March “sadness” redux (again!)
It’s that time of year again; the NCAA basketball tournament. Replete with wall to wall coverage, this sports spectacle has become a centerpiece of the American sports mosaic. For nearly four months Division I university basketball teams strive to gain entry into what is now called “March Madness.” There are currently 347 Division I schools in the country; of those only 68 will make it into the tournament.
Once the final seedings are announced and the tournament bracket set, basketball fans entry a wide variety of contests to determine their predictive skills relative to who will win each game advancing to the next round. What begins as 68 teams is quickly winnowed to 32. From there, the winners move forward to the “Sweet Sixteen;” this is followed by the “Elite Eight.” Winners in these contests are the combatants in the “Final Four” and ultimately the two unscathed teams play in the NCAA Championship game.
For the past dozen years or so, I’ve entered a tournament challenge along with 5060 other folks from around the country. For a small entry fee, we select the teams that we believe will advance through the tournament with the hopes of proving our respective prowess and perhaps “winning” a portion of the prizes doled out to those with Nostradamus-like skills.
When my youngest child finished her high school basketball career, one of the lead officials in the area called me and said, “Tom, you’ve been calling the games from the stands for the past ten years; don’t you think it’s time you put on stripes and a whistle and got down on the court?” Ouch. Sometimes the truth hurts!
Needless to say, I rose to that challenge and for the next ten years of my life, my winters were punctuated with officiating basketball games. I did girls’ games, boys’ games, junior high games, high school games, even a junior college game. I enjoyed the experience and even when I was being chastised by a fan, I never took it personally, remembering my own, somewhat imperfect behavior.
One noteworthy incident bears repeating. As officials we wore a patch that read IAABO (International Association of Approved Basketball Officials.) I had approached the scorer’s table to report a foul when a spirited fan called out from the bleachers. “Hey stripes,” he said, “I know what IAABO stands for. It stands for I Am A Blind Official.” I looked up just in time to see his wife elbow him in the ribs. Our eyes met, and I laughed out loud. Still the best line I heard during my tenure on the hardwood.
I offer this as background information — a way of asserting my bonafides relative to the game of basketball. When I enter our yearly contest, I expect that I will be a winner and while I’ve never won the entire contest, I have finished in the money several times and I smugly assume that my entry will float to the top (not unlike an alley-oop pass) and victory (you can see where this is going, can’t you?) will be a “slam dunk.”
Hold on there, partner. It is said that confession is good for the soul, so here goes. Last year I finished last. Dead last. And well below the poor sap that finished next to last! This year when we received the instructions for play, the pool sponsor even did a narrative about the previous year, pointing out that “the Granddads had a bad year,” even going so far as to name me the biggest loser. Now, of course someone has to finish last; I just never thought it would be me. Not to be immodest, but I’m better than that!
Although she knows virtually nothing about basketball (she always thought I did an exemplary job officiating, just to let you know her bonafides!) my wife, Myra, handily beat me, finishing in the top ten of the overall group. Even though she asked me a couple of ques
tions when she filled out her brackets, she eschewed much of my well-reasoned advice and made her picks largely on the team mascots (she apparently likes animals), her personal prejudices (the better the uniform, the more likely she was to pick that team), and her “intuition” (her words).
She didn’t rub it in much — she’s a gracious winner, but I saw the smirk behind her compassionate eyes when she announced that she had received this year’s entry package provided by the tournament administrator.
I’ve often thought that it was important to take what we do in life seriously and not take ourselves seriously at all. From time to time, it is healthy to recognize our foibles and frailties, to embrace the absurdity of certainty, and to laugh heartily at the hubris of our own self-importance. Ha. Ha. Ha.
This year will be different. I’m feeling it. I’ve got talking heads from ESPN and other sports outlets giving me sound advice on bracketology. This could well be my year. And Myra hasn’t watched one full college game this entire year, so if she wins….
Just sign me, “Busted Bracket!”