Man, I know I'm waaaaay late to this party. But I'll be damned if I don't get me at least one drink in and a lil rant.
I caught the Illini's final Big Ten matchup at the Houston airport via my iPad, and was
really blessed to see the game in its entirety as a result of 2 flight delays. Someone mentioned the basketball gods casting favor on us for this game - I definitely felt a small dose of divine intervention in the air that evening to be able to watch til the end.
I listened to the game audio via headphones, or in other words, I was in an acoustic bubble. There was the ferocious sound of a basketball game with a championship on the line inside my head, but relative silence external to me. And so, during my numerous and heated emotional outbursts - of disbelief and despair, frustration and emerging pain, guarded optimism, frustration and pain again, optimism again, euphoria, disbelief, disbelief, disbelief, and then euphoria again - people would occasionally look over, reactively, in my direction, some with a look of pity on their faces in their assumption that I had a meaningfully serious mental and emotional disorder. "That poor guy, it must be so hard to live with his condition".
More than anything, right now - before we join in the Big Ten tournament, before March Madness - I'm trying to remember to give thanks for these past 3 seasons. Seasons of profound joy, aesthetic and emotional beauty, and redemption. I mean, what, we've beaten Michigan how many straight times? Put down the Hoosiers how many straight times? Trashed Wisconsin how many times in a row?
Just how many exquisite moments of celebration and utter happiness and pride - from insane plays and performances, explosive rallies, cold blooded game winners, beatdowns of rivals who not so long ago properly owned us, and, yes, from banners won, too - have we been gifted these past 3 seasons?
I think it would be a tremendous exercise in self awareness for all of us to start at the beginning of this season, or even last season, and revisit all of the comments/posts we've made along the way. What we see is that the pain of losing is so powerful, so dark in its corruptive magic, that at times it blurs our ability to see just how f-in glorious the past few seasons have been, as entire bodies of work. I mean, for most of us writing and reading here, we endured a decade and a half of real famine, before arriving at this bountiful harvest that is the realization of the Underwood era.
Whatever happens from here on out... we have so, so much to be grateful for, already.