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A message for fanatical Wahoos:

A long, long time ago, I can still remember..." the days when the midrange jump shot still existed, when the forkball was so en vogue that every toddler was throwing it through a tire in the backyard, when "Who Let the Dogs Out" was only a nightmare we hoped would never consummate and when vinyl 44s of John Fogerty's "Put Me in Coach" still spun at sporting events.

Those days are long, long gone. So too are the days when rushing the court following a benchmark basketball victory actually meant something.

Mere milliseconds after Pete Gillen's upstart crew dethroned Duke at the horn, droves of "Cavalier Crazies" descended upon University Hall like an orange hailstorm. Human pogo stick Adam Hall vaulted atop the scorer's table, his teammates accompanied him shortly thereafter and madness distinctly reminiscent of Nov. 2, 1995 (does Virginia 35, Florida State 31 ring a bell?) ensued.

Then Hooville did the very same thing after making Sunday brunch of North Carolina.

Who's next, Clemson?

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    Should I go ahead and issue the lowly Tigers an advanced warning that, come hell or high water, come 21-point loss or 37-point win, "the Wahoos are coming, the Wahoos are coming!"?

    Memo to Elon: Don't expect to prance into the Hall and experience your run-of-the-mill non-conference affair. Expect mutiny!

    Okay, so I'm stretching the truth a tinge here. But when did the mad dash cease being roundball Haiku and turn into Virginia basketball's version of fingernail biting? When did it stop being art and start being bad habit?

    I blame the University of West Virginia (they play basketball in the Mountaineer state? Who knew?).

    There are ideal times to get a little loony courtside. Exhibit A: Clemson unseats top-ranked North Carolina. It had been 21 years since the Tigers tamed number one. It may be 21 more before they win another game. By all means, party like it's 1999.

    Then there's the Feb. 21 Villanova/West Virginia "heartstopper" in Morgantown. Granted, the contest did take two overtimes to settle (West Virginia won 107-100). And granted, the last time anyone paid any attention to Mountaineer b-ball, Jerry West was lacing up the Chuck Taylor's. But Villanova? Come on.

    Neither team was sniffing the top 25, neither squad was contending for a Big East Championship. In fact, the loss dropped the Wildcats to a very ordinary 15-10.

    But yes, you guessed it. The final buzzer should have been a late-night call to every West Virginia state trooper within shouting distance to hop in the squad car and get to WVU Coliseum pronto. Mountaineer mavens were destroying the floor.

    It is in instances like these that rushing the court loses any remaining luster.

    I don't invoke these examples to throw a blanket over the fan firestorm the Cavalier basketball program has produced with its remarkable return to prominence. I do so because Pete Gillen is in the midst of making this program great again, and a great program needs fans who think like it thinks.

    The Duke win established Virginia as more than a talented collection of athletes who, on any given night, can give the national superpowers a run for their money. It cemented the Hoos' place on the national stage. Sunday's throttling of the Blue Bellies only reinforced what we already know: Virginia basketball is back. Now it's time for fans to act like the program belongs there.

    How great is the Hooville contingent? In a torrential downpour Sunday morning, the Wahoo Wackos vociferously booed the Florida State women's basketball team as they departed U-Hall from their morning shootaround. In other words, "if you're not with us, then you're against us, so be ready to be heckled."

    Tomorrow evening marks the final opportunity to celebrate a memorable season, so camp out, hoot and holler, paint every inch of skin orange and blue.

    But, I implore you, do not rush the floor. I don't care if Will Solomon goes for 59, and it takes quadruple overtime to win; or if the officials employ the blowout rule and end a merciless drubbing at halftime. Do not knock me down in a sprint to center court.

    Save it for Minneapolis. Save it for the Final Four.

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