Kels and Tam and I were sitting there yelling at the TV last night while Michigan slugged it out with Kansas. We're not big basketball fans but this is the big tournament. The home team in a big game. Gotta watch. Just like a million years ago.
Back then, I was a kid in L.A., growing up in the shadow of UCLA, where John Wooden ruled the round-ball universe. A gentleman, a teacher, a wizard. Back then, a pint-size basketball fan, I would sit in the den at home with my brother Dan and my Dad. We'd be clutching the cushions on the couch, yelling at the TV, pounding the floor, jumping up, grabbing our heads, raising our arms in victory, spilling our popcorn. I would sit in that den watching UCLA back before I knew there was a sweet sixteen, before I knew there was a place called Michigan, before I knew there was anywhere that mattered outside of Los Angeles.
Back then, if I wasn't in our den watching with Dad, I was at Neal's house. At Neal's we'd sit in his parent's cozy little den doing the same thing: Neal, John, Joel, his Dad, and usually a couple or three others, packed in a room with seats for about 5. And we'd be yelling at the TV, pounding the floor, punching the air, holding our breath, spilling the Wowees.
That was then. Great memories. This is now. Great memories. I don't now how much more of the tournament we'll be watching. Certainly Kels probably won't be home to watch it with me. But it was a fun moment. The memories, however, were even better than the outcome of the game. Back then, and now.
I used to watch the Bruins practice when Wooden was coach during my time at UCLA. How lucky was I?
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