I grew up watching them. We grew up watching them. From the flash-flooded-fields of tobacco and corn in the flats of Western Kentucky to the valley-hollers of Eastern Kentucky coal mines. We all grew up watching the Cats play. And not only do we relish over the regular season, but we also bleed blue for March. Herd to venues and sardine arenas, domes. Because hell, blue gets in. (Cat)lanta. Nashville. Indianapolis. New-Orleans. We make the conference tournament our own. Hang banners that pose memorandums only of Final Fours and NCAA Championships.

One of my earliest memories of watching Kentucky basketball is the Patrick Sparks shot in 2005. Elite Eight. Michigan State game. I recall sitting criss-cross right in front of our old RCA 32" box television. Next to that gas fireplace with the white mantle. Since I'd been born, we had won two National Championships. But I was born in 1994. So this was my first real taste of Kentucky basketball prominence. First pinch of how it felt to see the Cats in the mix for a title. My first thrill of seeing the clock wind down.

Patrick, air-ball. Kelenna, rebound. Drives corner for a three. Misses. Patrick, rebound. Patrick, shot.

As history repeats itself, which it often does, I found myself at yet another fireplace. Nearly a decade later. 2014. Grown. Educated. This time not with a Mountain Dew, but a Natty Light in hand. Aaron Harrison had already done it once to Michigan to get us here. But the Final Four would unknowingly come down to the flick of his wrist yet again. I'd already seen a Final Four and a title in my life. I'd been crescendoed into the blooded-fraternity that is seeing the Cats cut it down in April. The first time I'd been a part of this, I was with my family. Safe inside the living room. Protected by that fireplace. Ignorant to the explosion Patrick Sparks was going to ignite. But I'd never thought of an entire city being lit on fire. Never imagined it. This time, I was going to be at the forefront. Here I was again. Here we were again. Time winding down and a trip to the National Championship on the line. As big as it gets. And for a Cats fan, unmatched nerves.

Andrew drives baseline. Pass to Dakari. Dakari fumbles the pass. Passback to Andrew. Pass to Aaron. Aaron, jab. Aaron, shot.

Those explosions are not only what Cats fan fiend but every fan in America. As a basketball fan, it's more than just basketball. It's a family affair. A community experience. A cult. Gathered around where humans have gathered for years and centuries. Two fireplaces. Two separate times of my life. Patrick Sparks. Aaron Harrison.

Just like you, I longed for yet another memorable month. Spending time at restaurants just hoping my team survives and advances. I hoped for another run. The upsets. The underdogs. The explosions. To see my bracket do well against my friends and co-workers. I'm suffering. We are suffering. And in the worst times, I've seen in my lifetime, we are as separated as ever before. Quarantined away from friends and loved ones. The same ones we should be experiencing the highs and lows of our favorite pastime with. Often during times of tragedy, panic, or disaster, our world has a knack for using sports as glue. A bond. A stitch to heal our wounds. That is what we yearn most for during times of uncertainty. That's what humans do. We find things that bring us together. Bring energy into one place. Passion. Competition. Thrill. Bringing people together that would have never had a connection otherwise. Using sports as a connector. Using winning and losing as the band-aid to put our lives back together when life itself seems to be the most shattered. I'll miss the joys of the game. The thrill of victory. The heartbreak of defeat. I'll miss texting my Father about the games. But most of all, we are going to miss the one thing that brings us all together, and what March is all about.

Madness.