, and the only
surefire fact is someday somebody’s gonna find that tape, and it’ll be palsied and magnetic. By far the
most explosive little dancehall yet.
ISSUE 4 | SUMMER 2021