(Ed. note: This article ran in the Milwaukee Journal on March 22, 1987 and is republished with the permission of the Journal-Sentinel.)

Of all the awards and all of the mementos the one that means the most to Al McGuire today is a simple 8x10 photo that hangs at eye level in the family room of his Brookfield home.

The picture was taken 10 years ago -- March 26, 1977 to be exact -- at the Omni in Atlanta. Jerome Whitehead's last-second shot has just been ruled good. Marquette has beaten the University of North Carolina-Charlotte, 51-49, leaving McGuire just one victory away from college basketball's biggest prize: the NCAA championship.

And there, amidst the roar and the confusion, before the crowded scorer's table, McGuire and his son Robbie are reaching for each other, with arms open, about to embrace with joy.

"Today, if I ever look at that picture for more than four or five seconds, it brings tears to my eyes," McGuire said. "It's just something you look for in certain moments, whether it be peaks or valleys. You always look for someone you love to touch."

"That's 25 years in one picture. All those nights, those wet jocks, all the years in Belmont Abbey, two years living by myself in the gym at Dartmouth College, trying to explain why. Even now, I still say to myself, 'Why am I still fighting? Why is it so important to compete?' But, I guess you are what you are. When it gets down to the short strokes, you return to your neighborhood, your environment, and mine was the streets."

Two nights later, McGuire and his Warriors were national champions, having beaten North Carolina and Dean Smith's four corners offense, 67-59. Today, McGuire still refers to it as "the magical weekend" -- when the sport's most colorful, controversial coach walked offstage on top at the conclusion of his final season.

"Sometimes, I wonder, 'How did it happen?'" McGuire said. "I had seven or eight better teams than that. One reason, I think, was the fight at halftime with Bernard Toone at Omaha during the Cincinnati game, the first game of the tourney. I hit him, and the whole room ignited to break us apart, and for some reason, right there, was a championship wrist watch.

"We came out in the second half, moved by them. We had the Big Mo and the next thing I knew I was crying where Sherman burned the city down."

For almost an hour, McGuire talked on -- touching on his most vivid memories of Marquette's march to the NCAA title. Once again, he relived it all -- his fear that the Warriors, who had seven losses wouldn't get a bid; his lucky suit and his angry tirade at the NCAA after MU beat Kansas State; his worries and fears on that Final Four weekend in Atlanta; his street-kid strategy after Whithead's last second shot in the semifinal; and how he turned the four corners against the Tar Heels to make history.

"After we lost our final home game to Wichita State, I thought it was taps," said McGuire, who had announced his retirement in December. "I thought it was an early run to the pools and the meadows. I was coming off a 12-year run, and we happened to fall down, seven losses. It proves you can't have a lame duck. People got to know who their leaders are. I thought it was no last run at the Big Dance.

"The thing that started to sparkle, to let us see light way down there in the well, was our win over Virginia Tech at Blacksburg. I thought then, if we stayed in Whirlaway gear, we might slip in as one of the last five teams. We didn't find out until halftime at Michigan, our last game. Thank God, they didn't wait until the game was over, because we lost."

It was the start of the final five-game road stretch of the regular season that McGuire donned that would become known as his "lucky suit" -- a black sport coat and gray pants that he wore all the way to the championship.

"It became a superstitious thing," he said. "I used to stand in the corner, jump in and out of it, because if anyone realizes what a coach goes through, there's no way you'd keep it on after the game. We didn't clean it or anything. In fact, it became the job of the 12th guy to carry it on and off the bus."

Psychologically, McGuire was in emotional turmoil the final weekend at Peach Tree Street -- trying to hide his insecurities behind a wisecracking, confident facade, and reaching back to the tough street-smart philosophy of his youth for inner strength.

"I remember constantly wanting to be alone, and wanting to be touched," he said. "But the lobbies, the watering holes, were all so hoop-oriented that all you can do is go to a gas station, pick up some suds and crackers with peanut butter in 'em and sit somewhere on a bench."

"I constantly told myself, 'Don't overcoach.' I was trying not to show my nervousness for the players, so I became a flip side, macho, almost like a galactic warrior. But inside, we all have our insecurities. You put on your Sonny Liston stare, your Ali verbal stuff, but inside I think all thoroughbred athletes have uncertainly, the fear of being unsuccessful. For me, success was the fear of returning to being a bartender, or going back to Belmont Abbey College."

"When my competitive juices are flowing, I prefer you have Napoleon on your side, because we're going to beat you. When I get in the gutter, I don't care if you're the Amboy Dukes or the Outlaws. My gang's going to win. Or, we'll leave a part of ourselves there. It's foolish, I suppose, but that's why a person who can't spell or read can have these moments. It's their instinct."

McGuire's philosophy worked, when pandemonium broke out after Whitehead's last second shot.

"I argued so hard about the clock, because I didn't want them to get around to Jerome's hand being in the cylinder," McGuire said. "I also believe, in a riot or revolution, that debators can't win, because they must have quiet rooms, confessional boxes, or a podium."

"After Jerome's shot, it was an alley, it was salty, tugboat language. I remember Coach [Lee] Rose trying to speak the way presidents of universities speak, and I kept slicing and going on like a barracuda, and the nicest motion I ever saw in my life was when Paul Galvin, the ref, asked the timer, who said the ball was out of J's hand, and then he turned around and gave the dunk sign."

McGuire said the championship was decided during a 2-minute 36-second span in the second half, after Carolina had charged back from 12 points down to a 45-45 tie and Smith ordered his team into the four corners. McGuire countered by having his players fake a man-to-man defense, then falling back into their zone, a maneuver that brought action to a halt, stopped the Tar Heels momentum and ate up the clock.

"The clock, I felt, was my friend. They were the odds-on favorites and their sweat was drying," McGuire said. "They were losing momentum, even though nothing was being done. There was no scoring but there was something happening."

"That 2 1/2 minutes was the key to the game. It was like taking a timeout, losing a contact lens, something to ice the other club. Then they missed the shot, Butch scored and turned 'em. After that it was Wisconsin Av, every light in Milwaukee was on, and the phones overloading the phone wires between Atlanta and back here."

What McGuire seemed to enjoy most was talking about his players -- his players --who complemented each other so well that they pulled off what many of the more talented teams had never been able to accomplish.

"They all knew their roles," McGuire said. "Jerome stayed close to the iron, Butch was a wild card, a roamer who could do whatever he wanted, within reason. Bo Ellis was the leader, the quiet, unassuming leader with steady performances in all areas.

"Bill Neary was the horse, the hammerer, expendable, the toughest guy on the block who made it all happen. Jimmy Boylan was the rock, the tough. He had ice in him. And when Bernard came in, it was talent, and aristocratic talent, not black and blue talent, the talent of a violin player, an artist.

"It was Ulice Payne, the heady player who never turned the ball over. And two guys who played above their heads - Gary Rosenberger, who could be the point guard, or the shooter, and Jim Dudley the cloud piercer, who was the surprise of the tournament. Christ, did he play! He played like a person possessed."

The final key to Marquette's success, McGuire felt was the coaching trio of himself and his assistants, Hank Raymonds and Rick Majerus.

"We worked because we didn't associate socially and our rhythms were different," McGuire said. "Hank was the encyclopedia, the administrator, the rule book with solid basketball knowledge. Rick was the cousins sandwich, the guy to bridge the age gap with the players, the recruiter with a flair for modern-day basketball.

"I was the Houdini, who did his disappearing act. I know that 85 percent of me is buffalo chips, and the other 15 percent is rare talent. I'd say in that 15 percent, in the mental toughness, the media, keeping an eye on the elephant, not the mice, and extending the life of the extinct kiwi bird, which is nocturnal."