I walked onto State Street not long after UK beat Wisconsin to gain a spot in the National Championship.

As I wandered through the crowd desperately trying to keep from being swallowed by the masses, anointed in beer or struck by a bottle, my shoes stuck to the asphalt, which had already succumbed to that fate.

The air was cool, and what I saw, chilling. A stop sign had been uprooted and set aflame, almost as if fans were trying to find a ceremonious way of responding to that same command from police: “No.”

But like the Wichita Shockers, Louisville Cardinals and Wisconsin Badgers, the police had their fans too. Even on State Street.

“C-O-P-S COPS COPS COPS,” cheered a drunken fan, desperately trying to follow the objects of his praise who, in full riot gear, were trying to separate two women from tearing off each others shirts and hair out while another girl stood on the shoulders of fans in the background willingly peeling off her own shirt.

It was about this time that someone shoved me into a group that was trying to record the incident. I’m not a psychologist but they were looking at me like I was wearing a shirt that said “Cardinals.” It appeared that I was going to go the way of the pavement after all and likely land on it face first.

I muttered a “Sorry … Go Cats” and they immediately smiled, patting me on the back. All was forgiven.

That phrase seemed to bond everyone in a brother (and sister) hood. When someone bellowed a “C-A-T-S” everyone nearby howled “CATS CATS CATS.”

It was an aggressive hymnal, and I was standing among the congregation of the UK State Street Church.

Although it is possible that he may have joined reluctantly, one police officer offered up the oratorio to appease the assembly and get them to comply.

“Alright, Go Cats, but you have to (freaking) move,” he told the unruly crowd that was encroaching a house. They cheered and finally migrated a few yards away, only to resume the chant once more.

Not long after, two firefighters responded to blazing shirts that had been thrown into the street and crowd.

“Thank you for your service and go Cats,” a fan told them. One smiled, the other looked at the fan in a way that reminded me of how that group I had bumped into earlier first looked at me.

Even though I was surrounded by thousands, I was alone. I had found and lost several friends by this point. I tried yelling a friends name a few times in order to locate him, but to no avail. The choir chanting “Go Cats,” and the sound of helicopters, which had punctuated every verse, drowned out my shouts.

My only hope was texting, but like many others I was struggling to get anything through, save the occasional Tweet, which I often had to resend several times.

I poked my head into a few houses, both looking for a restroom — which apparently meant anywhere inside one particular house — and a friend who had headed into one of them earlier. He was not there, and neither were a few couches.

My phone died, and I gave up and decided to head home. Near the end of the street I was narrowly missed by one final beer bottle, but not before overhearing one last gem from a guy who did get hit.

“This aggression will not stand,” he said. Someone walking near by seemed to offer him condolences, “Go Cats.”

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