At Crisler Center, something feels different before I even reach the doors. The line for the student section stretches out of the passageway between Crisler and the Big House. It curves toward Greene Street and keeps going, a maize-colored river of shirts and restless energy.
It keeps going. And going. Tiens. This is new.
For the longest time the crowd at Crisler felt like a small tremor, hinting at something bigger but never delivering the earthquake, the building rumbling politely for a few minutes before returning to Midwestern rhythm: appreciative, but rarely feral.
Over the last two seasons, something has shifted, slowly at first, then all at once, llike wet asphalte finally hardening on state street. Now the foundation feels solid, as if the building has decided this time the energy might actually last…