For years, the sharper edge of this rivalry has been felt most strongly in football, where tense postseason meetings and occasional flare-ups have added texture to an already combustible relationship. Geography has done the rest.

West Springfield opened in 1966, when nearby Lorton’s large correctional complex still shaped land use and slowed surrounding residential development. When the facility closed in 2001, the area changed quickly. Growth accelerated. New neighborhoods followed. With them came the need for a new high school. South County opened in 2005, drawing students largely from West Springfield and Hayfield.

The result was fertile ground for rivalry. West Springfield has often carried a more established suburban profile, while South County reflects the speed, variety, and unevenness of newer growth alongside older working-class pockets. Yet the divide is never complete. Many students have grown up together through youth sports. In soccer circles especially, nearly everyone knows everyone else.

That combination—shared history, new boundaries, overlapping friendships, and contested identity—is ideal material for sport.

Tuesday Night’s Meeting

Both teams entered with four points from three district matches, well placed but hardly secure in the notoriously difficult Patriot District. A win would lift either side. A loss would tighten the pressure with the postseason approaching.

Even before kickoff, the contrast was visible. West Springfield looked the more physically imposing side—taller, broader, more mature. South County appeared younger, lighter, quicker, a team whose confidence would need to come through movement rather than force.

The opening quarter-hour belonged to the Stallions.

South County circulated possession sharply through midfield, using angles and short combinations to move West Springfield from side to side. Their control was driven by Diego Ramos, who set the tempo with energy and authority, repeatedly receiving under pressure and moving play forward. What they lacked was the final connection in the attacking third.

Territory was theirs; chances were not.

The Match Turns

With roughly twenty minutes remaining in the half, West Springfield struck against the run of play. Elijah Soriano combined neatly with right winger Michael Garcia. With South County stretched and retreating, Soriano received the return pass outside the area and bent a measured finish into the far-left corner.

It was a goal of intelligence more than power: the right choice, perfectly executed.

And it changed the emotional balance of the match.

West Springfield grew immediately in confidence. The Spartans began to win more second balls, contest midfield more forcefully, and play with the authority of a side newly convinced of itself. Much of that shift came through captains Daniel Minnar and Christian Sadek, whose presence gave the team structure and edge.

South County, however, responded before halftime.

A handball in the area brought a penalty, calmly converted by Diego Ramos, restoring parity and rewarding the Stallions for their persistence.

The equalizer opened the match further.

West Springfield continued to press and soon found reward. After a corner was not fully cleared, Joaquin Irazabal reacted first, driving a one-touch finish powerfully through traffic and into the net. It was the sort of goal rivalries often produce—not elegant, but sharp, forceful, and born of alertness.

Closing Stages

From there, the contest became stretched and urgent.

South County’s midfielders Ramos and Kevin Ponce searched persistently for the elusive Azarya Mikel, dangerous on the ball and capable of unsettling defenders anywhere near the box. But West Springfield’s back line, organized and disciplined, protected the 2-1 lead through the closing stages.

The final margin was narrow, as these matches often are. Two talented sides, two strong midfields, and a handful of moments separated them.

Both now move on in a district where little is given easily. The regular-season title remains in play, but so too does the equally valuable matter of postseason seeding, with the tournament less than three weeks away.

The Larger Story

Some rivalries are born of old grudges.

Others emerge from changing suburbs, new schools, and former teammates now wearing different colors.

Those can be just as fierce.

Locally, the consequence was predictable. More than a dozen of Northern Virginia’s best high school players would miss matches this week in order to compete there. Others who have scarcely appeared this spring may yet return in time for the postseason.

That is the modern landscape: school loyalty on one side, elite pathway logic on the other.

Friday’s schedule in Fairfax, Arlington, and Alexandria was relatively light, so attention drifted south and west. Prince William County offered several intriguing matchups, most notably the second meeting between Battlefield and Osbourn Park. Battlefield had surprised many by winning the first encounter 2–1. Osbourn Park, meanwhile, has several players involved in MLS Next circles, so the assumption was simple enough: they would be in Texas.

They were not.

I was told they had skipped Flex in order to play this high school match.

That was not a small decision. Players occasionally find ways to appear for school teams when club obligations suggest otherwise. But missing a premier showcase event to remain with classmates for a regular-season rivalry match is rarer. It suggested something worth seeing.

So I made the drive to Manassas.

I grew up in Fairfax County, barely ten miles from Osbourn Park High School, yet had never been there. In those days, Prince William felt like another jurisdiction entirely—more rural, more working class, and, in the mythology of Fairfax kids, somehow tougher.

Much has changed. Prince William today is unmistakably part of Northern Virginia—diverse, growing, and linked to the same currents as its neighbors. But traces of a distinct identity remain. Rivalries there still feel local in the older sense: rooted in geography, pride, and memory.

Battlefield against Osbourn Park is one of them.

In soccer, we borrow the word derby for such occasions. In Prince William, one could make the case that nearly every county meeting qualifies. Battlefield occupies a particular place in the local imagination. Strong across numerous sports, affluent by county standards, and accustomed to success, it carries the aura of a program others measure themselves against.

Osbourn Park entered the season with its own ambitions. Led by captain and right winger Ryan Lucero, they were viewed by many as a potential state contender. But the season had been uneven: four wins from eight, a loss to nearby rival Osbourn, defeat to Battlefield, and dropped points elsewhere. Friday carried real stakes. Another setback, and the regular season risked slipping from their grasp.

You could sense that in the warmups.

Battlefield, physically, is difficult to ignore. Junior center back Grayson Homan stands 6-foot-4, flanked by more height around him. They are formidable on set pieces, disciplined without the ball, and among the most direct teams I have seen this year.

That directness also carries risk when buildup play breaks down. Roughly ten minutes in, Osbourn Park, Mychael Ayala intercepted a careless pass as Battlefield attempted to play out from the back. Ayala waited just long enough for Ethan Nguyen’s run, then released him clean through. Nguyen finished calmly across goal.

Battlefield’s response was immediate and excellent. Left back Frank Saldana produced the run of the night, driving through the left channel, reaching the byline, and cutting a low cross back for Aiden Kraja, who guided home a clever header from close range.

The match had life.

Osbourn Park regained the lead through Martin Guevara, whose inswinging free kick from near the right sideline bent viciously enough to strike the underside of the far crossbar and in. The goalkeeper had no chance.

After halftime, the balance shifted decisively.

Lucero, increasingly influential down the flank, approached the touchline and cut the ball back early. Melvin Mendoza arrived in stride, took a clever touch into space, and struck with force. It was the sort of goal that changes mood as much as score.

From there, Osbourn Park surged.

Junior Luis Aguilar saved a penalty. Guevara added his second after controlling a long ball and finishing cleanly. Nguyen also completed a brace, this time from a knuckling free kick struck from well beyond 35 yards.

What had begun tense and balanced ended 5–1.

That scoreline may flatter the winner slightly, but not by much. Osbourn Park looked like a side reminded of its quality. Battlefield looked dangerous in moments, but once chasing the match they lost some of their shape, and the spaces grew with it.

There are nights defined by tactics, and others by emotion. This one offered both, but above all it offered goals—many of them memorable.

Osbourn Park remains alive in the regular-season race, with a major meeting against Cedar Run District leader Osbourn next Friday. Battlefield turns quickly to its own response.

And somewhere in Texas, scouts watched another tournament.

But in Manassas, under the lights, a different choice had been made.

I suspect the Osbourn Park players were content to wake up at home.

Coaches who have worked across both boys’ and girls’ programs often note a difference in rhythm. The girls’ game tends to sustain structure and collective responsibility; the boys’ game, particularly in lower-stakes matches, can rely more on individual moments and fluctuate accordingly.

The two matches, both non-district, seemed to reflect that distinction.

The boys played first. Though both teams entered from different directions—Oakton at 7–1, McLean at 2–5—the match carried the feel of a friendly. Key midfielders were held out, the tempo was uneven, and possession often lacked urgency. Moments of quality appeared, but sporadically. Given the level of both programs, the game never quite settled into a sustained rhythm.

McLean’s 4–1 win, powered by Joshua Barnes’ hat trick, while surprising on paper, felt consistent with the flow of the match—moments that broke their way, aided at times by Oakton’s lack of sharpness, rather than sustained control.

The girls’ match, by contrast, began at full intensity and rarely relented.

Despite the non-district setting, there was no sense of calibration or restraint. From the opening whistle, both sides played with urgency, structure, and intent—less as individuals managing a schedule, and more as a collective responding to expectation.

Oakton struck first through a set piece, as Katelyn Ingrao’s corner was driven toward the near post and met decisively by captain Ella Dennis.

The pressure continued. Within minutes, Maddy Ok capitalized on a misplayed ball from the McLean back line, finishing with composure to double the lead. Shortly thereafter, Taryn McFeely produced the moment of the night, turning sharply off an Ingrao pass, slipping past a defender, and lifting a finish over the goalkeeper from outside the box.

At 3–0, the match might have drifted. Instead, it sharpened.

McLean responded with resilience, led by freshman Naomi Plerhoples, who showed both pace and composure in front of goal. Her two finishes—both taken intelligently inside the box—pulled the Highlanders back into contention.

What followed was tension rather than control. Oakton, having dominated early, was forced to manage the game more carefully. McLean, encouraged by the comeback, pressed higher and looked increasingly dangerous in transition.

The decisive moment came from quality once more. Maddy Ok found Katelyn Hubbard wide on the right. Cutting onto her preferred left foot, Hubbard curled a shot beyond the goalkeeper from distance—a goal of both technique and clarity, restoring Oakton’s margin at a critical point.

The final stages were open and contested, McLean continuing to push and Oakton forced to defend with greater urgency than earlier in the match. The 4–3 result reflected not only Oakton’s attacking quality, but McLean’s refusal to fade.

If the boys’ game drifted, the girls’ game demanded.

Not simply in effort, but in consistency—the ability to sustain structure and purpose regardless of circumstance. The celebrations told part of the story—collective, immediate, and shared. More revealing was the way the game itself was played: with clarity, connection, and visible commitment to one another and to the instruction being carried out.

Two non-district games, played on the same field, under the same conditions.

But very different rhythms.

It is not always fair. But it is often real.

Marshall arrives as a quiet exception.

No one spoke much about them at the start of the season. There was little reason to. In a seven-team Liberty District, they have typically finished near the bottom. And yet, this spring has unfolded differently. The results have come quietly, but convincingly: a win over perennial power Westfield, and Oakton’s only loss of the season. Their lone defeat came against West Potomac, the area’s top-ranked side.

The question now is not whether they are good, but how good.

Tuesday night provided a clearer measure.

Langley, under the experienced and ever-calculating Bo Amato, has shown signs of life with a young group anchored by standout goalkeeper Cooper Popovich. It was the opening conference match for both teams—early, but not without consequence.

From the opening exchanges, the difference was clear.

Marshall is not simply energetic. They are deep and talented—athletic, yes, but also technically secure across the pitch, able to sustain pressure rather than rely on moments. What stands out most is the front line: Imad El Yagouti, Amen Kumelachw, and Drew Clague. Three attackers of similar profile—direct, explosive, and comfortable operating at speed. High school teams rarely field one player of that level. Three changes the geometry of the game.

El Yagouti, an East Tennessee State signee, set the tone almost immediately. A quick turn, a strike from distance—30 yards—and suddenly Langley was chasing. He drew and then converted a penalty, calmly taken. From that point, the match tilted decisively—and with it, any real suspense.

The second half confirmed rather than altered the pattern. Carter Thomas converted for 3–0, and El Yagouti completed his hat trick as Marshall closed out a 4–0 result that, if anything, understated the gap between the sides. Popovich’s reflexes and positioning prevented a heavier scoreline.

High school soccer occupies an unusual space. The tactical structure is often less refined than in elite club soccer, but the intensity can be higher—more immediate, less managed. Playoff crowds bring a kind of energy rarely seen in club environments. Games are faster, sometimes looser, but rarely lacking in urgency.

Marshall, though, brings something closer to the club game into that environment. Like most top high school teams, many of their players have competed at high levels outside school soccer, and it shows—not just in technique, but in decision-making under pressure. What they have not yet faced, as a group and through an important stretch of games, is sustained resistance.

That remains the open question.

Langley, for all its effort, was not able to apply prolonged pressure or force Marshall into extended defensive phases. As a result, there was little opportunity to see how this group responds when the game tilts the other way—how the back line holds shape, how the midfield screens, how they manage space when forced to defend rather than dictate. The midfield, so comfortable in possession here, will eventually face a side capable of disrupting rhythm and countering with purpose.

Those questions will come.

For now, though, Marshall is not just winning.

They are reshaping what their program looks like—and, perhaps, what it expects of itself.

And in high school sports, that is where everything begins.

That scoreline, like many finals, understated the journeys that preceded it. Wakefield’s 2025 run was among the more remarkable in recent Northern Virginia play: three major upsets of top-ranked opponents, multiple comebacks from two goals down, and a team that seemed to grow more composed the closer it came to elimination. Herndon, steadier but no less impressive, proved a worthy champion—deep, disciplined, and difficult to break.

This meeting, however, came far earlier in the calendar—just the opening stretch of Liberty District play. And yet, it carried the residue of something larger.

Herndon entered in strong form, having handled Chantilly and South Lakes earlier in the week, the latter by a comfortable margin. The Hornets look like a team that understands itself: experienced across the pitch, confident in possession, and increasingly fluid in the final third. A state title brings more than confidence—it brings clarity.

Wakefield, by contrast, is in transition. A core group of multi-year starters has graduated, and injuries have further tested their depth. Still, what remains is recognizable: concentration, defensive structure, and a willingness to endure long stretches without the ball while waiting for moments to emerge.

For much of the first half, that balance held.

Led at the back by Jerry Lopez and Brady Keefe, Wakefield absorbed pressure without retreating entirely. They maintained enough possession to disrupt Herndon’s rhythm and managed several probing moments of their own, forcing Herndon goalkeeper Zen Patton into a handful of composed interventions.

But Herndon’s pressure is cumulative.

Junior striker Shalom Assogba continues to grow into the role, and alongside Manny Mequainint—committed to George Mason—the two form a front line less reliant on isolated chances and more on sustained discomfort. The breakthrough reflected that persistence: Mequainint driving down the flank, slipping past defenders, and delivering a low ball across the face of goal for the opener.

From there, the game tilted.

With Angel Romero and Liche Rodriguez increasingly dictating the midfield, Herndon began to control not just possession, but tempo. Their second goal came from a well-delivered set piece, Brennan Mara’s service creating just enough chaos for Andy Hercules to bundle home. The third followed a familiar pattern—pressure, movement, overload—Mequainint again the catalyst, Hercules again the finisher.

By the time a late penalty extended the lead, the result felt settled, even if the scoreline—4–1—was somewhat severe on Wakefield.

There is, though, a difference between being overmatched and being out of reach.

Herndon looks like a side capable of another deep postseason run. The pieces are not only present; they are functioning in concert. Experience has become cohesion.

Wakefield, meanwhile, remains what it was last year at its core: organized, resilient, and difficult to dismiss. Health will matter, as it does for any high school side, and so will time. Replicating last season’s run may be unrealistic—but facing them a month from now will be no simple task.

Some games are about standings.
Others are about trajectory.

This one, early as it is, suggested both.

What stood out immediately was the tone of the match. There was intensity, but very little talking—just play. Both teams operated with discipline and control, content to let the game unfold rather than force it. It’s a quieter, more deliberate approach than you often see at this level, and it gave the match a steady, almost professional rhythm. The only vocal presence on the field was Herndon head coach Jordan Steffey, whose inspirational voice carried above the flow of play.

The structure on both sides was evident. Each team featured a strong goalkeeper, organized defensive lines, and multiple attacking options. Herndon, in particular, leaned on the quality of its midfield. Manny Mequanint—a GMU commit who operated higher up the field last season—played in a more withdrawn role, linking play alongside the dynamic Angel Romero and the technically assured Liche Rodriguez.

For much of the first half, however, Herndon’s control did not translate into clear chances. The breakthrough came not from open play, but from a long throw. Mt. St. Mary commit Brennan Mara created a scramble in the box, and Romero reacted quickest to finish.

As is often the case, the response was immediate. Chantilly equalized almost from the restart, with Kyle Hammer bringing down a long ball from Bryan Asencio and finishing with calm precision. Hammer, along with fellow junior Luwal Elshoush, posed a consistent threat—particularly in transition and from distance.

The second half followed a similar pattern. Space was limited, chances were scarce, and both teams remained compact. Chantilly found slightly more rhythm in possession but struggled to turn that into shots on target.

The decisive moment came from individual quality. Mequanint collected a perfect through ball from Shalom Assogba on the right, advanced along the touchline, and finished with subtlety and control—an example of how small margins often define matches at this level.

Chantilly pressed late for an equalizer and created chances, but two close-range efforts missed the target. In the final minutes, Mara delivered a crucial defensive play to deny Hammer inside the box, preserving the result.

Herndon takes three important points into conference play, but the broader takeaway is clear: both teams have the structure, talent, and discipline to contend. What remains to be seen is how each side evolves—because at this stage of the season, identity is still taking shape.

Westfield, despite a couple of losses against a demanding non-league schedule, returned significant talent. Washington-Liberty arrived unbeaten at 4–0, having outscored opponents 15–3, and sat second in the area rankings. With top-ranked West Potomac having stumbled earlier in the week, the Generals appeared well positioned to move into the top spot.

The opening minutes reinforced that sense. Washington-Liberty circulated the ball with assurance, switching play cleanly and advancing through midfield with technical ease. For ten minutes, they controlled both tempo and territory.

And then, with little warning, the game shifted.

A long, lofted ball from midfielder Eduardo Rivera found Westfield’s junior striker Ethan O’Connor. His initial movement was almost languid, as if disengaged. Then, in a moment, the disguise gave way to intent. Before the defender could adjust, O’Connor had taken the ball cleanly and finished with composure. It was a goal that arrived not from sustained pressure, but from precision—and from a forward comfortable operating in small margins.

Washington-Liberty responded as composed sides do—by reasserting control. Their passing remained fluid, their movement coordinated, and the sense persisted that an equalizer was not a question of if, but when.

It came from a set piece. Bodhi Wordrope’s corner was delivered with pace and purpose, and junior striker Cole Montgomery met it with authority. The header was emphatic, the kind that suggests a team will always carry threat in dead-ball situations, regardless of the run of play.

The second half settled into something more cautious. Space tightened. Transitions became more decisive than possession.

Westfield’s winner emerged from one such moment. Joel Gerabán broke down the right, cutting onto his left and forcing a save. The rebound fell to O’Connor, who finished with the same economy he had shown earlier. Two chances, two goals—a reminder that efficiency, at this level, often outweighs volume.

From there, Westfield defended with discipline. The back line, youthful but composed, dealt effectively with sustained pressure, while senior goalkeeper Will Paulin organized and commanded his area with confidence. Washington-Liberty continued to probe, but clear chances became scarce.

The contrast between the sides was subtle but decisive. Washington-Liberty controlled long stretches and created pressure through structure and movement. Westfield, by comparison, was more selective—but more ruthless.

On another night, the Generals might well have found a second. Their quality is evident, even with a roster that has turned over more than expected. But here, in a match defined by moments rather than momentum, Westfield’s clarity in front of goal proved the difference—and a reminder that control, without incision, can still leave a game unresolved.

That felt accurate. This is a Lake Braddock team that looks deep and technically sound, but one still settling into itself.

McLean provided a proper test. The Highlanders, organized and dangerous in transition, leaned heavily on Virginia Tech-bound midfielder Luke Hamel, whose range makes him a threat from well beyond the penalty area. Inside the opening ten minutes, he struck the woodwork, then forced a point-blank save from freshman goalkeeper Andrew Betzel, making his first varsity start. The rebound had to be cleared off the line—a reminder of how fine the margins were early.

Betzel, undersized for the position, might have been expected to struggle in such a setting. Instead, he settled. Not flawless, but composed enough to give his side a platform.

Midfield was the point of control, but Lake Braddock held the advantage across the pitch—stronger in both attack and along the back line. Xavier Barravino, long one of Northern Virginia’s more understated performers, set the tone. His opening goal came from anticipation rather than spectacle, reacting quickest to a loose ball in the area to make it 1–0. His influence, though, extended well beyond that moment. He moved box to box, disrupted play, and repeatedly found angles that stretched McLean’s shape.

Depth told as well. Maverick Cuadros came off the bench to double the lead with a sharp, instinctive finish, turning into space and driving a left-footed shot into the bottom corner. The move itself reflected Lake Braddock’s balance: Barravino initiated it with an interception in transition, and Micah Matthews added a clever one-touch pass to release Cuadros.

Yet for all their control, the Bruins were not entirely secure. Loose possession in dangerous areas allowed McLean back into the match, and Joshua Barnes capitalized, finishing a rebound to make it 2–1 before halftime. It was the sort of lapse Garza will not ignore.

The second half brought greater control. Lake Braddock’s midfield tracked diligently, limiting Hamel’s time and space, while Gavin Clark anchored the defense with authority—strong in the air, composed in the tackle, and assured in distribution. As the game stretched, the Bruins’ depth became more apparent. Cuadros added his second, and at 3–1 the match felt settled.

This was, in many ways, an early-season performance: promising, occasionally uneven, but revealing. Lake Braddock looks experienced and well-resourced, capable of controlling matches once it finds its rhythm. McLean, meanwhile, continues to shape its identity around Hamel and Charlie Lannin, with enough quality to trouble strong sides.

District play begins next week. Soon, results will matter more than direction. For now, Lake Braddock has both—and the sense that there is more still to come.

We battled in the same gyms back in the day, which is how I came to know them. Frank was coming in from Indianapolis and had reached out. That alone meant something. In Northern Virginia circles, Frank wasn’t just another good player—he was part of the fabric. When he was back in town, it mattered.

Frank and Glenn went back even further. Teammates at Hammond Middle School—back when it ran through ninth grade—they were already standing out before high school made them local legends. Then their paths split. Frank went to Mount Vernon, Glenn stayed at T.C., and both built careers that are still talked about.

Frank was a rare athlete—an elite quarterback and point guard. He led Mount Vernon to a state title in football and had the basketball program competing deep into the postseason. Glenn was just as special—nearly winning a basketball state title as a sophomore point guard, then going on to quarterback one of the best teams in the country to a state championship.

Frank chose basketball at Old Dominion over major football offers—Oklahoma among them. Glenn went on to a Hall of Fame career at Holy Cross. Two guys who could run a team, command a huddle, and carry themselves in a way that made you pay attention.

I was lucky to compete against them. And even luckier that, years later, Frank thought to include me when he was back in town.

The night of the dinner, I got it wrong.

Frank texted me while they were already at the table, asking what they should order for me. I was sitting in my home office, realizing I had mixed up the night. Bethesda was 45 minutes away, traffic wasn’t going to cooperate, and Glenn lived here—I could have easily told myself there would be another time.

That would have been the easy decision.

Instead, I got in the car.

I sat in traffic. I showed up late. And I had one of those dinners you don’t fully appreciate in the moment the way you should—just three guys talking about games, people, and history. The shared language of growing up in the same basketball world, even if we wore different uniforms.

Frank had gone on to coach—Radford, Old Dominion—and later worked in NCAA compliance. But what stayed with him, what he never lost, was his love for the game and the stories that came with it. That was our connection. He cared about where the game had been, not just where it was going.

There was a quiet confidence about him. No need to announce himself. He just carried it. The kind of presence you recognized immediately if you’d been around players like that—rare, but unmistakable. Around here, only a few had it at that level. Frank did.

News of his passing—far too soon, at 60—lands hard.

But I keep coming back to that night.

The easy decision would have been to stay home.

I’m glad I didn’t.

I’m glad I got in the car. I’m glad I sat at that table. I’m glad I had that time with Frank and Glenn—two great players, and better men.

My thoughts are with his family—especially his brother Barry, another outstanding point guard—his friends, and the entire Mount Vernon community.

Some moments you almost miss.

This wasn’t one of them.

Westfield’s 2–1 win at McLean offered a clear example.

In a fixture that has grown increasingly charged over the past three years, it was the Bulldogs’ midfield that provided the difference. Reyes Torres and Joel Geraban each found the far corner with well-constructed finishes, turning a tightly contested match in Westfield’s favor and securing a second significant road result in the same week.

This rivalry has not lacked for edge. Meetings between these two have featured high stakes, red cards, and the occasional spillover beyond the pitch—most memorably in 2024, when McLean players celebrated a knockout victory directly in front of Westfield supporters, collapsing the outer fence in the process. The competitive intensity has rarely been in doubt.

What stood out this time, though, was something different.

The match remained physical, as expected, particularly in midfield, where McLean’s Charlie Lannin and Luke Hamel imposed themselves with a series of firm challenges and constant movement. But the tone never tipped into disorder. Hard tackles were followed by helping hands, and there was a sense—subtle but noticeable—that both sides understood the line and chose not to cross it. Hamel escorting Torres off after a first-half knock was a small moment, but a telling one.

McLean, still adjusting after the graduation of a particularly strong senior class, relied heavily on that midfield core. Lannin and Hamel covered ground relentlessly, shaping both phases of play and giving structure to a younger side finding its way. Behind them, sophomore goalkeeper John Uzun delivered a composed performance, parrying a pair of powerful efforts from Ethan O’Connor and keeping McLean within reach.

The equalizer came through opportunism. A defensive miscue from Westfield allowed Joshua Barnes to capitalize, bringing the match level before halftime and reinforcing the sense that, for all Westfield’s control, the margins remained narrow.

Yet Westfield never appeared unsettled.

They continued to circulate the ball with patience, stretching play across McLean’s narrower pitch and waiting for the right moment rather than forcing one. When it came, it was characteristic: Geraban curling a left-footed effort into the far corner—precise rather than dramatic, but decisive all the same.

From there, the game settled into a familiar rhythm. McLean pressed, creating moments without quite sustaining pressure. Westfield responded in kind, generating chances of their own and managing the tempo with increasing assurance. The closing stages were competitive but not chaotic, and the result, when it arrived, felt proportionate to the balance of play.

There will be more to come from both sides.

McLean, anchored by an excellent midfield, will develop as the season progresses. Westfield, with its depth and composure, looks again like a side capable of contending at the highest level. But it is still early, and early-season matches often reveal as much about direction as they do about destination.

What lingered most, perhaps, was not simply the result, but the tone.

For a rivalry defined in recent years by its intensity, this was a match that suggested a degree of maturity. The edge remains. But for now, at least, it appears to have been tempered rather than sharpened.

photo cred: @shotsbyhenry on IG.

I watched McFarland, USA—the story of a California cross country team built from the sons of farm workers. It is, in essence, a Latino Hoosiers: a place where the town and the team are indistinguishable, where the finish line belongs to everyone. In Hoosiers, Dennis Hopper listens from a hospital bed, but when Hickory wins, he might as well own the world. In McFarland, the same truth holds.

Hollywood didn’t invent that feeling. It just recognized it.

You see it every year, in gyms and on fields across the country. High school sports are not just about competition—they are about gathering. Each game adds a few more voices, a few more familiar faces in the stands. By the postseason, those scattered threads have become something like a community fabric. You can feel it thicken as the stakes rise.

That, as much as the championships, is the point.

This past basketball season delivered its share of endings. Westfield fulfilled the weight of expectation and won a state title. Heritage’s boys and girls both made deep runs, and their doubleheaders became something close to civic events—gyms alive in a way that doesn’t quite translate unless you’re there. Osbourn Park’s girls repeated. South County returned to the state stage on both sides, both built on a defensive identity that carried them through.

The banners will hang. The results will be recorded. But what lingers is the atmosphere—the noise, the anticipation, the sense that something is being built together, night after night.

Now the calendar turns.

Soccer begins again, and with it, the long, quieter stretch before the crescendo. The regular season doesn’t announce itself the way March does. It teaches. It experiments. It gathers.

Last year’s run was a reminder of how unpredictable these arcs can be. Wakefield, uneven and injured, found its way through three penalty shootouts and all the way to a state final. Herndon, loaded with promise, endured its own narrow escapes and ultimately delivered. Those are not outcomes you forecast in April. They emerge.

That’s the nature of it.

The question each spring is not whether this season will match the last—it almost never does in the same way—but whether it will produce its own version of that shared experience. The same slow build. The same gathering of people and meaning. The same sense, by the end, that something larger than the games themselves has taken place.

It will.

You can see it already, in small clusters along the sidelines, in early-season matches that matter only a little—until they don’t. The fields will fill. The voices will grow. And somewhere along the way, without much notice, a season will become a story.

And for a few weeks, it will belong to everyone.

Westfield, a program that has built a strong case as one of the best in the state over the past two years, hosted Annandale on opening night. The Bulldogs have been close—very close. A single regular-season loss last year, followed by a penalty shootout exit to eventual champion Herndon. The year before, another shootout defeat, this time to McLean in a regional semifinal that still lingers in memory. The margins have been thin, but the standard has been high.

Early on, Westfield looked every bit the part.

The midfield, anchored by Reyes Torres and Joel Geraban, controlled the tempo with quiet authority, recycling possession and probing for openings. Ahead of them, juniors Ethan O’Connor and Yannis Cardoza offered the kind of attacking threat that makes pressure feel inevitable rather than forced. It had the shape of a match in which the first goal would come through accumulation.

Annandale, though, resisted in a way that was both risky and revealing.

They insisted on building from the back, even under sustained pressure—a choice that invites danger but also signals belief. Against a side like Westfield, where pressing moments can quickly turn into chances, that approach can unravel. But it can also, if executed with discipline, establish a rhythm of its own. Annandale did not abandon it, and over time, that decision began to matter.

Still, the first half belonged largely to Westfield—except on the scoreboard.

Goalkeeper Jose Vera Puna was central to that. His saves were not always spectacular in their mechanics, but they were consistent in their effect. Positionally sound and calm under pressure, he dealt with what came his way without inviting second chances. One effort, pushed just over the bar, stood out. The rest were a reminder that reliability, at this level, is often more valuable than flair.

And as so often happens in soccer, dominance without conversion invites consequence.

Annandale took the lead from a set piece—delivered with intent, finished with awareness as Habib Yasin reacted quickest to a loose ball in the area. It was not a goal that reflected territorial control, but it reflected something else: attentiveness, and readiness when the moment arrived.

The match shifted subtly after that.

Annandale grew more comfortable, even as injuries forced adjustments. Their possession became more assured, their defensive shape more settled. And when the second opportunity came, it arrived not through buildup but through transition. Yaw Boateng finished a sharp counterattack to make it 2–0 with fifteen minutes remaining—a goal that changed not just the scoreline but the tone.

Westfield responded as strong teams do—with urgency.

A set piece pulled one back, and the final minutes were played almost entirely in Annandale’s half. Crosses, second balls, half-chances—the kind of sustained pressure that feels inevitable when it is happening and incomplete when it ends. Vera Puna remained composed. The defense, undersized but organized, held its line. And in a final moment that might have sealed the night entirely, Annandale struck the crossbar on a late break.

The result, in the end, was not just about execution, but about contrast.

One team controlled much of the game. The other controlled the moments that mattered.

I watched the match alongside Steve Tunley, whose son Andrew captained Herndon’s state championship side last season. Like many of us, he had come not just for the game itself, but for what the game represents—the continuity of it, the familiarity. Around us, younger players pointed out names, connections, possibilities. Seasons pass, players move on, but the structure remains.

It took hours to warm up afterward.

But there is a particular satisfaction in that first cold night of soccer, when the season is still undefined, and every match feels like it might be the beginning of something.

When Westfield met Landstown for the VHSL Class 6 state championship Thursday afternoon at VCU, something strange happened.

Two of the best high school teams in Virginia were playing for a state title — and the building was mostly empty.

Both schools are more than two hours away. A mid-afternoon weekday tipoff makes travel difficult for parents, students, and alumni. Traffic delayed the Westfield pep buses so badly that when they finally arrived, the building suddenly came alive. For a moment, the game felt like what a state championship should feel like.

But the emptiness raised a fair question.

Why schedule a state championship game at a time when the people who care most about it can’t attend?

The answer is structural.

Virginia now crowns twelve basketball champions — six boys and six girls. To fit them all into one venue, the VHSL spreads the games across three days at four games per day. Logistically it works.

Emotionally, it doesn’t.

Forty years ago the state tournament followed a structure that made far more sense. In the mid-1980s, when I was in high school, the boys championships were played at University Hall on the campus of the University of Virginia — the legendary “Ralph House.”

The format was simple:

Single-A semifinals Thursday night
AA semifinals Friday afternoon
AAA semifinals Friday night — the main event

Final Four sessions created energy because the games were connected. You watched two semifinals knowing the winners would meet for the championship. Fans stayed because the outcome of one game directly shaped the next.

Tournament basketball thrives on that connection.

(At the time, girls basketball had only recently begun its state tournament structure. The AAA girls semifinals were played during the same championship weekend — one year the semis were held at Albemarle High School while the boys played at University Hall — while the A and AA girls classifications still played their seasons in the fall.)

And the championship day itself followed the same logic. Saturday afternoon featured the A and AA boys finals, while Saturday night built to the biggest stage — the AAA girls final followed by the AAA boys championship.

The entire weekend built toward a crescendo.

At some point the VHSL moved away from that structure. Doubleheaders were split. Boys and girls semifinal sessions were separated. Eventually the semifinals disappeared from the championship weekend entirely.

What replaced it is efficient but far less compelling.

On Thursday at VCU, once the Class 6 session ended, most fans left. The evening session featured excellent teams — Norview, Green Run, Princess Anne, and Menchville — but nearly everyone departed because those schools had no connection to the games they had just watched. You can watch great basketball between random teams on television.

When tournament games lose their narrative connection, neutral fans drift away.

The older structure understood something simple about sports — and about events generally.

The main event comes last.

In the old format, the largest classification — AAA — played Friday night. The schedule built anticipation from the smallest schools to the largest, from early rounds to the biggest stage. It felt like a crescendo.

Today the largest schools might play first, on a Thursday afternoon.

That isn’t fairness. It’s confusion.

There is a better solution.

Reduce the number of classifications. Restore Final Four sessions. Keep boys semifinal sessions together and girls semifinal sessions together so each tournament builds its own momentum. Then, when the championships are played, keep the girls and boys finals for the same classification paired together — allowing communities to support both teams when a school reaches the stage in both sports.

Most importantly, keep the structure consistent from year to year so fans across Virginia know when and where to come.

Tournament basketball is one of the most exciting forms of sport ever invented. The drama is built into the format.

But formats only work when the structure supports the drama.

If the VHSL wants fuller arenas and better atmospheres, it doesn’t need a marketing plan.

It just needs to open the program from 1984.

The Possession Game

When Westfield edged Landstown 48–44 for the Virginia Class 6A championship at VCU’s Siegel Center, the scoreboard told an interesting story.

Not just about the game itself, but about the way high school basketball is played today.

For all the talent on the floor — and there was plenty — the game looked nothing like the three-point shooting contests that dominate the NBA and much of college basketball. At those levels, modern offenses are built around spacing, efficiency, and mathematics: shoot threes, generate layups, eliminate mid-range shots.

But high school basketball, at least at the championship level, still looks very different.

It remains a possession game.

The players today are unquestionably more skilled and more athletic than they were fifteen or thirty years ago. They handle the ball better, move faster, and arrive at high school already polished by years of travel basketball and individual training.

Yet many of the games I watched this season — especially in the postseason — were battles of will. Every possession felt contested. Scores stayed in the 40s or 50s. Shooting percentages were modest. The ball didn’t zip around the floor searching for a mathematical advantage so much as it fought its way through traffic.

It made for compelling basketball.

The most obvious explanation is the shot clock — or rather, the absence of one in Virginia and the dozen or so states still holding out.

Without a clock, the team in the lead has little incentive to hurry. The only thing that ends a possession is a turnover or a bad shot. Late in the state final, Westfield spread Landstown’s aggressive defense across the floor. They weren’t exactly holding the ball, but they certainly weren’t rushing either.

When Malachai Lee drove the baseline for a key layup from that spread offense, it might have made the late Dean Smith smile. Smith’s famous “Four Corners” offense once controlled tempo in much the same way — a strategy sometimes described as “four to score.”

But the shot clock isn’t the whole explanation.

Another factor may be the three-point line itself. In warmups many high school players can make those shots comfortably, but under game pressure — with defenders closing and fatigue setting in — the results are far more mixed. Especially in a big arena like the Siegel Center.

At the high school distance, the arc may actually be placed about right. College and the NBA have already moved theirs back once and may eventually need to do so again as shooting continues to improve. But at the high school level the shot is still difficult enough under game conditions that teams cannot simply live by it.

Then there is the coaching.

The quality of coaching across Northern Virginia remains remarkably strong. Many of today’s coaches were top players themselves, deeply invested in the game even while balancing teaching and other careers.

And good coaches know how to defend.

They teach teams to guard the perimeter, rotate help defenders, and shrink the floor. In a strange way, modern coaching may have caught up with modern offense. What analytics revealed about scoring efficiency, coaches have learned how to disrupt.

Defense travels well in March.

Of course, there are exceptions. Earlier this season Riverside and Stone Bridge played a shootout that ended 94–92. Programs like Woodgrove’s girls have built extremely successful offenses around the three-point shot.

The skill level is clearly there.

But postseason basketball often produces something different. Teams like South County and Marshall have shown that disciplined defense and careful possessions can still win games with scores in the 40s — and sometimes even the 30s.

Westfield’s defense throughout the state tournament was a perfect example. Explosive offensive teams like Edison, Manchester, and Landstown struggled to find rhythm against the Bulldogs.

In the end, the championship game followed one of basketball’s oldest truths.

Paint touches win.

Local coaches had predicted as much on my podcast all week. And when Westfield’s 6-foot-7 Wil Robinson stepped forward to dominate the final with 22 points, the lesson was clear.

Basketball may be evolving everywhere else.

But in Virginia high school basketball — especially in March — the game still belongs to the toughest team on the floor.

And honestly, that makes it pretty great to watch.

March Madness will provide plenty of shooting contests soon enough.

The 2026 Class 6 state final brought together two excellent teams — not merely good ones. In an era of multiple classifications and many top players migrating to private schools, a very good team can sometimes make a run through the postseason and win a state title.

But on this afternoon at VCU’s Siegel Center, a very good team would not have been enough.

A great one was required.

Westfield proved to be exactly that, capturing the second state basketball championship in school history with a 48–44 victory over Landstown.

Both teams are built around spectacular guards capable of taking over a game. Landstown’s dynamic sophomore Damien Robinson showed that early, finishing coast-to-coast and drilling a deep three that briefly energized the crowd. Yet neither star guard was able to fully take control. Robinson finished with 12 points; Westfield’s Jemon Price had nine — both less than half of their season averages.

That wasn’t because of gimmicks or junk defenses. It was simply that both teams defend at a very high level.

Nearly every possession became a battle. Cuts were contested. Passes were pressured. Nothing came easily.

On the sidelines, Westfield’s Kevin Harris and Landstown’s Dwight Robinson paced and directed traffic, two highly respected coaches urging their teams through every possession.

The only disappointment was the crowd. Fewer than 1,000 fans were scattered through the seats for the midweek afternoon final, leaving the building quieter than a championship game deserved.

Then three buses arrived from Westfield.

Students poured behind one basket, found their rhythm, and suddenly the energy in the building changed.

But what mattered most was the game itself.

Landstown, smaller in both height and build, made up for it with speed and awareness. The Eagles attacked the lane and finished creatively around the rim, taking a narrow 25–24 lead into halftime. At that point it felt as if they might be able to make the decisive run. Their transition game was dangerous, and defensively they seemed to have answers.

Westfield had one of its own.

Will Robinson, the Bulldogs’ 6-foot-7 post player, stepped forward in a big way. Known mostly for his ability to stretch the floor, Robinson dominated inside instead — scoring through contact, controlling rebounds, and protecting the rim with four blocks.

He finished with 22 of Westfield’s 48 points.

The biggest basket of the afternoon may have come from Malachai Lee, a standout football player who continues to impress on the hardwood. With Westfield protecting a slim fourth-quarter lead and the offense beginning to hesitate, Lee drove the baseline and finished in traffic for a crucial basket that pushed the Bulldogs’ lead to five late in the game and eased the tension.

Landstown kept coming. Rashad Shaw scored 15 points and kept the Eagles within reach, but Westfield’s defense tightened as the clock wound down, forcing rushed possessions and increasingly desperate shots.

When the final horn sounded, Harris — who had spent 32 minutes directing every possession and urging his players forward — finally allowed himself a smile.

He turned toward the Westfield students behind the basket and stepped into the celebration.

For Westfield, a long season of expectations ended the way every coach hopes it will.

As state champions.

A few years ago my son was announced in the starting lineup for the VHSL Class 6 state soccer final.

It was an emotional, almost surreal moment for me — not only as a father, but as someone who has spent a lifetime as a fan and amateur historian of Virginia high school sports. I had watched those games for decades. Suddenly my own son was walking onto that stage.

He was only a junior. To him, it was just another big game. The team was strong and most of the roster would return the next season. He assumed there would be another chance.

But anyone who has followed sports long enough knows championships rarely follow a script.

Bill Parcells once said that if you win the Super Bowl, no one can ever say you couldn’t do it. That line has always stayed with me. A championship simplifies everything. It settles arguments before they begin.

Sherman Rivers understands that feeling.

Sherman is one of the most successful players and coaches of his generation in Northern Virginia basketball. He led Potomac to a state final as a player and Patriot to several more as a coach. Like me, he is both a competitor and a historian of the game.

A loss in a championship game doesn’t shake Sherman’s confidence. He has plenty of that. But competitors still want the feeling that comes with finishing the job.

Like Sherman, every player and coach on that floor tomorrow understands the difference.

A state championship may not change a life.

But it does place a coach, a team, and a program in a different conversation.

Tomorrow morning at 12:30 at VCU, two more teams will get that opportunity.

In the Class 6 girls final, Manchester and Osbourn Park meet in a long-awaited rematch of last year’s championship — two dynamic and deep teams that should put on a show.

Later, on the boys side, Westfield faces Landstown in a matchup between the two top-rated teams all season. Both are loaded with talent and led by explosive guards — Jemon Price for Westfield and Damien Robinson for Landstown.

I happen to be out of town on business, but I’ll find my way home and make the drive to Richmond.

Because moments like this matter.

All the players and coaches on that floor tomorrow are already winners. Reaching a state championship game is something that must be earned, and the experience will stay with them for the rest of their lives.

But anyone who has lived through one knows there is still a difference.

Life feels just a little different for the team — the players, the coaches, and the fans — that walk off the floor holding the trophy.

Win it if you can.

Because once you do, no one can ever say you couldn’t.

For decades the Virginia high school basketball state tournament was one of the great weekends on the state’s sports calendar. Long before the first tip, people would already be gathering in the lobby or outside the arena. Coaches, fans, former players, and neutral observers would meet up the way people meet at reunions.

The tournament belonged to everyone.

That changed after the 2012 season, when the Virginia High School League replaced its traditional three classifications—A, AA, and AAA—with six divisions, 1A through 6A. Football had moved to six classifications back in 1986, partly to create more postseason opportunities. Basketball eventually followed.

The result, however, was very different.

Under the old system, the state tournament felt like a gathering place for the entire sport. Three champions meant three storylines, three traditions, and a manageable number of games. Fans could make a weekend of it. You could watch semifinal games all afternoon, talk basketball with strangers between sessions, and feel as if the whole state’s game had come together in one building.

With six classifications, that sense of shared occasion disappeared. Too many teams, too many brackets, too many separate championships. The state tournament became less of a statewide event and more a series of isolated school celebrations.

For neutral fans—the people who used to come simply because they loved Virginia basketball—the incentive quietly faded.

The old three-classification system had another advantage. Each level developed its own culture.

Class A was often rural Virginia and Appalachia.
Class AA represented midsize towns, outer suburbs, and consolidated county schools.
Class AAA belonged largely to the cities and larger suburban programs.

The divisions reflected the geography and demographics of the state, and over time they produced identities and rivalries that made sense.

AAA, in particular, created extraordinary battles between the traditional power regions: Hampton Roads, Northern Virginia, and the Richmond–Petersburg corridor. The Northwest Region—with schools from Roanoke, Charlottesville, Winchester, Lynchburg, and Halifax—was geographically sprawling but still produced great basketball and memorable runs.

Meanwhile A and AA produced their own dynasties and traditions. Programs such as Martinsville, R.E. Lee, Cumberland, and Drewry Mason built reputations that defined entire eras of the tournament.

When one of those teams won, there was rarely much argument. The tournament had sorted things out, and the champion had earned it.

The six-classification era has changed that balance in ways that are becoming easier to see.

Look at this year’s boys finalists. Of the twelve teams playing for championships, seven come from schools that would have competed in the old AAA classification—Hampton, Lake Taylor, Petersburg, Norview, Green Run, Landstown, and Westfield. One finalist, Handley, would have been AA. The remaining four—Graham, Central, Luray, and Fort Chiswell—are traditional small-school programs that would have been Class A.

Even in a small sample, the pattern is revealing. Large suburban and urban programs—the traditional AAA schools—still produce the deepest talent pools and now appear across multiple classifications. Small rural schools benefit from micro-classification that gives them more opportunities to reach championship games.

The schools that appear squeezed are the old AA programs—the midsize towns and outer suburbs that once occupied the middle ground of Virginia basketball. In this year’s finals, only one remains.

But perhaps the biggest loss has been cultural rather than competitive.

Imagine the seven traditional AAA finalists in one tournament. Hampton, Petersburg, Norview, Green Run, Landstown, and Westfield competing for a single title. That would have been a bracket filled with regional pride, rivalries, and legitimate statewide intrigue.

Instead, those teams are scattered across multiple classifications.

The result is more trophies, but less mythology.

Class 5 has quietly become one of the strongest divisions, partly because so many Hampton Roads programs land there. Yet even that strength is diluted by the structure itself. The best teams are no longer forced to collide in the same bracket. Consider Landstown. The Eagles are an excellent Class 6 team this year, but at that level they typically have only one other Hampton Roads power to contend with—Oscar Smith. In the old three-classification system, Landstown would almost certainly have been grouped with several of those programs at once. The current alignment, intentionally or not, spares them what would once have been a far more crowded road to Richmond.

For fans, the experience has changed just as much as the competition.

Once, people traveled to the state tournament for the whole weekend. You watched game after game because every result seemed connected to the same larger story.

Now most people choose one session, watch their team, and go home.

The tournament still crowns champions. It still produces great moments.

But it no longer feels like the gathering place it once was.

And in high school sports, where tradition matters as much as the scoreboard, that loss is difficult to measure—but impossible to miss.

In the summer of 1983, going into my senior year, the Robinson boys’ varsity attended team camp at UVA in Charlottesville. It was an opportunity to play against tough competition and train together for a week. The experience had a profound effect on me, eventually leading me to attend UVA for both undergraduate and law school.

We played against teams from schools of very different classifications and levels of quality. If I didn’t already know it going in, I learned that while the size of a school can influence the strength of a basketball team, the story is always more complicated. The game is still won on the court.

There was no three-point shot in 1983, but it was the early days of delivery pizza. Charlottesville had a Domino’s, so pizza was no longer limited to Friday nights at Pizza Hut, Victor’s, or Angie’s. Run-DMC had just released its transformational sound, and it seemed to be playing on every boom box. We didn’t have smartphones, computers, or the internet, but we could always find a pay phone to let our moms know we were fine.

The week was filled with pickup basketball and the usual provincial trash talk, but also card games and philosophical late-night discussions about life. There were drills and practices, and finally the games themselves. Charlottesville was still a small southern college town in those days, without the retail and restaurant franchises that now line the streets. One highlight of the week was bumping into Ralph Sampson and watching him climb into his custom-made Ferrari in front of University Hall. For a group of high school players, it might as well have been a celebrity sighting.

Robinson had just completed a 12-9 season in the notoriously tough Northern District in new coach Bob McKeag’s first year. Coach McKeag had played at UVA and coached at nearby Western Albemarle before relocating to Robinson. That year we had upset regional champion and eventual state finalist T.C. Williams in the “Garden,” making some noise in a league that had no easy nights. Woodson featured Amaker and Whitting, Lake Braddock was a year away from reaching the regional final, and West Springfield was always strong and well-coached.

Unfortunately, only one starter from the ’82–83 team would be attending the camp. Rising junior Jeff Bowling was a dynamic 5’11” guard who would later attend Air Force and eventually set a Western Athletic Conference assist record that stood for many years.

At 5’4”, I would be the point guard in a 1-4 offense that would eventually morph into a flex/baseline attack. John Gould, a tough 5’9” defender from the JV team, backed up the position. Niels Mohler, a 6’2” transfer from Pittsburgh, was an effective wing who could shoot from outside or slash through the lane. The real difference-maker was Brian Smith, a 6’4” forward with the wingspan of a 6’9” player and a deadly outside shot in an era without the three-point line.

We were also missing several players because football season was approaching, but we brought along 6’7” Mike Noble from the JV team. After recovering from injuries early in the week, Noble replaced Mohler during tournament play. We lacked size, depth, and experience compared to many teams at the camp, but the five of us played well together. We understood our roles and stayed in our lanes.

The camp featured an impressive collection of talent.

AAA Woodbridge arrived with a full squad after a strong finish in the Commonwealth District. Their wings, 6’3” Billy James and 6’1” Tommy Bennett, were confident, organized, and happy to talk about how good they were. Their suite was close to ours, so we heard about it all week.

Future UVA guard Richard Morgan led a talented AA Salem team that presented constant problems for opposing defenses.

Future UNC star JR Reid and a Kempsville teammate anchored a stacked pickup squad from the UVA individual basketball camp.

But the most interesting team in Charlottesville that week came from much farther away.

Single-A Mullens High School arrived from the mountains of West Virginia. Charlottesville must have felt enormous to kids from Wyoming County, a place without a traffic light and with very little flat land. They were coal miners’ sons—among the politest boys I had ever met—but they also drank whiskey and played the most brutal practical jokes I had ever seen.

Their star was 6’2” Herbie Brooks, a future West Virginia University player who had scored a record 50 points in the state tournament earlier that year during Mullens’ championship run. The team was coached by the legendary Don Nuckols, finishing his 16-year run at the school. During that time tiny Mullens had somehow produced NBA player and coach Mike D’Antoni and Boston Celtic Jerome Anderson.

Their trademark was a devastating fast break. Even with a graduating class of barely fifty students, Mullens would be difficult to beat.

Virginia’s Single-A dynasty Cumberland also arrived with a strong team. Between 1978 and 1985, Cumberland would win four state championships. Their run was interrupted only by Drewry Mason—featuring future UVA players Tim Martin and Ronnie Price—and Fort Defiance, led by Dell Curry.

Cumberland was coached by Will Robinson, who had worked Robinson’s summer camp and would later become Coach McKeag’s assistant. Robinson would go on to build a perennial powerhouse at Woodbridge High. Cumberland ran Louisville’s famous high-post offense with discipline and precision, feeding their inside presence and spacing the floor perfectly.

With Mullens and Cumberland both present, the small schools were anything but small problems.

Robinson, meanwhile, was the largest school represented at the camp but arrived with a team few people took seriously. Fortunately, we were coached that week by Albemarle High coach Rich Lyons, a proven winner who had built a strong program at Luray before moving to AAA Albemarle.

With Jeff Bowling and Brian Smith stretching the floor, our flex offense produced layup after layup. We played with discipline and confidence, losing only to Woodbridge during the week and finishing second in the regular-season standings.

In the tournament semifinals we faced JR Reid’s pickup squad while top-seeded Cumberland met Mullens in the other bracket. Reid was outstanding, but his team couldn’t stop our steady parade of cuts and layups. We advanced comfortably to the championship game.

Cumberland edged Mullens in their semifinal, setting up the final: the largest high school in the region against a tiny school from rural Virginia.

It wasn’t quite “Hoosiers,” but the contrast was unmistakable.

Though we had beaten Cumberland earlier in pool play, they came into the championship ready. Their guards Gary Austin and Kevin Brown shut down our penetration and switched perfectly on every back cut. The flex offense that had produced easy baskets all week suddenly found no openings.

At the other end, Cumberland ran Louisville’s offense with remarkable discipline, repeatedly feeding their 6’2” low-post star Richard Brooks. It didn’t matter that Robinson had hundreds more students per class. On that afternoon, Cumberland was simply better.

They beat us convincingly.

The Cumberland players celebrated their win enthusiastically, and several of them would later travel to Fairfax the next summer to train with us. Still, I never felt like we got our revenge.

Looking back now, it’s clear that everyone involved carried something away from that week.

Mullens repeated as West Virginia champions in 1984 before the school sadly closed in 1998. Cumberland captured the Virginia Single-A state championship in 1985 with the same core group. Robinson returned to the middle of the Northern District standings but would eventually win the regional title in 1987 and narrowly lose to Alonzo Mourning’s Indian River team in the state final. Woodbridge followed its camp performance with a strong season and a district title.

JR Reid and Richard Morgan would go on to make major impacts in the ACC.

Recently I reconnected on Facebook with Herbie Brooks, who became a starter at West Virginia and still speaks fondly of that week in Charlottesville. He has remained in touch with both Reid and Morgan over the years.

Four decades later, the memory remains vivid.

The lesson we learned that summer still holds: in basketball—as in most things—the size of the school doesn’t decide the outcome.

Only the game does.

Westfield Arrives Early and Often

The surprise of the night came even before the opening tip: the appearance of 6’8” Westfield center Mathias Lee, who had missed most of the season on disciplinary suspension but emerged during pregame warmups to a noticeable buzz inside the gym.

Westfield hardly needed another weapon.

The Bulldogs entered at 28–1, their only loss coming against national power Paul VI, and they have dominated nearly every opponent since. Manchester, meanwhile, arrived with an impressive résumé of its own. The Lancers had beaten division favorite Landstown in the regional final and had lost only to Monacan — twice. On paper, it looked like a compelling matchup.

On the court, it was something else entirely.

Westfield raced to a 21–0 lead almost before the crowd had settled. Manchester struggled even to initiate offense while offering only token resistance on the defensive end.

By the time the Lancers steadied themselves, the tone of the night had already been set.

Jemon Price and Isaiah Brown, scoring 19 points each, put on a remarkable shooting display that quickly stretched the margin. Meanwhile Malachai Lee, Mathias’s younger brother, attacked the lane relentlessly, finishing through traffic and reminding observers that labeling him a Division I football prospect — where he already holds several elite offers — may undersell just how dangerous the sophomore can be on a basketball floor.

On the sideline, Coach Kevin Harris remained animated throughout, refusing to allow even a moment of complacency. In a game that tilted quickly in his team’s favor, Harris kept the intensity high, determined not to give Manchester even the faintest hope of a comeback.

Harris now finds himself one business trip to Richmond away from a championship — what would be his third state title and his first at Westfield.

The game also revealed a lingering weakness in the VHSL postseason format. Manchester had hosted its previous five playoff games, a significant advantage in a region where travel distances are long and visiting support is limited. On this night the stage grew even larger because Westfield enjoyed the same home-court advantage.

Manchester is a good team. But when teams spend an entire postseason playing at home, it can be difficult to know how they will look once the stage — and the opponent — changes.

Neutral sites deeper in the tournament would likely tell us more about the true balance between teams and create a fairer setting for games of this magnitude. It is a conversation the VHSL may eventually have to revisit.

But Westfield can hardly be asked to apologize for playing the hand it was dealt.

This talented and disciplined Bulldogs team now heads toward a showdown with powerful Landstown next Thursday at VCU — finally a stage, and a game, worthy of champions.

[photo by Flixbyriley on IG]

One of the great rituals of the state basketball tournament used to happen before the ball was even tipped. You walked into the gym, bought the program, and suddenly the whole tournament was in your hands.

To some of us, that program might as well have been scripture.

I would buy one at the first game and spend much of the opening half studying it as seriously as any coach studying film. Each team had its own page. I’d go through them slowly, one at a time — the roster, the heights, the season results, the team picture all on the same page.

In the days before the three-point shot stretched the floor, size meant everything. If a team had three players listed at 6’5” or taller, that was practically a prophecy.

Then came the results. Every game, every score. Who they beat. Who they lost to. Sometimes that raised troubling questions. How could a team good enough to make the state tournament possibly have lost to someone else along the way?

The team photo was always my favorite. The players stared back from the page with the unmistakable look of young men who knew they had arrived. We’re at states. We’re in the program. And you paid to get in.

Never mind that the photograph had probably been taken in November, when the season was still young and nobody knew how the story would end.

And the program didn’t stop with the teams. There were brackets, stories about the tournament, advertisements from local businesses, and the results from the previous year’s state championship games. It felt less like a pamphlet and more like a guidebook to the entire event.

These days the mystery is gone. Before the tournament even begins, we already know the teams. Social media has introduced them. Video clips circulate. Rankings update weekly. By the time the state tournament arrives, very few teams are strangers.

In some ways, that is progress.

In other ways it makes the program feel like something from a different era. Virginia hasn’t produced a printed one for years. For a while there was an online version, but even that has disappeared. A modern printed program would be unwieldy anyway. With today’s classifications and brackets, it would weigh as much as a college textbook.

But once, we treated those programs with reverence.

You didn’t just toss one on the bleachers. And if a friend asked to see it, the request carried a certain gravity. Handing over the program felt a little like letting someone take your sister to the dance. Possible, certainly — but not without supervision. I would watch the game with one eye and keep the other trained carefully on the program.

A few years ago I was reminded how much those things meant.

Legendary TJ coach Dick Wickline invited me to breakfast. We didn’t know each other especially well, but he had been watching my small crusade to revive stories about Virginia high school basketball — the players, the games, the legends.

Over coffee he handed me a box.

Inside were his state tournament programs. Every one of them, from 1960 through 2012. More than fifty years of basketball history, each program marked with his own handwritten notes — leading scorers, defensive schemes, observations only a coach would bother recording.

He had kept them for decades. Now, in his eighties, he believed the history needed a new caretaker.

It was an astonishing gift.

I spent weeks going through them. Some years I already owned, which only made it better — two copies meant one could be handled a little more freely. But opening the 1966 program, from a tournament played just a month after I was born in Petersburg, carried a particular thrill. The names, the teams, the small details of a season long finished — yet somehow still alive between those pages.

People like Coach Wickline understand something that’s easy to forget.

History doesn’t always live in museums.

Sometimes it waits quietly inside an old tournament program, until someone curious enough opens it and the whole tournament begins again.