There is nothing on Earth like college basketball in March.
Picture it: Your small school of just a few thousand students hasn't been relevant in the basketball world in 50 years, making the NCAA Tournament just eight times since 1954 and losing every game.
Your team last made the tournament in 2007, losing by 10 in the first round to Southern Illinois. Since then, your team, Holy Cross, has seen four coaches, a slew of bottom-half finishes in the Patriot League and a 121-152 overall record.
You watched as conference-rival Lehigh won the hearts of millions of Americans with its David-versus-Goliath upset of 2-seed Duke. And this season, you lost your last five regular-season games and watched Bucknell run away with its fifth conference title in six years. And at 10-19, all should have been lost.
But then February ended. You and your teammates scraped by newcomer Loyola to set up what should have been a blowout at the hands of Bucknell. In two games against the Bison this year, you'd lost by a combined 52 points.
By some miracle, your Crusaders down the kings and advance to the semifinals against Army, which had edged you by four points just a month earlier. But in the spring of basketball, a month can make all the difference in the world. Stymied by your team's seldom-used 1-3-1 zone defense, the Black Knights managed just 38 points and you find yourself in the conference tournament final, where Lehigh's four game-tying 3-point attempts all clang off the rim. You're heading to the Big Dance.
A small upset over a struggling Southern team nets you the real deal: a date with No. 1 seed Oregon in the First Round. The next few days will be filled with noise.
You'll hear people say you're the worst school to ever make the tournament. You'll hear talk of how no No. 16 seed has ever beaten a No. 1 seed. How you would have to become the largest underdog to ever win a game just to get out of the First Round.
Every bit of adversity you've ever faced—every skinned knee, every broken bone, every drop of sweat and blood—has been in preparation for this moment.
When you step onto that court, it all fades away. Instead of a No. 1 seed in front of you, it's just five guys wearing green. They're just kids, same as you. They've got the same hands, the same feet, the same eyes. It's all blocked out.
For 40 minutes, you'll think of nothing but basketball. Nothing matters but the orange ball in your hands, the hardwood beneath your feet and the nylon strings dangling from the rim. The screams of the crowd start to dampen. Soon all you hear is the squeak of shoes, the pounding of the ball on the ground and your own heartbeat.
In just 40 minutes, there will be a result. There will be a winner and there will be a loser. There will be news coverage, headlines and endless talk of the game. But that's a world away. That's not on your mind. You've dedicated your life to putting the ball in the hoop right here, right now.
Thirty years down the road, you'll look back on that game. You lost by 39 points in what was, to the rest of the world, just another forgettable game. But you haven't forgotten. You remember the emotion. You remember the heartbreak. But above all, you remember the pride you felt in willing your small-town team to the national stage.
And that's something you'll never forget, because March is forever.
