They assembled outside John Calipari’s big house on Galloway, the TV trucks and the gawkers and the collection of never-say-die fans.
“S-T-A-Y,” they chanted.
It was sweet, really. And mournful, too.
A white van arrived with flowers. Someone stuck a “Not For Sale By Owner” sign on Calipari’s lawn.
It will give way to a different sign soon.
Because at 4:22 p.m., the big gates swung open. A three-car motorcade pulled out.
“S-T-A-Y,” the chant resumed again.
The three cars gunned it. And with that, the man — and the era — was finally, indisputably gone.