Tomorrow, when you’re starting your work week, trying to get into the flow of things, you’re bound to be distracted by something. It will creep into every office meeting, cubicle farm, inprompt0 tailgate meeting on your job-sites. It is destined to enthrall every casual male sports fan for the next month, ending in Indianapolis with the crowning of a champion, or the awarding of $500 to some random who always picks North Carolina. Google searches for “bracket” will go up thousands of percents. Everybody is going to discuss how they ducked out of work for an hour to watch a first round game. Somebody will be “cool” because he picked 5 upsets in the first round.
March Madness is a term for the masses. It’s goal is to create a froth of Johnny Come-lately for three weeks in March. Everybody will fill out three brackets, half of them will be trashed after the first weekend, and some soccer mom will win a random pool of loot for something she knows nothing about.
I question the term “Madness” because, to me, it is a symphony. There is nothing mad about it.
64 teams lace them up in perfect harmony. 64 goes to 32 goes to 16 goes to 8 goes to 4 goes to 2 goes to 1. Each team receives a seed, based on their seasons work. Then, each team plays the game. If you want to advance, you win. If you want to win, you have to play better than the other team. Doesn’t mean you ARE better than another team. Just means you have to show up on that day in order to advance. Survival of the willingest.
Simply slating a random team on a bracket line demeans the effort that has been put forth by 300+ teams over the last 4+ months. It means more than what people will make of it. Bus rides and late nights, and hotels and buffets and practices, those damn practices. Sprained ankles and concussions and hamstring tweaks and bone bruses. Some guy is going to pick Richmond to hit up the sweet sixteen this year in his bracket and feel pretty good about it, not knowing what the Spiders have put into this season to make him look real smart, or real stupid. How about the fact that it’s real? A real town, and a team that affected a real conference of basketball teams. They loaded up the bus and hit the road. They defended their home gym. Taped up ankles and suicides. All so you can pick them to beat Oklahoma State. Every team is real, every player, every coach, every university or college. Every small college town, or city block, or small state. The miles traveled are real. The sweat spent is real too.
I learned this the hard way. I’ve entered my fair share of brackets. I won a good portion of them. You live and you learn. I no longer feel the need to express my love for this game in the form of a bracket. I actually kept the last bracket I ever filled out, folded it up, and put it into the program of the second tournament I ever went to, in Milwaukee. This is an evolution, for you, and for me.
So when a random wrong comes up to you this year with a stack of blank brackets, and asks you for twenty bucks to enter, politely pass. Maybe even offer to buy him lunch with said twenty bucks. He’s lost, and he probably needs it.
Enjoy it for what it is. It’s better than a computer print out and a highlighter. It’s not mad. It’s not crazy. It’s not insane. It’s a symphony of 347 basketball teams. Nobody ever notices the guy who plays the triangle, but that doesn’t mean he’s not important.