Tuesday, March 17, 2009
The kind of mad you get right before spring. The venous brackets laid out before you taunting you with the whispers of the inevitable upsets. Where will that bracket-busting upset rear it's ugly little head? Hopefully in that 12-5 game you picked. Will the 1 seeds win out? Of course not all of them. Over and over you replay the possibilities and analyze individual match-ups. Who can guard him? They are too fast. They play D too well. He shoots lights out. In the end you finalize your road to the Championship not because you are satisfied with all of your picks, but because either you have pulled out the remaining follicles of hair hanging on to your past-its-prime scalp or because you need to meet your company pool's deadline and you reluctantly submit your bracket after 73 last minute adjustments. Over the few days since the field of 65 had been announced your once desolate tree of teams has undergone a metamorphosis of predictive power that has seen young men's hopes and dreams crushed, salvaged, thinly perpetuated, and, for the lucky, dedicated few, fully realized.
Ah, yes. March Madness is indeed upon us, around us, inside us. Which team will hold the title of hottest team in the final three weeks of the season? Only time will tell, friends.