It's a beautiful picture. Coach K standing in front of throngs of loving fans at Cameron. Behind him, a group of players fresh off of a national championship, the fourth in my school's history.Believe me, I'm through-the-moon happy that this picture happened.
But good lord was watching the national championship game stressful.
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Sports are supposed to be fun, especially watching them. It's supposed to be a pasttime. In theory, it's supposed to be a *release* from the anxieties of life. This is the candy store. This is where the games MATTER, but aren't really important. A repository for emotional energy that we don't want to focus on important matters, just something enjoyable to make our little lives slightly more bearable. It's supposed to be a world to bask in the reflected glory of others, so as to not focus on the mediocrity of ourselves.
So why are each of my fingernails chewed down to nubs? Why was my heart-rate elevated for three hours? Why did I literally punch the floor of the Marriot in Fort Lauderdale at one point? What the hell is wrong with me?
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The result is amazing. I'm so proud of Coach K and the 2010 Blue Devils. They showed all kinds of character, will, fight, and determination. And I was floored by Butler. Their 12 year-old coach had that group focused, fierce, and un-afraid. Butler didn't win the game. But I can assure you they won buckets of respect.
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It's funny though. We dream and dream of having our teams make the championship game. Reaching that ultimate contest, where a run-of-the-mill group of young men, can become immortalized in our collective sports memories.
And when they FINALLY reach the highest levels of competition, this should be the ultimate experience in fan fun.
And it's usually not.
It's usually more stressful than anything else.
I LOVED the Super Bowl where my Giants beat the Pats. But if David Tyree doesn't catch a football off his head, my memory of that game and the experience of watching that game, become very different.
Whereas now I can appreciate the little moments throughout that game, the sacks on defense, Eli's final drive...
Had the Giants lost. All I'd remember is Randy Moss catching the winning touchdown, and my friend Will crying.
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Let's be honest. Duke won that national championship by an inch. That last shot, It kissed the backboard and hit the front of the rim. If that shot banks in, it's the most famous shot in college hoops history, it's replayed EVERY march.
And I'm sick to my stomach. My night, which I now remember fondly, would have been a nightmare.
The line between pure joy, and true sorrow, is inches away.
All because of what 30 college students, who I haven't met, and don't really know, are doing... all the way in Indiana... on a random Monday night in April.
I put so much stock into something that I have absolutely nothing to do with, and literally no control over.
No wonder you hear terms like March "madness" and Cameron "crazy." How absurd is that?
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Tonight, by contrast, I watched the Yankees and Red Sox. Sure, the rivalry is intense. Sure, every one of those games COULD end up mattering. But tonight, it felt like 1 of 162 games. Just another stop along a LONG, LONG road.
And thank god.
My stomach couldn't take another Monday Night.
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