I fell in love with it ----college basketball, that is---- at a drafty old barn in Lincoln Square in Worcester, Massachusetts, not far from where ons of my great-uncles once owned a saloon. This Worcester Memorial Auditorium was square and huge, and it had towering murals depicting men loading shells into the big guns of a dreadnought and firing artillery along the banks of the Somme. You had to walk up broad staircases to see the murals in their entirety, and I did not have the courage for that until I was nearly ten. I continued to love it---- the whole raucous, tumbling parade of it ---- through my undergraduate days at Marquette University, where Al McGuire put together a delightfully rambunctious program. I even loved it when I covered it for five years, more or less full-time, for the Boston Herald, I have missed one Final Four since 1982, and I can tell you exactly where and when I stopped loving college basketball: I stopped loving it in a hotel in Indianapolis in 1999, on a Saturday afternoon, before the national semifinals.