A professional bandwagoner.

Kentucky basketball. The Yankees. The Bulls (but we all loved the Bulls on WGN) Whoever happened to be winning. If there was a trophy involved, chances are I’d convinced myself they were my team. Looking back, it’s hard not to laugh. There’s not much pride in borrowing someone else’s success.

Suddenly a switch flipped, I stopped chasing winners and started appreciating the ones that had to earn their place. The teams that walked into every season with something to prove, the ones that fought for every ounce of respect they received.

Turns out, pulling for Goliath is easy. Pulling for David changes you.

I’d always loved sports, but getting to Louisville games wasn’t something that happened often. Then one night, almost by accident, I ended up at an NIT game in Freedom Hall. Tickets were about eight bucks because Louisville basketball wasn’t exactly at its peak.

Nobody walks into a random NIT game expecting it to change their life. I certainly didn’t.

But somewhere between the roar of the crowd, the history inside those walls and thousands of strangers caring about the same thing at the same time, something clicked. I walked into Freedom Hall curious. I walked out a Cardinal.

There was no looking back.

Years later, I earned both my undergraduate and graduate degrees from the University of Louisville, soaking up every student ticket I could. Then I married into a family that bleeds Cardinal red. If there was ever a match made in heaven, this was it.

Before long, our family’s schedule was built around kickoff, tipoff and first pitch. Somewhere along the way, Louisville stopped being something we watched and became part of how we lived.

Looking back, I’ve realized something. I don’t remember schedules or records nearly as much as I remember moments.

Sosa breaking Kentucky hearts. Teddy refusing to leave the field against Cincinnati because quitting simply wasn’t an option. Shoni Schimmel delivering a stare that said everything Louisville fans were feeling. The dog piles at Jim Patterson Stadium. Showing up hours before kickoff because half the fun has always been everything that happens before the game. Watching my daughters learn to cheer before they ever knew the score.

Every Louisville fan has a different list. Different players, different games, different eras. The details change, but the feeling never does.

Louisville has never belonged to just one generation. Every group of fans inherits the story, adds a few unforgettable chapters of its own, then passes it along to the next.

We’ve watched football transform from a program hoping it belonged into one expected to compete with anyone in the country. We’ve watched the road to Omaha get rerouted through Louisville. We’ve watched Jeff Walz build one of college basketball’s premier programs through relentless consistency, toughness and an unwavering standard. And we’ve watched men’s basketball reach the mountaintop, endure unimaginable lows and still pack arenas because the roots run deep.

Now another chapter is being written. The prodigal son, Jeff Brohm, is home, and Pat Kelsey has reignited belief on the hardwood. The names change. The expectations don’t.

We’ve celebrated championships and watched banners come down. We’ve stormed fields. We’ve experienced unforgettable highs and endured heartbreaking lows. We’ve got the scars to prove it.

And somehow, we keep showing up.

We don’t love Louisville because the story has always been perfect. We love Louisville because it has never stopped giving us another chapter to believe in.

So why another Louisville sports page?

Because if you’re reading this, there’s a pretty good chance you’re wired like I am. You refresh message boards more than you probably should. You listen to podcasts on the drive to work. You read one more article before bed because maybe someone noticed something you didn’t. You replay press conferences looking for clues. You talk yourself into why this team can make a run, talk yourself back out of it, then somehow end up right back in again.

You care. Not because it’s your job, but because it’s part of who you are.

This page isn’t here to replace the outstanding people already covering Louisville. It’s here to join the conversation, to offer another perspective from another fan who loves this university and the people who represent it.

We’ll celebrate what’s worth celebrating and ask hard questions when they’re deserved. We’ll do the homework before drawing conclusions, appreciate greatness wherever we find it and never forget that behind every jersey is a person carrying the expectations of an entire fan base.

You’ll find optimism here, but not blind optimism. You’ll find criticism, but never cynicism. Those aren’t the same thing.

The goal isn’t to tell you what to think. It’s to make you think, maybe notice something you hadn’t before, and appreciate this place just a little bit more.

Because this is about more than wins and losses.

It’s about hugging and high-fiving complete strangers because a walk-off pick six just happened and, for a few unforgettable seconds, nothing else in the world mattered. It’s about introducing your kids to traditions you hope they’ll someday pass on to theirs. It’s about friendships built in parking lots long before kickoff and losing your voice after a big win, only to somehow get it back just in time for the next game.

It’s about believing this season could be special, even after the last one hurt. Maybe especially after the last one hurt.

Nothing has ever been handed to Louisville. Not our respect, not our place, not our moments. We’ve earned them.

Maybe that’s why they mean so much.

We have a place worth believing in.

If that sounds like you, welcome home.

Welcome to the 502.