Although both offenses were well-regarded, the vaunted defenses controlled the cold, wind-swept game from the outset. This was the most stressful type of rivalry game: one resting on the knife’s-edge of turnovers and scant few scoring opportunities.

I’ve put on some pearls so I can performatively clutch them. I’m calling the police and sending strongly worded letters to the FCC, FBI and ATF. I’m shielding the eyes of my two children, Blimothy and Plessica.

This is the story of the rooster sacrifice that shaped the course of Michigan football history.

Stick with me.

Mark Schlissel was never fit to be president of the University of Michigan, even before revelations of his affair with an employee.

The grave-walk for Bo Schembechler, who ignored and enabled the serial sexual assaulter that worked for him, went on as scheduled.

By the math, 68% of Michigan’s runs and 60% of their passes added positive value. It felt that way. McNamara’s interception briefly derailed a train that kept building steam as Buckeyes in distress were pinned to the tracks by cackling, mustachio’d Wolverine linemen.

Until U-M takes meaningful action that instills any faith it’s doing right by sexual assault victims, it’s earned every bit of criticism and skepticism it receives, and the school’s every move must continue to be watched with a suspicious eye.

The idea that the most powerful and visible figure in the athletic department for decades wouldn't have heard about Anderson's abuse, even if just second- or third-hand, strained credulity even before former players said he knew. Schembechler's name appears multiple times in the WilmerHale report. He knew.

I grew up vaguely aware Michigan had a women's basketball program. The only way to see them was to go to a game in person. Finding someone else interested in watching one of the athletic department's least successful programs was difficult even if one scraped up the motivation to try. They were ignored in favor of football, hockey, men's basketball, softball, baseball, swimming, wrestling—most everything, really.

I’m not entirely sure how I’m writing right now. Today [Monday] I went to my endocrinologist for an appointment I would’ve rescheduled if I hadn’t already done so three times in as many months. It was the second time I’d left the house in 2018. The first was six days ago for a podcast taping.

Walton hadn't made any of his five two-point attempts in the game, but he still brimmed with confidence born from a summer shooting layups while slamming into foam dummies. He flipped a shot that cleared Adel's outstretched hand by a fraction of an inch, bounced high off the glass, and fell through the net as he tumbled to the floor. It was his shot to take; he made the most of it.

In today's basketball world, the corner three is superior in value to any shot that doesn't come at the rim. It's also the toughest shot in the game to create for yourself; to do so requires a silky touch, a tapdancer's precision, and the guts and/or stupidity to launch a shot that would earn most players a quick trip to the bench.

In the image above, there is no whistle. There is just Trey Burke, consensus national player of the year, making another magnificent, awe-inspiring play—and in a season when he's done that time and again, I don't recall #3 blocking a shot quite like that. Stripped of the context of the game, it's simply 60 more frames of Burke's greatness.