Pinch Me

I've been covering sports in a media capacity for the last 14 years of my life. Over that time, and the endless stream of media passes, rubber chicken buffet lines, press conferences and broadcasts, you develop the emotional response of a corpse. That's not necessarily a bad thing, it's a part of the business. You have to be calm, unbiased and professional. It comes with all of the perks.

I love sports more than I can explain. The rush of energy you get when you see a back-door screen set perfectly, and you are waiting for the pass. The anticipation of watching a playoff hockey game and every shot could be the game winner. At a football game, knowing that a player is injured, but watching him split a defense. Or, on the links, a player coming off three bogeys who somehow swallows the butterflies to birdie the 72nd hole to win. It is all only possible in sports.

And then there was yesterday. No media responsibility in watching Butler play in the Elite Eight, hunched nervously in the corner of a bar, surrounded by Bulldog crazies. After he first two rounds of the tournament, my blue clothing came out of the closet. Hey, if the Horizon League staff could openly root for their lone representative, why not me?

What happened yesterday makes no sense. It won't when I go to bed tonight, it won't tomorrow, and it won't when I arrive to watch the Dawgs practice at Lucas Oil on Thursday. A team from a school with 4,000 students, tucked in mid-major obscurity with meager resources just doesn't make a Final Four. Or do they?

Is it possible that I am blinded by the story of Butler? Look at the makeup of the team: A sure-fire NBA player (Gordon Hayward) that can do everything. A gritty, polished post player (Matt Howard) that can handle almost anybody in the paint. An energetic, nasty PG (Ronald Nored) who can drive you crazy for spurts, but then you watch his defense and run out of virtuoso adjectives to describe his ability. A shooting guard (Shelvin Mack) that became a man in the NCAA Tourney, wanting to take the big shots... and hitting them. And the lone senior (Willie Veasley) who does everything asked of him in both heart and skill.

Strip away the name on the jersey, the story, the campus, and it makes sense. I am just honored to have been closely associated with the program for the last 10 seasons, but in that time, what happened yesterday becomes so much more meaningful.

After the shock wore off, I was overwhelmed with the emotion of it. Yes, I cried in a bar. I thought about the teams (2001, 2002, 2003, 2007, 2008) that Butler had where we always wondered, "could this team do the unthinkable?" I thought of the countless players that built this system and program, who had to feel like they earned a piece of that net from Salt Lake City. Memories of frigid road trips to nowhere when the team couldn't schedule a meaningful home game. Those hours logged paid off last night.

It is the culmination of an entire era, ushered in by a coach who now oversees the entire department. And it's continued by a current coach who sacrificed everything to be a part of it. It's a Final Four for all of us who invested in that system and drank the Kool Aid. So, while there is a game to play on Saturday, this week is a celebration of Butler Basketball, its history and its legacy.

I need to stop typing... I'm getting emotional again.
For people who actually know what they are doing when they write, I suggest the following readings: Here, here, and here, for starters.