My first steps inside Freedom Hall may have come during the State Fair. Or Carl Casper's Custom Auto Show. I don't know. It doesn't matter.

The real beginning was in 1992. Louisville was playing Oral Roberts, some team I had never heard of. I was nine. A friend's dad gave us tickets, me and my dad. They were on the lower level, just a few rows back. That day, or maybe it was a night, Boo Brewer set a record. Most three-pointers in a game.

It was amazing. He kept making shots, and everyone kept yelling BOOO and sometimes I could barely see because the people in front of me were standing up. It was the same a few months later, in a Tulane game. We lucked into the same tickets. There was more standing that time. A huge run. Lots of noise, more noise than I had ever heard. I could barely see it when Greg Minor dunked, and I didn't care. The noise told me everything I needed to know.

It felt like magic. 

That has never changed. 

Mine was a family without Kentucky roots. My parents arrived in Louisville in 1979. It was a good time for a basketball fan to find a team, and my dad signed up. I was three when Louisville won in '86. I'm told I thought Milt Wagner's name was Milk Wagner. So I don't remember that much.

My fandom was framed by Morton, Minor and Rozier, then Wheat, Rogers, Sims and Flynn. Metro Conference. Games on WDRB. I watched everything and read everything.

It was all because of Freedom Hall, really. The beginning. That magic. Through elementary school and high school, a few games a year, it was the same as it was that first day; I could just see better. 

It felt so big and important when you walked in, but it felt like home, too. The caramel smell, still the same year after year. I went to Yankee Stadium, smelled something similar and felt like I was home. The way the fans cheer when the Cards are looking shaky, urging them on. Most places, that doesn't happen. 

I went to college in Dayton. Someone said they'd been to Freedom Hall and didn't see anything special. I scoffed. I live in Rhode Island now. I went to a URI game with 5,000 people or so. They were into it. A friend asked if I had ever been to a game with such a crazy atmosphere. I laughed. 

When your beginning was Freedom Hall, you're a little spoiled. 

As I look back now, I'm grateful: it was the beginning of more than I realized. A love affair with a team, yes, but also a passion for college basketball, for sports in general. These days, a connection to home that I sometimes need. An appreciation for the magic. It was all born there. 

It was the beginning of everything, for so many of us. 

It's the end now, but that beginning won't ever change.

Steve Kragthorpe may be in over his head, but there's a difference between being over your head and looking like you couldn't coach a flag football team. It makes me think there are other factors at play.

Here's one.

It's something I've been thinking about since the MTSU game. I don't necessarily believe it, but it's a possibility to consider.

As fans, we became so enamored with the talent on this team that the belief that they're the most talented team, or at least one of the most talented teams, in UofL history became fact. The car metaphor has been a staple. Steve Kragthorpe was handed keys to a Rolls Royce.

But.

What if, all along, it wasn't really a Rolls Royce? What if it was a Ford Taurus?
It was a really, really nice Ford Taurus, yeah. Well-maintained, with some amazing parts, and most importantly, Bobby Petrino behind the wheel, driving it really, really well.

But it was still a Ford Taurus.

Essentially, the question is: were we ever as talented as we thought?

I'm not talking about the team's best players. The talent of players like Okoye, Bush, Brohm and Douglas can't be questioned. Those guys are among the most talented players in school history.

At issue is the depth of talent.

Sure, we've had good recruiting classes, but how good? The only way to judge is through success or lack of success on the field. Obviously, there was plenty of success, but I think, in part, it was achieved because Bobby Petrino knew how to get the absolute most out of an entire team - partly by coaching up the less talented players, and partly by feeding the studs. In doing so, Petrino was making the Taurus look like a Rolls Royce.

That success, naturally, colored our perceptions. We over-estimated the talent levels. When a team dominates as much as the `06 Cardinals did, it's easy to assume that the talent was at an all-time high, and - with the players coming back - that it would only get higher.

It doesn't seem that way now.

When you apply the Ford Taurus theory to this season, you see two problems. That depth of talent - which may have already been thinner than we thought - lost a lot to graduation, especially on the defensive side of the ball. And just as important, Bobby Petrino isn't around to mold what's left into a winner.

So we're a left with a Ford Taurus, one that still has some good parts but isn't running real well. It doesn't look like a Rolls Royce anymore. And the driver is doing such a bad job, it barely looks like a Ford Taurus, either.

That's the theory. If there's some truth to it, maybe it helps explain this disaster a little better.

In the end, though, sadly, it doesn't much matter.

The bottom line is the same: Steve Kragthorpe isn't Bobby Petrino.

And whatever car he's driving, he's not doing it nearly as well.  

A reflection.

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