Finally!

American beats Colgate to earn the school's first ever NCAA bid...

Is it a sign that I’m getting old that I’d rather watch kids storm the floor than storm the floor myself?

It’s become a March ritual. Students fill the stands at men’s basketball conference tournaments across the country, with a precious automatic bid to the Big Dance – the NCAA Tournament – on the line. On the court, teams trade baskets and turnovers, digging in on the defensive end for the one stop that could give them the thing they’ve worked their entire lives for. At some point, one team puts enough distance between itself and the opponent that the outcome is no longer in doubt, and the bleachers bulge with 20-year-old kids – faces painted, voices hoarse. Then, the final buzzer sounds, and the students pour onto the court frighteningly quickly, a violent swell that breaks the tension that’s been building all afternoon and all season long.

It’s also a moment I’ve been waiting for since the fall of 1998, when I first set foot on the campus of American University in Washington, D.C. As passionate about basketball as anyone, I had long realized, at age 17, that my physical talents, such as they are, were far too limited to ever do anything on the court worthy of such a celebration. I had high hopes, however, that I’d one day be able to indulge in the ritual as a fan.

It never happened during my four years at the school, and I wondered if I’d ever have the opportunity to watch, in person, my alma mater earn a bid to the NCAA Tournament – a bid that had eluded the school in the 40-plus years it had participated in Division I basketball.

I’ve kept tabs on the team since I graduated, attending several games in each of the past couple of years. This season, life got in the way, and I never made it to a game, not even as the team triumphed historically over Maryland and won the Patriot League regular season championship. When we beat Army last Sunday to earn the title game on our home court against Colgate, I saw myself with one last chance.

I left work early today to get to the arena two hours before tip-off, to pick up my tickets and secure a decent seat in the general admission bleachers. Outside, students impatiently awaited permission to enter, chanting “Let’s Go Eagles!” and dancing to hip-hop music spun by a deejay. I observed the scene from several yards away, button-down shirt obediently tucked into khakis as young men and women had their bare torsos painted with familiar hues of red and blue.

* * *

With four seconds left on the clock, I knew what was about to happen. American was up five, and the game officials stopped play for an unnaturally long time to sort out some or other rule obscurity. Finally, the ball was back in play, and a final free throw yielded the game’s final score of 52-46. I allowed myself a quick glance at the scoreboard as the final second ran off, then turned my attention to the court as the swarm of students overwhelmed the security force meant to deter them, engulfing the players in a bouncing, jubilant celebration that lasted perhaps a bit longer than it should have.

Is it a sign I’m getting old that I’d rather sit at my computer right now, recording this memory, rather than going out and celebrating by getting so drunk that I struggle to hold the memory the next day?

Maybe. But I don’t care. I’m dancing.

Young or old, we’re all dancing.