I became an Indiana basketball fan before I even understood the game itself — back in the days of Channel 4 and the winter ritual of gathering in front of the TV as a family. My connection to the program didn’t start with strategy or analysis. It started with the people around me.
My mom once took me to College Mall to buy a get-well card for Scott May in 1975 after he broke his arm. She had already taken me to Assembly Hall years earlier so I could meet Bob Knight and Dave Bliss — an experience that left me wide-eyed and a little star-struck. My dad, a young IU professor then, knew guys like John Ritter and John Laskowski as students first, athletes second. That was Bloomington. That was Indiana. Even for people who felt the town and the university were separate worlds, IU basketball was the thing that tied everyone together.
And whenever the Hoosiers came on, we claimed our spots in the living room like it was a sacred ritual. No smartphones. No internet. No second screens. Just the family leaning forward together, nervous and excited, completely immersed in the same moment. We sang along with the Farm Bureau mop lady. We cheered. We argued calls. We lived and died with every possession. It wasn’t just basketball — it was belonging.
Some memories feel almost too vivid to be real — nights when Showalter Fountain was the gathering point of thousands of jubilant fans after the championship wins in 1981 and 1987. Families and friends packed the plaza, singing the fight song under the streetlights. One of the bronze fish even disappeared during the ’87 celebration — stolen in the frenzy — and the campus legend grew that the fish wouldn’t return until the next national title did. A silly bit of folklore, sure, but it captures something true: the way Indiana basketball once united people in pure joy.
There were smaller traditions too. In the mid-’70s, McDonald’s ran a promotion where fans earned free food if IU held opponents under 50. And if you grew up in that era, you remember the intensity. The crowd roaring “Defense! Defense!” like it was a mission. The game might have been a blowout, but the fans were locked in — celebrating every deflection, every steal, every forced miss. The free fries were nice. The unity was better.
As I got older, my relationship with the program changed. College basketball changed. Money and TV schedules shaped everything. Scandals and missteps wore people down. Modern life pushed us into a thousand separate screens. And yet… I never stopped caring. Even in the leanest seasons, even when Assembly Hall sometimes felt a little quieter than it once did, I kept watching. I kept hoping. I kept believing Indiana basketball could still mean something — not just to me, but to all of us.
Now here we are, six games into the season with another one coming tonight. And when I walked into Assembly Hall for the Kansas State game, I could feel something stirring again. The place wasn’t wall-to-wall like the old days, but the energy was different — louder, warmer, more connected. People weren’t just showing up. They were leaning in.
That’s why I’m rooting so hard for Darian DeVries.
It’s not just the wins. It’s the way his team plays. There’s a steadiness to the offense. A clarity to the spacing. A purpose to the passing. The defense talks. The ball moves. The habits look intentional. It feels like the earliest stages of an identity — something Indiana fans haven’t had consistently in a long time.
And then there was something he said at his introductory press conference that felt like it was directed straight at people like me — people who grew up on Channel 4; people who gathered in living rooms with their parents; people who still believe Assembly Hall can feel like home again. DeVries said:
“We will know when we have made it when fans can watch us and be filled with pride because of how our team plays — how unselfish they are, the joy they play with, the enthusiasm they play with, and their love for this university. When they can say with pride, ‘That is my team,’ that is when the banners will rise again.”
That last line? That’s the dream. That’s what we’ve been missing. Not just winning — but pride in how we win.
I think about my old dog, Chester, who never liked me leaving for late-night games but always waited by the door when I got home. I think about my parents, who passed before seeing so many new eras unfold. I think about the families now who still make the trek on cold weeknights, hoping for a team worth investing in again. I think about what Assembly Hall used to feel like when the entire building rose together on a defensive stop.
And I don’t think that feeling is gone. I think it’s waiting. I think it’s possible again.
If this team keeps playing with effort, cohesion, and purpose — if they keep leaning into the things Indiana basketball has always claimed to value — the fans will keep coming back. The energy will keep rising. And nights like Kansas State won’t feel like exceptions. They’ll feel like the beginning of something.
No one expects a return to 1981 or 1987. That’s not the point.
The point is that Indiana basketball has always been at its best when it gives people something to gather around — something to share — something to believe in.
The first stretch of this season lit the spark. The growing crowds and louder nights inside Assembly Hall are fanning it into something brighter. Now it’s up to the team to keep building — and up to us to keep believing.
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