WINSTON-SALEM, N.C. _ The motorcycle can be heard before it can be seen, the sharp roar of a revving engine. The sound is far away at first, then closer. Indoors, it sounds louder than it might outside. A faint smell of gasoline fills the air and that, too, becomes stronger.
Years ago, the sound became part of a pregame spectacle at Wake Forest basketball games. Those days aren't that far in the past: college kids on their feet in their gold and black tie-dye shirts; the Demon Deacon mascot emerging on the bike, the engine screaming.
After all this time, it never fails to be an odd sight: a mascot with an unusually large head, bushy white sideburns and a thick yellow bowtie, in a tuxedo jacket and top hat, straddling a vintage motorcycle and walking it around a basketball court.
Wake Forest started doing this in 2003, in Skip Prosser's second season as head coach. He wanted to create an energetic atmosphere. Later that year, he told the Washington Post: "People stop me at restaurants and in the neighborhood and say they haven't had this much fun at a Wake game in a long time, maybe ever."
Spectators, at one point, might have appreciated the Deacon on the bike. They might have fed off the noise. In better times, it was perhaps an effective way to energize a crowd. Now it was a Sunday in late January, about a week and a half ago, and the better times felt far away.
Wake Forest, 10 years removed from its last winning record in the ACC, was hosting Virginia, the reigning national champion. Outside of Lawrence Joel Coliseum, there wasn't a scalper in sight. Cars arrived without the hassle of traffic.
People trickled inside, unhurried. Ten minutes before tipoff, entire sections sat empty in the upper deck. Even in the lower bowl, lonely rows waited for company. Game time approached and soon came that familiar sound, a motorcycle humming in the distance.
The lights went dark. The Demon Deacon appeared on the bike, rolling the throttle. The public address announcer introduced the Wake Forest starting lineup. With each name, a flame rose from torches bearing the logo of Texas Pete hot sauce _ a production without much of an audience.
The Deacon circled the court. The revving continued, until he disappeared into the tunnel behind one of the baskets. The lights came back on, revealing an arena that was maybe one-third full. Soon it was quiet enough to hear the cheerleaders from the other end of the court.
The place smelled like gasoline and the environment felt sad. It was all enough to make anyone wonder:
Whatever happened to Wake Forest basketball?
