“At least there’s always next year” are words that signal a fan’s arrival at the last stage of grief/hopeful acceptance. It happens in every sport; every team but one goes home unhappy. In the NBA, it’s 29 of them. In college basketball, 346.
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It’s why we put so much of ourselves into sports. It’s why, just a few months ago, when Georgetown was eliminated by Utah in the second round of the NCAA Tournament, a student center filled with a few hundred students fell into dead silence. It’s why the guy sitting behind me threw a Coke can into the ground with such force that it exploded all over me. It’s why I turned around and berated him for drenching my Georgetown jersey in America’s favorite soda.
But it’s also why, looking back on that night, I understand him.
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Any sport makes you do crazy things when you’re in the heat of cheering on your favorite team, but when you’re a college basketball fan, it’s a little different. You put extra effort into your team because for a lot of us, they’re also our schools (or were our schools). We put blood, sweat and tears into late night papers, final exams and an exorbitant amount of cash better known as our tuition.
A lot of the mystique of sports comes from the personal connection we feel to players and teams; in the case of college basketball, it’s real. We see these players on our campuses, some of us might have classes with them or be friends with them. We share a school with them, and if you’re a wide-eyed, die-hard, verging-on-insane fan like me, it means something.
Part of the allure of professional sports is watching these mystical, gladiator-like figures duel it out on the biggest of stages all while reaping millions of dollars in rewards. They’re larger than life.
But these guys who suit up with your school’s name etched into their jerseys, they’re real. They’re part of the same community you’re a part of. It’s what makes every dunk, every game-winner and yes, every court storm, that much more worth it.
But it’s also what makes college basketball the most heartbreaking sport to follow. “At least there’s always next year,” cannot always be said. Unless you’re Kentucky, Duke, North Carolina or Kansas, there really are no guarantees. That’s what makes the NCAA Tournament so special — it’s the culmination of everything your team has worked for the whole year or however many years it’s been since you last made it.
When Georgetown made the tournament last year, they had five seniors, guys who had been through it all — from watching a nationally ranked juggernaut with current Washington Wizard Otto Porter to being an NIT participant just a year ago.
It was incredible to see that group of guys lead their own team to a great season and impressive tournament run, coming up just short of beating Utah and current Toronto Raptor Delon Wright.
But that’s what also makes it so painful. That team will never have a second chance. Sure, in a few years, we might face Utah again and win, but it just won’t be the same. It’ll be a whole new crop of players, players who hadn’t even thought about taking the SAT when guys like Jabril Trawick, Josh Smith, Mikael Hopkins, Aaron Bowen and Tyler Adams were senior leaders. I’ll still be bleeding Hoya Blue, but those guys will be long gone.
In the NBA, revenge is sweeter because it’s the same guys avenging their losses. In 2013, the San Antonio Spurs fell to the Miami Heat in an incredible NBA Finals; a year later, they got their revenge, crushing LeBron James and the rest of the Heatles. Tim Duncan was still around, as was pretty much every player who was also on the Spurs a year before.
That’s the great part about the NBA, in a way that many people prefer it to college ball: you can follow a player consistently for his entire career and he may even play out its entirety for your team.
You just don’t get that in college sports. Instead of a consistent 10+ years of fandom, you get a heightened adrenaline rush from year-to-year. Every team is different, key players leave year after year like clockwork, whether it be for the pros or graduation.
We never leave our schools’ sides and we’ll always have those ties. But unfortunately, for a lot of players, their college is a stepping stone for their professional careers. Of course, they’re thankful and hold their teams in a special place, but it’s just not quite the same. It’s no wonder stories like a walk-on-turned-star resonate with us. But even then, he’s only around for four years max.
Being a college basketball fan forces you to adjust your expectations year in and year out. If you’re a mid-major coming off a great run led by multiple seniors, it forces you to accept the almost unwavering certainty of failure the coming season. There is no “we’ll get ’em next time.”
Coming up short is frequently a freefall without the safety net of “there’s always next year.” Part of what makes sports so great is the continuity of competition, but college ball far too often puts a ceiling on your expectations. And more often than not, that ceiling is the reality.
So why even watch when we know the almost ironclad certainty of our predictions?
Because the players think the exact same way. Media chatter, pundit talk and power rankings permeate the locker room and practices. They’re even hungrier than we are for success. Despite every prediction and every single detail that seems like a foregone conclusion, the players still have to play the game.
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Just as we cheer our hearts out to the point of pelting the ground with Coke cans, the players play theirs out. And just as we are all too aware of the fleeting nature of a good season, so are they. It’s what makes success all the more special. And it’s also what makes every failure that much more heartbreaking. Because almost every other team is in the same exact situation.
As a fan, it’s nothing short of a rollercoaster, only the ride never really ends. Ups, downs, loops, corkscrews — it’s got the whole package. And despite knowing the likelihood of what comes next, we still hope it’s something else. It’s in our DNA. I do it all time. College basketball essentially forces us into accepting our team’s reality while still holding onto a sliver of hope.
It’s why I have a canned response going into every season; for this one it’s, “I think we’ll be pretty good and most likely make the tournament, win a game or two, but that’s it.” And whoever I’m talking to will nod his head in agreement, say something similar about his team, and that’ll be it.
As we’re walking away, I know without a doubt he’s holding back a smug grin, thinking that he can’t wait to see his team do better than mine, that this is his teams’s season. I know he can’t wait for other people to drool over how good his team is, for people to see that this season really is different. I know because I’m doing the exact same thing.
The thing about college basketball is, though, we’ll probably both be wrong. At least there’s always next year.
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