Iceland review - 2004, Side 39

ICELAND REVIEW 37
Closed for the game. We head to the bakery. Closed for the game. Out of options, we pur-
chase a sandwich from the gas station loaded down with way too much mayonnaise.
Game time. A crowd of 600 jam into the tiny gym. Because the gym only holds about 450,
the crowd spills out onto the court, inches from the out-of-bounds line. Despite the constant
cheers of “Áfram! Snæfell!“ (I never knew 600 fans could make so much noise) the home
team is down by 21 points going into the fourth quarter.
But the fans keep the faith. The man sitting next to me, the manager of the town bank,
which also sponsors the team, repeatedly tells me: “We can still win.“
Two minutes into the quarter, Snæfell cuts the lead to 16.
“See, we can still win,“ he shouts over the deafening crowd.
Tired of his blind optimism, I look him straight in the eye and say: “No, you can’t.“
But the lead drops to 10 with three minutes to go. The crowd is worked up into a frenzy,
sounding like Portland’s old Memorial Coliseum during the early 90s when the Trail Blazers
were one of the premiere teams in the NBA.
“I told you. We’re going to win,“ screams the bank manager, his face red with excitement.
At this moment, I become a believer. Suddenly, Snæfell pulls ahead by two with under a
minute to go. The gym shakes.
Njardvík misses their next shot, and it squirts
out of bounds, underneath the Snæfell bas-
ket with only seconds remaining.
All Snæfell has to do for its first trip to the
finals is inbound the ball. But Njardvík steals
the ball, they toss up a last second shot and
it...rims in and out. The crowd rushes the
floor, mobbing the players.
The bank manager slaps me an awkward
high-five and runs onto the court, jumping
up and down with the joy of a school child.
His team has just turned a 21-point deficit
into a trip to the finals.
Local hero: Hlynur Bæringsson, of Snaefell.
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