It's 7 p.m. some winter night in 1983 or so, and there I am, bucktoothed and badly permed, chewing on a hot flop of nuclear orange, greasy pizza I've acquired with the dollar my father gave me, awaiting the show. I'm wearing my lucky blue-and-white striped sweater. And once again in the mirror, I've accidentally scribbled "MSU #1" backward on my face with my mother's eyeliner, leaving me with a sort of dyslexic blue hieroglyphics on my cheeks.

No matter. All lights cease, suddenly, into tingly darkness. I look up at my father and he smiles, lifts me up to stand on my soda-sticky seat. Then, from within the tunnel, our warriors emerge, some 15 of them, angular giants in shiny blue sweat suits, palming basketballs like oranges in their massive paws, pounding out a unison drumbeat of power as their reflections stretch long and menacingly on the glossy floor.

Mesmerized, I watch them snake by with reticulated lopes, their afros tall, their faces fierce. This is Memphis State Tigers basketball, at the height of their Metro Conference magnificence. And at 10 years old, I have a front-row seat.

---

I cannot help, as my beloved Memphis Tigers continue to power their way through the current season, but recall another time when our national title hopes were a very real possibility.

And I had very bad hair.

The early '80s for Tigers fans were halcyon days of unfathomable joy. Players such as Andre Turner, Phillip "Doom" Haynes, William Bedford and the miraculous Keith Lee (just to see him come windmilling over defenders for a dunk, when a dunk was still somewhat rare and therefore relished, was ecstasy) had made us into a perennial power. We loved and loathed our staunch rival, Louisville. We achieved (for a few glorious hours, anyway) a No. 1 ranking and even ventured to the 1985 Final Four, when, after our loss to Villanova, my pompom girl sister Lynda's glum but gorgeous face graced newspapers across the country.

But most of all, I loved these times because, for just a few hours, Tigers games managed to bring my family (and 10,000 of our closest friends) into the same, giant dome-shaped room.

The Coliseum was the only place where Lynda, 11 years older than me, whose only previous utterance to me in my entire decade on the planet had been "Get out of my room!" would actually hug me, in public, even with the risk of a camera catching her.

Where my mother could take a rare night off from coaching her high school students and coach me instead, teaching me about posting up and pick-and-rolls, scratching out the X's and O's on a napkin on her thigh.

And where my father, a stern and rangy Memphis homicide detective, could enjoy a respite from crime scenes and courtrooms and just be a regular person. He could wield a foam finger instead of a gun, throw those lanky arms up to their peak with "the wave" and cheer on the Tigers. With me.

Though we all knew he was secretly a Tennessee fan.

Life had not been easy for my father. On the outside, he was bark-tough, a leader in the department and an old-school, no-nonsense cop's cop. The man owned not one but two pairs of brass knuckles. I used to shadowbox with them, my skinny fingers sliding two and three at a time through the cool, heavy rings.

But his job was a screaming mistress, never satisfied. By the early '80s, the U.S. murder rate had ascended to its highest figures for the entire 20th century, with Memphis earning an unwanted kind of No. 1 ranking. The result was long days, 3 a.m. phone calls and alcohol.

Drinking undermined everything my father had worked for, but mostly his family. His two daughters, despite their ballet slippers and unicorn posters, would rather have been in cutoffs fishing with their dad. His wife, tall, devoted and ever-forgiving, had blazed her own trails in a man's profession and was pretty no-nonsense herself.

There were vacations ruined, birthdays forgotten, talent contests, school plays and science fairs unattended.

But Memphis State games, somehow, were the exception. Here Daddy was what he was supposed to be -- a father, an authority, a hero. When Lynda sprained her ankle while performing one night, Daddy's 6-foot-3 frame was at half court in three strides. He scooped her up like a blond doll and carried her away, easy as you please.

When I got lost one night in the postgame crowd, crying and wandering the parking lot like the village idiot, forgetting everything anyone ever taught me about finding help, I was never so overwhelmed with joy as when I saw my father's ski cap marching by and he swept me up into the most gasp-inducing hug of my life. After games, as we drove home, I would curl up in the sweet-smelling, leathery darkness of the backseat, listen to Daddy's Waylon and Willie on the eight-track and fall away into that bedrock-deep sleep that only kids can, knowing I was safe.

He was so much fun at games. He'd put me on his shoulders, wear my pompom as a wig -- he didn't care. With his badge he would sneak me behind the scenes to meet the players.

Daddy eventually lost his battle with alcoholism. He died in February 1985, just a month before the Tigers went to the Final Four. Lynda got to go. She brought me back a T-shirt. But we all knew things would never be the same.

Today, nearly a quarter-century later, the Tigers are once again slashing their way to what could be their most successful season. I'm starting to feel like that little girl sitting on her daddy's knee again, cheering for her amazing team. The names are different -- Dozier, Douglas-Roberts, Dorsey -- and Lord help me, I'm almost old enough to be Derrick Rose's mom. But the thrill is the same, even if Daddy isn't here, even if I live 800 miles away from my family.

So now, across the miles, I make sure to try to create the same wonderful Tigers memories for my niece and nephew as I had -- the pizza, the paw prints, the pompoms. We text each other the latest stats and call each other during timeouts. My nephew, who happens to be 6-3 at age 15 and the spitting image of my dad, wants to be the next Joey Dorsey. I think he can be (and can shoot better free throws).

As for me, I think my best Tigers memories are yet to come.