On the way to workout Tuesday, I heard Dolly Parton’s righteous version of Bob Seger’s “Night Moves,” with help from Chris Stapleton.

More than a half century on, it still cut to the core.

Still now I’m “tryin’ to lose those awkward teenage blues.”

Almost fresh, the missed moments of “tryin’ to make some front page drive in news” roiled through me.

I dunno, you’d think I’d moved on by now.

Apparently not.

But one of the lyrics resonated more presently on Wednesday morning after.

“Workin’ on mysteries without any clues.”

I mean, where do the if-it-wasn’t-for-bad-luck-they’d-have-no-luck-at-all Louisville Cardinals go from here?

How are the diehards who had finally hope before the Koron Johnson news compounded the Kasean Pryor befalling going to cope?

Where do Pat Kelsey and staff turn when three of the Cards’ top seven are out?

With surging Duke immediately over the horizon, Kentucky, Carolina and Clemson road bumps after that?

 * * * * *

One of the very few benefits of residing in my dotage with all its not so pleasant exigencies is perspective.

The reality of my reality.

How do I find some joy, any joy, with one of the loves of my life as they’re flying through the Bermuda Triangle with three of four engines out, and Elvis needs planes?

So, for me, here:

“I remember I remember” the shtick before March 24, 1980 I had with my pals, which you’ve read many times before, about how my gravestone would read.

“He Only Wanted One.”

How it doubled up in ’86, quite out of nowhere actually.

And, most important, what I declared after titles became a trio in ’13.

“Anything good from here on is my mother’s coffee-laced chocolate icing left in the bowl after the cake’s been fully covered.”

OK, that’s dramatic license. What I really thought that anything good for the Cards from then on would be gravy, just something extra. I was sated.

Of course, I/ we never expected the aftermath of that. But still, I’ve persevered with the memories of Indy, Dallas, Hot ‘Lanta, Knoxville, winning in Mid South, Larry Williams jive talking opponent’s FT shooter into misses, the Sosa dagger, Wes outrebounding the entire Cincy team, the glorious Freedom Hall finale, that eye opening life changing Purdue game in the smoke-filled Armory in ’52.

And the proverbial many more.

So, yeah, this sucks.

We’ve “got mysteries without any clues.”

 * * * * *

In the aftermath of Pryor’s friendly fire injury, having been fallen into by Chuck Hepburn, Doc reminded me of the eery similarity to that of Scooter McCray in the Tennessee tilt three games into U of L’s first title campaign. Poncho Wright was the precipitating cause.

To which I replied, “Yeah, but I doubt the Cards have a future #3 pick in the NBA draft sitting on the bench to replace him.”

Which was obvious Tuesday night. When it must be recognized and accepted, the team and staff were all out of sorts. Tired from the Bahamas. Shaken with the double shot of bad bad bad news. In a state of grief probably.

So, I shall abide.

Find the joy in a moment, a nifty pass, a pilfer, the occasional surprise victory, of which I’m sure there shall be some, my firm belief that PK and staff will indeed right the ship, as best as they can this season, better starting next.

That’s the reality of my reality.

“Ain’t it funny how the night moves/ When you just don’t seem to have much to lose.”

— c d kaplan