Watching the Illinois Fighting Illini in this year’s NCAA men’s basketball tournament felt a lot like viewing the ending of “The Godfather.” We were blessed to witness a methodical, cold-blooded resolution of long-standing disrespect, a reckoning.

You had to answer for Eric Gordon, Kelvin Sampson. That little stunt you pulled with Bruce Pearl, Iowa — did you think that a true Orange and Blue Illini fan had forgotten? We were out to settle all family business this year. UConn and that 30-point run against us in the East Regional Final a couple of years ago was next up on our hit list.

Win that one and we would earn a chance to get even with Michigan for our defeat in 1989 when we had the best team and the Flyin’ Illini already owned two wins over the Wolverines that season to prove it. Beating them this year for the championship would also give a much-deserved wedgie to that traitor Morez Johnson Jr. for his transfer portal treachery at the end of last season.

I walked into The Trolley on Farmington Road in Peoria that Saturday filled with a cold, calculating energy, like Clemenza waiting outside an elevator prepared to get even with an old enemy. These Huskies from Connecticut are also about to sleep with the fishes!

The place was packed with the faithful mostly clad in orange who had gathered to bear witness. Friends and family were meeting me to cheer and drink from this long-awaited cup of our glory. The first to arrive were the children of arguably the most rabid Illinois fan I have ever known.

He died far too soon, only a decade ago now. His kids and I have remained in contact fulfilling a promise I made to my dear friend before he left us. The sons grew up, handsome, hard-working and proud. The daughter is the portrait of grace, beauty and class. They were home for Easter, but made time to carry on their father’s legacy and visit their Uncle X. I am always delighted to see them.

Right before the game tipped off two of my brothers strolled in followed shortly thereafter by two of my oldest and closest friends. Our Illinois roots run deep. We have been loyal since our parents drove us as grade schoolers to Champaign to watch many celebrated Peoria hoopers travel that same road to stardom for the Illini.

My University of Illinois basketball fandom started with Peoria ballers like Mark Smith, Derek Holcomb and Doug Altenberger from Richwoods, continued with Tony Wysinger from Peoria High and crescendoed with Sergio McClain, Jerry Hester, Marcus Griffin, Frank Willams (the second one) and Da’Monte Williams from my very own Manual High School.

We also wear orange — but we win championships. IGTBAR!

Hoops for life

March Madness is in my blood. It has been the pinnacle of sports excitement every year for as long as I can remember. The love affair started with Magic and Bird in the 1979 Final Four and grew during Bradley’s improbable march to an NIT championship in 1982.

It continued through more amazing high school battles at Robertson Memorial Field House in Peoria and down in Champaign at Assembly Hall than I can count. The Class AA tournament in 1982 packed several years worth of thrills into those unforgettable couple of weeks.

Washington star Doug Lee forced overtime against Central with the most amazing half-court jumper I ever saw in person and still lost. Manual nipped Central at the Field House a couple of nights later and made it downstate to lose in the quarterfinals to Chicago Mendel on the second-most-amazing half-court jumper I ever saw in person. Then Mendel defeated Bruce Douglas and defending-champion Quincy the next day in the semis to end the Blue Devils’ incredible winning streak in maybe the most exciting high school game I have ever seen anywhere.

The thrills have been balanced by many bitter defeats over the years. Illinois lost one year to lowly Austin Peay in the Big Dance and we all had to endure the shame of being defeated by people who were chanting “let’s go Peay.” We Illinis were certain that we were better than Georgia Tech before two guys who were destined for long, celebrated careers in the NBA, named Mark Price and John “Spider” Salley, convincingly proved that we were not.

Tuned up in Trolleyville

They finally tossed up the ball this night for the first of this Final Four and the full house at The Trolley was electric. Our lads stumbled out of the gate, but battled back. Drinks flowed and perfect strangers, people who would not normally mix, were united with cheers of “I L L – I N I!” I high-fived with these unknown faithful and several of us collaborated in mercilessly mocking a lonesome loser in an Iowa Hawkeyes sweatshirt.

“You’re supposed to be playing golf now … Iowa City is about 200 miles that way … Your whooping was scheduled for last week, you must have missed it … Your hoodie isn’t nearly yellow enough, sir.”

He was our foil, like the weak — and stupid — Fredo.

About 10 minutes into the battle, I was surprised to see the daughter of my ex-wife, her fiancé and four more of their friends wander in. I told them where I would be watching, but never thought for a second that they would drive in from Bloomington to watch with a cranky old man. My tiny Grinch heart was further warmed by this unexpected development.

These young people were showing their loyalty, not just to the Illini, but also to me. The divorce made for a wildly discomfiting year that was painful for all of us. None of that mattered at this moment. It dawned on me that I was surrounded by people to whom I mattered that also mattered to me. We ate, drank, cheered and enjoyed our bond. That little bar was practically bursting with happiness that night.

Shots in arms

The family business of the painful past that Illinois was attempting to settle on the basketball court began to fade into the family business of a hopeful future, a living legacy cemented by these young people who were all there showing me some love and reinforcing our union.

It became apparent that UConn was not scared as the game wore on. This was their third Final Four in four years and the dreaded Huskies had cut down the nets in two of those. We went to the mattresses with a formidable opponent. They were more seasoned and just better on this night. Illinois would lose a hard-fought battle, but the crushing sorrow that usually occasioned these defeats was nowhere to be seen.

The company of friends and family drowned out the agony of defeat. Togetherness repaired that which was fractured; love lessened the personal losses of the previous months; joy filled the vacuum they had left behind.

As I looked around the bar at the bustling cross-section of American humanity we are constantly being told is broken and polarized beyond repair, I thought, these people are debating neither doctrine nor dogma. No one checked for political affiliations at the door. There was a commonality that felt like an ancient relic of our past, thriving and filled with life — a community.

In an era where people are drowning in the isolation of social media, the constant fear of scarcity and the trauma of past or present pain, the ties that bind are spiritual and restorative. When our lives and loves are shared with people who know our names and histories, our joys are doubled and our sorrows are halved.

My family settled its business that night. These people reminded me that my worth as a human is a fixed constant established by an Almighty God who loves us all.

Including that lost Iowa fan.