DowntownVol
Stylin' and Profilin'
- Joined
- Sep 4, 2005
- Messages
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I'm a basketball fan. Specifically college basketball. I sprinkle a few sports related posts in throughout the year, but I don't believe I've ever really demonstrated my sincere love of the college game. From time to time, I become interested in other sports for various and sundry loyalty related reasons. However, it is college basketball that sincerely owns my undying love and loyalty.
Sure, I'm a Kentuckian. The love of the college game is thought to be either a genetic product of rampant inbreeding (thus explaining Indiana's strong basketball legacy), or a result of a mutant additive distributed via the local water system. There was no possible way for me to dodge basketball fandom.
The need for basketball seemed to strike overnight. One day,I was a relatively normal sixteen-year-old girl. I spent time with my friends, went to the mall, listened to music, and spent unhealthy amounts of time on the phone with boys. The next day, I was holed up in my room watching CBS on Saturday afternoons. I soon developed the unfortunate habit of hurling random objects at the TV when things didn't go my way. Kentucky basketball consumed my winter weekends. I was an addict. A junkie.
As time passed, a sharp young coach name Rick Pitino brought the Wildcats back to basketball glory. My addiction grew. I even developed irrational superstitions. Hearing the school song going into halftime was an obvious early prediction of a win. Was I wearing my plaid shirt with the denim collar? Yes, I said it. A plaid shirt was a denim collar. That was my lucky shirt, and the Fresh Prince's mom didn't buy it for me at the Gallery Mall. I wore it, unwashed, on every game day. When it wasn't socially acceptable, I wore it under a sweater or sweatshirt. It was my idol. My Buddha. My religious symbol. That shirt honestly helped them win.
Then it happened. Three straight national title games and two wins. I was in basketball heaven. Utopia had been visited. Nirvana had been achieved.
Sadly, it was all downhill from there. Tubby Smith, Rick Pitino's successor to the coaching throne, adopted a rather slow and boring style of play. It was like going from speed to morphine. The buzz lifted, the addiction faded, and I evolved from basketfreak to casualbasketobserver. The passion was gone. There was nothing left to play for.
Tubby Smith has officially run the Kentucky Basketball program into the ground, and I thought my love for basketball had subsided. Not so, my friends. A scrappy group of Tennessee Vols have revived my interest in the game. How long before I'm once again hurling objects at the TV? God only knows.
Bruce Pearl is a coach and a showman. He has that P.T. Barnum spirit that I so dearly love. He managed to refill the once cavernous Thompson-Boling arena; he managed to turn a bunch ragtag bunch of scrappy young pups (Jesus, could this description be more Disney?) into an honest to God basketball team. Yesterday, they beat the #2 (poised to be #1)team in the nation. I was so excited that my hands were still shaking five minutes after the game.
Being a Kentuckian cheering for the Vols, I'm literally risking life and limb. People have been tarred and feathered for listening to Rocky Top in this state. I kid you not. I simply don't care. My loyalty has shifted. The guy in the coonskin cap is now Davy Crockett and not Daniel Boone.
I'm hooked. I'm addicted. I believe. Go Vols.
Sure, I'm a Kentuckian. The love of the college game is thought to be either a genetic product of rampant inbreeding (thus explaining Indiana's strong basketball legacy), or a result of a mutant additive distributed via the local water system. There was no possible way for me to dodge basketball fandom.
The need for basketball seemed to strike overnight. One day,I was a relatively normal sixteen-year-old girl. I spent time with my friends, went to the mall, listened to music, and spent unhealthy amounts of time on the phone with boys. The next day, I was holed up in my room watching CBS on Saturday afternoons. I soon developed the unfortunate habit of hurling random objects at the TV when things didn't go my way. Kentucky basketball consumed my winter weekends. I was an addict. A junkie.
As time passed, a sharp young coach name Rick Pitino brought the Wildcats back to basketball glory. My addiction grew. I even developed irrational superstitions. Hearing the school song going into halftime was an obvious early prediction of a win. Was I wearing my plaid shirt with the denim collar? Yes, I said it. A plaid shirt was a denim collar. That was my lucky shirt, and the Fresh Prince's mom didn't buy it for me at the Gallery Mall. I wore it, unwashed, on every game day. When it wasn't socially acceptable, I wore it under a sweater or sweatshirt. It was my idol. My Buddha. My religious symbol. That shirt honestly helped them win.
Then it happened. Three straight national title games and two wins. I was in basketball heaven. Utopia had been visited. Nirvana had been achieved.
Sadly, it was all downhill from there. Tubby Smith, Rick Pitino's successor to the coaching throne, adopted a rather slow and boring style of play. It was like going from speed to morphine. The buzz lifted, the addiction faded, and I evolved from basketfreak to casualbasketobserver. The passion was gone. There was nothing left to play for.
Tubby Smith has officially run the Kentucky Basketball program into the ground, and I thought my love for basketball had subsided. Not so, my friends. A scrappy group of Tennessee Vols have revived my interest in the game. How long before I'm once again hurling objects at the TV? God only knows.
Bruce Pearl is a coach and a showman. He has that P.T. Barnum spirit that I so dearly love. He managed to refill the once cavernous Thompson-Boling arena; he managed to turn a bunch ragtag bunch of scrappy young pups (Jesus, could this description be more Disney?) into an honest to God basketball team. Yesterday, they beat the #2 (poised to be #1)team in the nation. I was so excited that my hands were still shaking five minutes after the game.
Being a Kentuckian cheering for the Vols, I'm literally risking life and limb. People have been tarred and feathered for listening to Rocky Top in this state. I kid you not. I simply don't care. My loyalty has shifted. The guy in the coonskin cap is now Davy Crockett and not Daniel Boone.
I'm hooked. I'm addicted. I believe. Go Vols.
