There I was, huddled in my basement on a cold Monday night. The temperature was of Antarctic proportions, but I was in high spirits nonetheless. I had a basketball team. I was there to witness history. It was the night of the 2008 College Basketball Championship, a clash of titans: the competitors, the Kansas Jayhawks and the Memphis Tigers. My eternal well-being rested in the hands of the Jayhawks .

The game began well enough. Kansas held a five-point halftime lead, I was giddy with confidence. I could smell victory. In my mind, Kansas had all but wrapped up the title. But karma’s a bitch.

Memphis started making everything. Everything. With two minutes left, they were up nine. I collapsed on the couch, furious. My ego had been unbreakable! Now it was being curb-stomped by the basketball gods. Then, improbably, Kansas made a shot, stole the inbound pass, and made a three. They made quick buckets. Memphis star and choke artist extraordinaire Chris Douglas-Roberts missed three free throws. The Jayhawks pushed up the court with 10 seconds left, down three. Mario Chalmers found the ball and let loose a high-arcing shot over his defender’s outstretched arm. As the ball fell gracefully towards the hope, a sort of eerie knowing perpetuated the air, as if the shot’s result was a foregone conclusion. Swish. Rapture. Overtime.

Memphis had nothing in the tank, and Kansas rolled in OT, 75 – 68. It was day of jubilation, but upon reflection two days later, I had been happier watching Chalmers’ miracle shot than celebrating the victory. A sense of disappointment cast a shadow over the festivities. How could something so glorious produce such a disheartened mood? Then came the realization: the NCAA Tournament and the college basketball season were over. It would be six months before another game was played. The sport had consumed me for three weeks, and now it was being snatched from my loving caress.

How to explain the essence of college basketball? In the NBA, players slog through 82 regular season games, more concerned with honing their Halo skills than working hard and winning games. The college season is 35 games at most. As the season winds down, and teams vie for one of 65 spots in the NCAA Tournament, the drama intensifies. Then March Madness.

The NCAA Tournament is the single greatest annual sporting event in the world. The first weekend is a pleasure overload: sixteen games a day, and every matchup has potential to grab the country’s attention. Take 2-seed Duke vs. 15-seed Belmont for example. Belmont, a team of feisty seniors, out-hustles Duke the entire game; they lose a single point.

America loves to love underdogs, but it loves to hate Duke even more. Hating Duke is great. I’d rather cheer on Hitler. Rooting heartily for them to lose is as classic a father-son bonding experience as playing catch.

Two particular commentators carry the tourney on their shoulders. One, Billy Packer, is a pessimistic curmudgeon birthed in the depths of hell. He feasts on babies and enjoys snuff films. And, not unlike Duke, rooting for him to choke on his danish is a national pastime. Packer is, however, enjoyable to listen to, if simply because his rants reach astronomical degrees of absurdity. The other standout commentator, Gus Johnson, could make a math test exciting. Imagine what he’s like in crunch time! Every game is a party!

But nothing makes college basketball college basketball like heart-stopping buzzer beaters. The rarity of last-second winners makes each one a slice of lore. One classic example is Princeton’s victory over defending champs UCLA on a backdoor pass in 1996. It was calculated, it was predictable, and it was gorgeous. Princeton’s backdoor to victory embodies college basketball at its best, a pure distillation of the joy of competition. The delight of the Princeton players, the sheer drama of the game’s final play makes me proud to consider myself a fan of the sport, and fortunate to find such solace in TV screens on cold spring nights.