An Ode To March Madness

PITTSBURGH, PA- We all love something that distracts us from the lull of our daily lives. We often seek an escape by hurling ourselves into the lives of others, whether it’s watching the new season of Love Island or asking a friend about their wild night out on the town. Through these stories, we experience life vicariously. They bring us life outside of our daily lives.

We seek comfort in the traditions. It’s why we have weddings, crawfish boils, and drink the beers we do. It’s the way it’s always been around here. The nostalgia of it all builds over time and generations. Do you ever walk into your hometown bar or favorite restaurant and immediately feel comforted by the familiar smell that fills your nostrils? It’s consistency assuring you that the place has been the same since the last time you left, awaiting your return.

America loves an underdog. We’ve been rooting on the underdog ever since the beginning of this country, when we were rooting for ourselves against the top-ranked British. A high-powered offense that ultimately showed flaws in their defensive game. The little guy stepping up to the plate, swinging away at any pitch that comes their way, just hoping to make contact, is something we romanticize. We’re obsessed with stories of garage-based startups out west. We cheer on the janitor from the projects rising through corporate ranks to become to CEO. We root for Geroge Mason University.

As a teenager, my rather lenient mother would allow me to stay home from school for one day during the tournament. A strategist myself, I would choose the first day of the first round to get the most bang for my buck. Flipping through our newly acquired digital cable channels, chasing an upset alert I received via text message on my Motorola Razr. “Holy shit, Duke is losing against Belmont! Mom, what channel is TruTV!” Frantic T9 messages being sent to friends who were fortunate enough to be granted freedom from the confines of Lakeview Middle School as well. “Is Belmont really going to upset Duke?” “Fuck Duke, one friend replies, liberally using the newly comfortable F-bomb.”

Even when they threw us back into the education system, we would still find a way to get our fix. Squeaky voiced little junkies asking for merely a quarter. We just need a little hit. “Hey, Mr. Friters is letting us watch March Madness”, a poorly hidden cell phone would tap away, alerting our comrades of salvation like a weary sailor finding land. Salvation came as a tiny-ass, older than the school looking, perfectly square, TV mounted on the corner wall of the classroom. Normally reserved for informational Channel 1 before first period, an obliging teacher would struggle to hit the channel up button with a yardstick, frantic eyes peering blinkless at their efforts.

These are the stories, the traditions, that make us nostalgic. They make romantics of us all. It takes us back to a time that was simpler in our lives. A time before jobs, taxes, kids, and modern day worries. We grip onto the NCAA tournament each year, hoping to clutch onto something familiar and consoling. It’s always been there, it’s there waiting for us.

March Madness is just that, it’s goddamn madness. Every year thousands, if not millions, of folks like me scribble in winners of each game, attempting to predict the unknown. We research, compare schedules and wins, points per game versus points allowed per game to assure that we’re picking the winners, searching for the perfect balance of picking the superior team with the perfect little sprinkle of upsets to keep it realistic.The efforts futile, our brackets busted to shit before the first round is even over. We’re gluttons for punishment and would have it no other way. “It’s awesome, baby,” as Dickie V would say.

Once our brackets have been busted and single sheets of scribbled on paper have been burnt, we cut our our losses and root for the underdogs. The George Mason’s, the VCU’s, the Davidson’s. They come in with a sliver of hope and swing for the fences, players hopeful to make a name for themselves and for their college that no one has a clue what the acronyms mean. They’re dancing on the biggest stage, receiving the attention that they’ve never seen before. Visions of One Shining Moment playing as they cut down the net following the championship game running through their heads. They want to see it; we want to see it. It’s easy to root for the underdog.

What will happen in the Big Dance this year we do not know, we never do. The not knowing is part of the allure. Anything could happen. Will the Bachelor pick the stunningly pretty and sociable girl or will his attention shift to the quiet, reserved girl with the I don’t give a shit attitude? You’ll have to tune into the next round to find out. The narrative of the unscripted chaos could be ripped from the court and put on a script in Hollywood. We’re all suckers who are defenseless against the drama of a well-played car wreck.

One thing is for certain, the tournament is certain to never disappoint. Sixty-eight teams enter. Only one will stand when the final buzzer sounds and the confetti falls. We’ll see trials and tribulations, victories and celebrations. We’ll see games that are filled with runs, momentum shifts, improbable shots, and defensive blunders. Assumed favorites will fall to thought to be lesser teams, dreams crushed, tears shed. Tickets punched, dreams realized on the other side. There’ll be video montages played alongside familiar songs about it being all on the line, in one shining moment. There’s pageantry, nostalgia, heartbreak, celebration. Above all, there’s madness.

Happy March Madness, everyone.

Dan, a bona fide sports and data geek, hails from the wilds of Western Pennsylvania with an undying passion for the Stillers, Pens, and Buccos. Dan has embarked on an exciting sports writing journey, ready to subject the world to his unique blend of enthusiasm, questionable insights, and yinzer homerism. Find him and his laptop in the corner of a Starbucks near you.