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Last year’s defeat was galling. The Fanboys didst prevail by a paltry point in a desolate conquest of the Hacks. Through the 375 days since, scribes have brooded in obscurity. Just the percussive echo of jump shots in empty gyms, repetition bordering on monastic penance. Muscle memory became manifesto.

On the day of our lord Feb. 19, 2026, the demimonde Hacks exacted revenge with a 43-42 triumph — again, by nary a single count on your finger — to take ascendancy of the vaunted Euclid Avenue. Veteran scribe Justin Girshon was phosphorescent, on all night like a set of porch lights, dialing in from distance against the call-in radio brethren. Fifteen points in his Dome denouement — a career apogee, a magisterial valedictory blaze.

“I remember, bro, I was so down, mad,” Girshon ruminated on 2025’s fizzle. “I was like, ‘How did we lose this game?’ Like, we didn’t play too well, but like we were in it, like we had a chance. And, it’s been a year in the making.”

The Fanboys didst not answer unto the waning moments, palpitations thumped in heart of head man Nicholas Alumkal. But genuflecting turned to gyrating. A heave from the corner — twisting through space like a prayer without a parish. And it fell short. No miracle. No sequel. Just catharsis.

Senior scribe Aiden Stepansky ne’er once departed the sacred planks of James Arthur Boeheim Planks, but lingered as maestro, conducting the Hacks’ bright symphony of offense — striking each resounding note with anthemic aplomb.

On defense? The Hacks were merciless virtuosos. They smote the floor like a tempest-tossed mariner, hurling their mortal coil upon the timber in pursuit of every loose and wayward sphere. They soaked up opponents like a paper towel devours milk, diving for loose balls as if Costco were selling hustle in bulk. They were Velcro dipped in glue.

Senior scribe Aiden Stepansky conducted the Orange’s offensive symphony — and the result was a mellifluous aria of destruction. Tara Deluca | Asst. Photo Editor

The anointed five stood revealed in noble array: stout and sinewed Will Chadwick, wielder of both strength and subtle craft; Timmy Wilcox, veteran of the ink wars, cool as a polar bear’s toenail upon Arctic stone; and James Hoagland, editorial conjurer and digital alchemist, soon to take his leave yet blazing brighter than moonlight through the pines.

Howe’er Hacks hailing from 230 Euclid assembled on sideline and baseline — full of vim and vinegar — ebullient and perfervid, holding cardboards countenances of the preeminent scribes.

Ere battle was joined, a sumptuous serenade of the Star-Spangled Banner unfurled from the mellifluous throats of Otto’s choristers. Then, the sphere was cast aloft, and lo, the fray commenced. Tussle answered basket, and basket answered tussle, swift as a hiccup, sharp as a porcupine’s backside.

Through the early frissons and flying elbows, the Hacks stood thick-skinned as a Pinot grape in harvest season — unbruised, unbent, unbowed.

The contest clung tight as a drum snare pulled to its limit, each side butting horns like rams upon a crag. Yet the Hacks, with better moves than chess grand masters and twice as cunning, began to pry the game open. They threw balls into laundry baskets with the accuracy of Robinhood with an arrow. They stretched their slender advantage like taffy drawn warm from the fire, lengthening it possession by possession, thread by golden thread, until the tapestry of triumph shimmered faintly in view with a 18-11 advantage at the entr’acte.

“We poured a lot of effort into this and for that to culminate in the way it did, like you couldn’t have wrote a better script,” Girshon opined.

Nay, this script would not stride in a straight and narrow line. It would coil and contort with more twists than a bargain-bin garden snake knotted in mortal combat with a flimsy hose.

Plain sailing? Perish the thought. This narrative refused docility. It twisted like a Möbius strip.
In the crepuscular ticks of the homuncular timer, the Fanboys ignited from distance — 3s exploding like champagne corks at a coronation. The edifice festooned by JMA Wireless vibrated. Momentum turned mercurial. The defense wobbled like a chandelier in an earthquake.

The sophomore triumvirate of assistants to the head man Jordan Kimball, Mauricio Palmar and Harris Pemberton — who hold the sobriquet “The Johnsons” — brought brio from the bench. Tara Deluca | Asst. Photo Editor

Yet, the Hacks paid tribute in bruises. Girshon, valiant marksman, was left near lame, each step a quiet mutiny. Chadwick crashed to the hardwood on a daring layup, the floor greeting him with the cold kiss of consequence. And Arnav Pokhrel — sparkplug of the photo guild, fearless though armed but with lens and nerve — took elbows to the brow like a war correspondent embedded in the paint. The fray cared not for press credentials nor tender flesh.

The Fanboys reeled in the Hacks like fishermen bringing in a great Orange garibaldi. Nemo was found. Could he evade capture, trailing 31-30, the first edge the Fanboys held since nary 2-0?

Then, Girshon, on only one leg, hobbling, hungry for victory, sank his flaming spear into the heart of the Fanboys with a strenuous parabola that arced toward the firmament, vellicated the backboard and ensconced into the auld onion bag.

Lo, it became a breathless chase unto the very brink of doom. It was the charity stripe that stood as judge and altar for the Hacks, whilst the Fanboys were summoned to prove their long-range aim unremittingly.

Senior scribe Timmy Wilcox battled through gritted teeth to gain victory in his Dome denouement. Tara Deluca | Asst. Photo Editor

In the final instant, with but two ticks left upon the clock and one cruel point dividing fate, the Fanboys didst possess a chance to steal ahead. The game balanced like a balloon on a needle in a cacophonous wind tunnel. A murmur of controversy stirred the air — yet what threatened tumult turned instead to gratifying catharsis for the Hacks, as the last thrust went wanting.

“In the huddle, I told us we had to punch him first, which we did,” Girshon said. “Yeah, they punched us back. But, we just punched them. We punched them back. We got the last punch. That’s all we needed.”

Bruised were the Hacks — incarnadine from elbow to knee. Battered and burned out, too. But, in the end, they came out on top.

Revenge, it turns out, is best served incandescent. The Hacks answered sorrow with steel and wrote redemption in bold ink.

W.F. Whence is a germanificated staff sculptor for The Daily Orange, where he re-germanificated to sculpt this glistening prose.

Published on February 21, 2026 at 9:26 am