HOUSTON -- The barrier between very good and truly great has always appeared thin. It is not. The distance that separates one's chances to make their dreams come true can feel like inches, and sometimes, yes, that is the accurate measurement. A fingertip. A splinter of a second on a game clock. A single point on the scoreboard. But when you are forced to keep adding up those fractions and decimal points and missed-it-by-that-much chances year after year, results that were tiny and conciliatory pile up to create mountains of cruelty.
That has been the maize and blue Sisyphus-cursed life of the Michigan Wolverines.