Just as I jump back on the Oregon bandwagon, pull my funky jersey facsimile out of mothballs, dust off my 8x10 of Phil Knight and put fresh incense in the burner of my little homage in the corner, just as I clear the shelves of Whole Foods of the most sublime smoked duck out of respect for the Ducks (and my gustatory obsession), just when I’m pumped that I’ll have an actual rooting interest in the Final Four . . .
. . . the Quack throw in a clunker in the desert, spit out the proverbial bit, fall ingloriously to the Sun Devils.