Hey, MGofolks: Don’t let some hack SI writer get you down…
Just think of things we've had that no one else ever will. Stroll now down memory lane, if you care, for this week marks the twenty-fifth anniversary of perhaps the merriest and most glorious week in all of Ann Arbor party lore. [I know, I’m wading headlong into tl;dr territory.]
It begins on April fool’s, when Sean Higgins sends hoards of crazy, Hash Bashing kids into the streets to celebrate the Illini-hilation in the national semi-final game (OK, it isn’t anything near annihilation, but a win is a win when the stakes are win-or-go-home). Hello, Ann Arbor Police. Nothing to see here. Nope. We’re just dancing. Just happy to be here.
But the festivities are just getting revved up…
Two days later, Glenn Rice (doubtlessly cooler than April pool water), Loy Vaught , Terry Mills, Rumeal Robinson (OK… maybe Rumeal still has reason to be sad), Mark Hughes, Mike Griffin, and co. (Ooooooos!) top off our magical tournament run by snipping the twine in Seattle. Rose Bowl: Check. MBB National Champs: Check, check.
Meanwhile… Some shlub of an ex-Michigan coach sits next to his suitcase, drinking a cup of cold coffee somewhere near a town the size of Abilene.
But back in A-squared, those same crazy kids who caused such a ruckus a couple of nights ago (and whose numbers have grown to outrageous proportions) get started in on a night of stop-light-hanging-awning-crashing-Rick’s/Charley’s-mobbing mayhem at the corner of Church and South U. For the record (and since the statute of limitations renders me now free from prosecution), I can be seen dancing up on the overhang outside the ballet studio on the NW corner, and while my judgment is a bit clouded, my view of the revelry and riot cops is largely unobstructed. It also absolves me of any responsibility for that news van on its side over there. We pause to marvel at just how long our hoots and hollers echo into the drizzle and beer-soaked mist, eventually heading home at dawn to dream of errant hail-Mary jumpers at the buzzer.
But wait! As if that weren’t enough… or as if we need any more excuses to skip a day - or maybe a week - of classes, this little travelling band from the burning shores of California rolls in to town and sets up shop for a two night juke-joint rollick in the very space our round-ball heroes had just toiled all winter (to a third place Big Ten finish, one may note).
Those who are in attendance can attest: This space is hot! Part victory parade, part carnival, part bacchanal, the April 5th and 6th Crisler dates rank among the tightest Dead shows of the era. I, like many of my fellow pranksters, shake my bones through both long, crazy nights, hardly stopping to rest between them. I do, however, try to bang out a paper in the West Quad basement computing center at about 4am. Unfortunately for my GPA that semester, that little smiley-faced Mac guy won’t stop laughing at me. Paper’s late. Go figure.
As the magic bus pulls on to Stadium, we hear rumors of friends heading to Milwaukee to follow the band, but most of us can’t take five or six years to graduate, so we finally roll into bed for our first real sleep in five days. When we wake (some of us only just in time for Monday classes), we stop to wonder if we had ever been there at all.
I don’t know about you, but thinking back on it brings a smile (smile, smile) to the face of this sad Wolverine.
Anyone else care to share their own details from that week?