I am a sucker for a Big Game. Which is not necessarily the same as a Championship Game. It is not necessarily the same as an Important Game, as defined by television hucksters. A Big Game is more than that. It is a piece of living history, a theater of the generations with an outcome more compelling than theater of any other kind. Thousands of actors have played Hamlet, but Hamlet always dies. Thousands of players have played in the Harvard-Yale football game, and very few of them have the same story to tell. If all the elements are right, and if history has aligned correctly with the emotion of the moment, I would rather be at a Big Game than almost anywhere else in the world. — Charles Pierce

As with Hamlet, and the thousands who have played him through the centuries, there have been many Cardinal PGs of consequence through the decades. Jim Morgan. Jadie Frazier. Fred Holden. Jim Price. Phil Bond. Lancaster Gordon. Dejuan Wheat. Edgar Sosa. Peyton Siva. Carlick Jones.

Saturday was the curtain call for the latest, Chucky Hepburn, and his fellow leading men.

This was a Big Game. Not a championship game. Not necessarily an important game.

A Big Game.

Which is why, having covered the Cardinals from afar for a number of weeks due to some personal stuff I’m dealing with, I could not not be in the Yum! for Senior Day.

A Denny Crum red blazer mojo pin was affixed to my ballcap.

More than anything else, a Big Game needs to have a sense of place.

Before tipoff, I stood on the Yum’s 2d level porch near the elevators overlooking the entrance.

With the scent of popcorn and pizza in the air, kids imploring their mom for a foam “#1 Finger,” my heart filled watching the tidal wave roll in.

A Red Sea of Fans.

My thoughts arrived at the Cardinal diehards who touched me Saturday and through the years.

My mom Sara, who’d get so nervous during games she’d walk the concourse of Freedom Hall until she heard victory cheers. And dad, Arthur. They introduced me to the love of my life oh so long ago.

The other Art, who sat behind my dad and me after mom passed. The delightfully sarcastic Art, who intoned at important 1+1s, “Make the first.” Which my dad parroted.

To this day, I call such critical situations, an Art+Art.

My obsessed pal Bruce R.I.P., who desired talk of Cardinals hoops 365.

The Unknown Musician.

Sedat Acton, the handstand on the railing guy.

My Monday lunch crew.

Rob Hickerson.

Stuart & Phyllis Grossman in their referee striped jerseys, going Ralph Steadman at the zebras on the court when they didn’t like the call. Which was essentially every one against the Cardinals.

The kid on the screen, holding both a box of popcorn and ice cream cone, a look of wonder and awe in his eyes.

Harry Bockman.

Father & Son, Buddy & Tommy, who were relentless in their invective toward opposing coaches from the duo’s spot right behind the visitor’s bench. Lefty Dreisell is still flinching.

Doc and Dough and Mae and The Professor and Smarts and Only the Joanly, with whom I’ve lived, died and survived Cardinal b-ball intensely.

The thirtysomething guy at the gym who attended every minute of every game the previous two seasons, with whom I chat all the time about our shared obsession.

The guy walking around in white soup and fish, “Louisville #1” on the back.

My loyal Commentariat, especially the several antagonista who asked me to sup with them on Friday evening. (I took security, who stood behind me with sawed off shotguns the entire evening. I made my getaway mostly unscathed.)

On Saturday, all of the above and many more sat with me in the adoring throng, U of L’s largest assemblage in years.

We were rewarded for our dedication. Louisville throttled Stanford.

It was the extra cherry and double dollop of whipped cream atop this sundae of a bounce back season.

The game’s exclamation point was Chucky’s fallaway J with about a minute and a half to play.

Then the Kiss. As the scent of verbal bouquets filled the gym.

Finally, curtain calls after another gobsmacking performance by these Obviously Ready for Prime Time Players.

Who among us had any idea Pat Kelsey’s first squad would become one of our favorite ever?

Exiting into the day, the air was fresh.

To Be, the answer to the Prince’s question.

— c d kaplan