The desert where I've been wandering for more than three months is a harsh, foreboding landscape. Thank goodness I sense a hint of the possibility of rain.

I can't see rain yet. I can't even make out any clouds. But the occasional breeze indicates it's out there, just over the horizon.

OK, let's test our metaphor awareness.

The desert represents what?

If you said the long, dry interval between meaningful college sports events, well done.

The impending rain? Football season, of course.

The opening kickoff is still a ways off, but there is at least a promising scent in the air of relief to come.

The preseason magazines are tantalizing from the racks. In a mere 10 days, the media tribe convenes with coaches and players in a Birmingham hotel and the articles, sound bytes and prognostication will begin to flow.

From that point, there's no stopping the momentum. The pads will go on, one thing will lead to another and before you know it, ticket scalpers will be lining up on Cumberland Avenue.

Not a day too soon for me, the parched wanderer.

The championship game of the men's basketball Final Four is a bittersweet night.

One on hand, it's the climax of my favorite event. On the other, it signals the end of the major college sports calendar.

Time to climb aboard the camel and venture off into the sand dunes.

To be fair, it is a self-imposed desert.

For example, many sports fans, perhaps the majority, segue smoothly into baseball season.

I can't recall exactly when I quit caring about major league baseball, but I think Johnny Bench was the catcher and Joe Morgan the second baseman.

Turning to the NBA playoffs to prolong my basketball fix is not an option.

I can't recall exactly when I quit caring about pro basketball, but I think it was when Kareem Abdul-Jabbar was still better known for his sky-hook than his role as co-pilot Roger Murdock in "Airplane."

As for golf, there is a rule: Only the final five holes of a major may be watched, and then only when I'm at my dad's house.

NASCAR doesn't crank my motor. Any passion for watching competitors go round in circles is reserved for horses on the first Saturday in May. Kentucky roots show through.

Bottom line, I'm a college sports guy.

Between the season's first kickoff and the Final Four, I want my ESPN. And Fox Sports and CSS.

I'm good for Wyoming-Air Force on a Thursday night in October. In March, the Horizon League championship game will be on at my house. Come on over.

By the middle of June, what I wouldn't give for Tulsa at Marquette. Alas, it's only a mirage (or a replay of a 1993 NIT game).

But once you're in the desert you've got to find an oasis or two to keep from perishing before Lee Corso dons the first mascot head of football season.

They're out there, if you know where to look.

I can't name you a single Milwaukee Brewer, but I could tick off at least five starters on England's World Cup team. Well, three anyway.

I couldn't tell you whether the Sacramento Kings made the playoffs, but over the past few years I've learned what a peloton is. Thanks, Lance.

That said, I'm yearning to exit no-man's land, to be drenched in the life-renewing downpour of a college football Saturday.

When the yellow jersey is on an Oregon quarterback.

When the guy booting a ball toward the goal gives Michigan a 12-10 win over Notre Dame.