As Indiana returns to the floor tonight against Washington, it feels like a natural pause point — a chance to step back from the noise and remember why so many of us still care.
I became an Indiana basketball fan before I ever understood the game itself — back in the days of Channel 4 and the winter ritual of gathering in front of the television as a family. My connection to the program didn’t begin with strategy or analysis. It began 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 three years earlier so I could meet Bob Knight and Dave Bliss in person — an experience that left me wide-eyed and a little star-struck. My dad, a young IU professor at the time, knew players like John Ritter and John Laskowski as students first, athletes second. That was Bloomington. That was Indiana. Even for people who sometimes felt the town and the university existed in separate worlds, IU basketball was the thing that tied everyone together.
And whenever the Hoosiers came on, we’d claim 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 became the gathering place for thousands of jubilant fans after the championship wins in 1981 and 1987. Families and friends crowded 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 campus folklore grew that the fish wouldn’t return until the next national title did. It’s a silly story, but it captures something true: the way Indiana basketball once united people in pure, shared joy.
There were other traditions too — smaller, but no less powerful. In the mid-1970s, McDonald’s ran a promotion where fans earned free food if IU held opponents under 50 points. 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 decided, but the fans were locked in, celebrating every deflection, every forced miss. The free fries were nice. The unity was better.
As I grew older, my relationship with the program grew more complicated.
College basketball changed. Money and television schedules reshaped priorities. Scandals and missteps took their toll. Modern life fractured us into a thousand separate screens. And yet — I never stopped caring. Even during the leanest seasons, even when Assembly Hall sometimes felt quieter than it once did, I kept watching. I kept hoping. I kept believing that Indiana basketball could still mean something — not just to me, but to all of us.
Earlier this season, I found myself back inside Assembly Hall again, and by Indiana standards, the crowd was thinner than it used to be. I understand why. Fans have been through a lot. Faith doesn’t rebuild overnight. But even in that smaller crowd, you could still feel a heartbeat beneath the surface — a sense of what Indiana basketball wants to be, and what it might still become.
That’s why I’m rooting so hard for Darian DeVries — not just because of early results, but because of what has held up once the Big Ten grind arrived.
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 feel intentional. Not every night has been clean. Not every test has been passed. But more often than not, the identity shows up — even when the league pushes back.
And then there was something DeVries said at his introductory press conference — words that have echoed more clearly as the season has unfolded:
“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 still stops me.
Because it reframes the dream.
Not just winning — but pride in how you win.
Not just results — but recognition.
Not just banners — but belonging.
I think about my old golden retriever, Chester, who never liked me leaving for late-night games, but greeted my return as if I’d won the game myself. I think about my parents, who passed before seeing so many new eras unfold. I think about the families 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.
The early games this season lit a spark — the pace, the joy, the sense of a team forming in real time. Big Ten play tested that spark. Some nights strengthened it. Others challenged it. But the belief those early moments stirred in me didn’t disappear. It adjusted. It matured. It learned to sit with imperfection without letting go.
What this team has to do now is keep building.
If Indiana continues to play with effort, cohesion, and purpose — even when the league makes that difficult — the fans will keep finding their way back. The energy will follow. The conversations will return. Maybe someday, the celebration will too.
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.
And right now — on the edge of the stretch that will tell us what this season can become — this still feels worth believing in.
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