We
thought we were somebody!
That
is, until President Lane Rawlins declared, “Everybody off the bus.”
The parade started from the back. Once inside the hotel, we realized we were the only
ones who got off the bus. We, and Mr.
Smith, who didn’t get the message. He was old, partially deaf, and clueless. The tour directors escorted him back onto the
bus, and it motored on to supper, without benefit of our entertainment.
Every year, when St.
Patrick’s Day engulfs us in green, and when Conference Tournaments dominate the
TV channels, I remember the Chicago River dyed emerald. We celebrated among the high rollers at the
University of Memphis as the Memphis Tigers exploded with wins in an extravaganza
of excitement. Penny led the charge and we led the cheers. Traveling with the daughter
of the AD, we were in-like-Flynn, until we were out.
It was conference tournament time for the Great Midwest and that fan-favorite was held in Chicago, during our Spring Break, as Irish Eyes smiled upon us. The tales we have stored in our collective memories could torch Chicago again, should we divulge our escapades, like trying to drive the Chicago streets ourselves, happening upon a potential gas station hold-up.
The basketball tournament games were held in the old Chicago Bulls arena; we saw where Michael Jordan began his flying lessons. We beheld the center court Bulls insignia that was ultimately moved to a location of MJ’s determination. Our prime seats were below the Finch family, including “Sister” who must have coined the term, “D-Up.” The more the Tigers won, the more Memphis fans arrived; the more times the Tigers won, the more we were treated to fancy dinners among those whose wallets carried plenty of dollars earmarked for Tiger Celebrations.
Then, the finals happened, and we lost. Don’t remember to what university. Maybe Cincinnati. We were robbed, as usual. Regardless, it was over. The bubble burst. We girls enjoyed a pizza dinner in a small bistro at the hotel. After several hours, there was a “Tiger Sighting.”
And, getting off the bus was not so bad after all.
It was conference tournament time for the Great Midwest and that fan-favorite was held in Chicago, during our Spring Break, as Irish Eyes smiled upon us. The tales we have stored in our collective memories could torch Chicago again, should we divulge our escapades, like trying to drive the Chicago streets ourselves, happening upon a potential gas station hold-up.
The basketball tournament games were held in the old Chicago Bulls arena; we saw where Michael Jordan began his flying lessons. We beheld the center court Bulls insignia that was ultimately moved to a location of MJ’s determination. Our prime seats were below the Finch family, including “Sister” who must have coined the term, “D-Up.” The more the Tigers won, the more Memphis fans arrived; the more times the Tigers won, the more we were treated to fancy dinners among those whose wallets carried plenty of dollars earmarked for Tiger Celebrations.
Then, the finals happened, and we lost. Don’t remember to what university. Maybe Cincinnati. We were robbed, as usual. Regardless, it was over. The bubble burst. We girls enjoyed a pizza dinner in a small bistro at the hotel. After several hours, there was a “Tiger Sighting.”
And, getting off the bus was not so bad after all.
PS - We paid for our hotel rooms, transportation, tickets, tours, food, and taxi rides. With the NCAA looking down from on high, I must divulge that we are not scouts, agents, family of players, car dealership owners, or university employees. We are just old school teachers who love the Tigers and enjoyed a whirlwind opportunity to buy tickets and follow the team for a short time in our lives. Go, Tigers!
Cute, cute, cute! You were a lucky girl, weren't you? Enjoyed the "trip."
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