Musberger’s bellowing call–so enthused he fucks up the pronunciation a bit, blurting out something that sounds like "CROBB-TRAAAAAAYYY"–is all you need. We don’t even hear Herbstreit after that; the delirium of the moment still lingers and obliterates all commentary. There is a moment in each season you remember with a clarity bordering on the surreal , as if a South American writer had gotten a hold of the script and written floating women and feathered angels speaking odd tongues into the background. There’s more than a little Marquez in Crabtree’s catch, and not just in its mythical content; the tragic side kept Texas from the national title game, and put Bob Stoops’ toes in the surf of Biscayne Bay.