My hometown Detroit Pistons were putting on a clinic of domination I hadn't seen since the six-straight-years-in-the-Eastern-Conference-Finals group that we used to take for granted (oh, how we'd take a simple playoff berth now).
Brandon Knight looked like an All-Star, absolutely owning former No. 1 pick John Wall, who couldn't hang onto the ball much less make a J. Greg Monroe, back in his college city, was putting on a show for Hoya Nation, knocking down 18-footer after 18-footer from behind the right elbow.
The Pistons snatched the lead from the Wizards in the third quarter on a Monroe jumper, 66-64. A few minutes later, it was 75-64. And when Knight drilled a 25-footer, it was 78-64 and Washington fans were booing the home team.
Amazing, right? I should have been flaunting my ugly teal Joe D jersey, right? I mean, we only get to see the Pistons down here twice a year.
Except that I didn't care about the game. Not one bit.
In fact, I was hardly even watching.
Instead, my eyes were glued to my phone, witnessing via ESPN Gamecast, Twitter and texts from my man Tick the horror story taking place some 206 miles away in State College, Pa.
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Growing up —and, to a certain extent, to this day — my Dad always said something that made sense to me about missing games in which our rooting interest (Detroit Tigers, Michigan Wolverines, etc.) would likely lose and/or ended up losing.
"You didn't want to see that anyway."
"And if they win," he'd say about playoff elimination games, "then there will be another one to watch."
It clicked for me. When the Pistons were playing the Heat in the 2006 Eastern Conference Finals, I didn't have a problem going to the Tigers game the night of Game 6 — with Miami up 3-2 — and listening on my walkman (yes, walkman!). Even though 'Sheed and the boys stunk it up and were eliminated, at least I got to take in a competitive Tigers game (albeit, a 3-2 L to the Red Sox).
I could live with missing the Pistons' final game of the year. In fact, I was happy I didn't see the 95-78 beatdown. It made the end of a season sting less.
And so for the past several years — especially as I became a sports journalist and my subjectivity turned to objectivity — I've gotten excited about my hometown Wolverines' and the Tigers' best teams, but never to a point of being extremely disappointed with a loss, never to a point where I've said, "I can't miss a game."
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Enter Michigan basketball. Enter this 2012-13 season.
But let me rewind first. Let me explain why Michigan basketball means more to me than any other team.
The Michigan basketball program was given up on. It became an afterthought. By the year 2000, a program that won a national championship just 11 years prior and made back-to-back championship game appearances a mere seven years before was in the dumps and in the midst of paying heavily for sanctions levied upon it by the NCAA for payments from a booster to a cadre of super talents from the Detroit area.
You know the story. That's not what this is about.
This is about latching onto a team, and a program, and watching it be built back up slowly and wobbly.
Each year, I paid a little more attention. First there was the Tommy Amaker era, during which he cleaned up the program, stopped the recruitment of poor-character kids (that was mostly a Brian Ellerbe thing), and got the Wolverines on the cusp of the NCAA Tournament a few times.
On March 3, 2007, during spring break of my senior year at Albion College, I sat at home in Ann Arbor and watched agonizingly as the Wolverines blew a six-point lead with 4 minutes remaining against No. 1 Ohio State in a game that would have sent them to the NCAA Tournament.
Instead, they missed the Dance for the ninth consecutive year, the team's four seniors finished their careers without a tournament game, and Amaker — after six years — was given the axe.
Coming so close only made me yearn even more for the team to reach the tournament. There's something incredible about failure that can tighten one's attachment to a team (just ask Cleveland fans).
But even more than that, I took satisfaction in being part of a small group of loyalists. Through the Amaker years and then, through the early years of the John Beilein era (really, until the last two years), Michigan basketball remained an afterthought and Crisler Arena a library.
In Ann Arbor, the talk was "football, football, football, Zingerman's, football" — all while Beilein slowly built from a weak foundation (his first team was 10-22).
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Which brings me back to the present. Or to last night.
As I sat in my seat at Verizon Center staring at my phone and only occasionally glancing at the spectacle in front of me, I didn't just hate that the Wolverines were blowing a 15-point lead in the final 10 minutes, 39 seconds against an 0-14 Big Ten team when the conference championship was on the line.
I hated that I was missing the game.
Yes, I couldn't stand the fact that I wasn't seated in front of a TV watching Michigan's defense surrender 33 points in the final 10 minutes against the Big Ten's worst offense.
As I thought about this — and as Penn State eventually claimed the lead and the game — I came to a realization:
For the first time since I can remember, I'm living vicariously through a team. As sad as this sounds for a 29-year-old, the Michigan basketball team has the ability to dictate my mood on a given night or afternoon.
I have no recollection of another team — not Michigan football, not even the Pistons, although that Robert Horry 3 in the 2005 Finals was devastating — having this effect on me, especially since I became a journalist.
I still view the team through an objective lens. I'm no 'homer.' So, no, I'm not sore about the officiating last night and, no, the loss wasn't solely a Michigan collapse. From what I've read and seen, Penn State played its best game of the season.
But that didn't improve my mood. And neither did a Pistons victory over the Wizards.
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Because of my attachment to this team, to this program, I hate missing a minute of a game. I selfishly want to take it all in, want to absorb every moment of Trey Burke greatness, analyze every hard hedge by Jordan Morgan, and listen to every Bacari Alexander pregame pep talk.
That's why following the debacle in State College through texts and Twitter wasn't sufficient — 140 characters at a time couldn't explain for me why Penn State was making every shot and Michigan suffered its longest offensive dry spell of the season.
By the fourth quarter of the NBA game, the college game was in the books. This left me pondering for 40 minutes what had gone wrong. If I had seen the game, at least I could have replayed in my head those key plays that changed the momentum, those close charge-block calls, Michigan's offensive executive down the stretch. Numbers did me no justice.
"Serves me right for missing the game..." I lamely wrote on Facebook.
When the Pistons survived a furious last-minute Trevor Ariza rally, I was happy that at least one home team got a W on the night. But there was no comparison, and it had nothing to do with Michigan playing for a lot more. I'm simply much more attached to the Wolverines. And just the Wolverines.
Every other hometown team I enjoy rooting for and following, especially during playoff time. But the only sports team I live vicariously through is Michigan basketball.
And that makes evenings like Wednesday difficult to stomach.
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