Long strings of confetti fell from the roof of the Alamodome, accompanied with the sounds of loud bangs, signaling the miracle game had ended, and Kansas had come out on top. A lot of the events that took place in the following 60 minutes or-so have since escaped my memory, but those things that I do remember, remain engrained in my mind like a flipbook, with flashes of the celebration that followed.
I remember Sherron Collins’ small, bulldoggish frame, power-dribbling as the clock expired, with his index finger raised next to his closed fist, showing where Kansas had just finished — number one.
My mother and I went on to embrace each other in extreme joy, loving being able to feel something other than the heart-stopping anxiety we experienced in the last two and a half hours before. Within two minutes of Kansas finishing their season on top, releasing the weight of 20 years of championship-less basketball, we began to execute our pre-game plan, which involved doing something strange — leaving our seats, entering the main concourse and running.
My mom, seeing the extreme impatience on my face, as we tried to navigate through the sea of exiting Memphis fans, did something I will forever be thankful for, and told me to go — that she would catch up.
So I did, I took off, running as fast as I could toward the other end of the arena. It was surprisingly difficult, getting through those swarms of Tigers’ fans, and what was most likely 180 seconds of running, felt like an eternity — I could not miss anything.
When I reached my destination, or so I thought, I ran down the aisle, searching for the one person I wanted to see most — my dad.
My dad taught me everything when it came to Kansas basketball, along with so much more. I knew how happy he was, because I felt the same. I knew how experiencing another championship exorcised the March demons of being a Kansas fan for the last 20 years. Most importantly, I knew how much he wanted to find me, because all I wanted to do was find him.
The official reasoning for our trek to sit next to my father: To gain a better vantage point of the net-cutting and trophy ceremony (his seats were better than ours), but what I really wanted during those three-minutes or so of chaos — to celebrate with him.
So I ran down the aisle, looking left and right trying to figure out his location. Had I gone to far? Not far enough? How could I screw this up, at a time like this? I then realized I had not gone far enough, so I did what any other sensible person would do during such a heart-racing moment. I climbed, like some athletes do when looking for their family after actually winning. I frantically jumped over rows and climbed chairs, just searching for what I wanted most.
Finally, out of the corner of my eye, I found him, and began moving in his direction. More chairs were climbed and rows jumped, but that part isn’t what I can vividly remember.
When I reached him, that’s something that I will always remember, and something that, as Bill Self said, I will think about most every day for the rest of my life. We hugged, hugged, and we hugged. Our arms wrapped around each other, as we shared a happiness that will always remain indescribable. I felt as we always do when we hug, warmth, happiness, and safety. The championship was one of the happiest moments of my life, and that hug surpassed anything else that happened on that day. And I know, as always, that he felt the same.
Happy fathers day, dad.
Mind of Mike 