The sports world is in turmoil; that much is certain. Cappie Pondexter is busy being an insensitive idiot on Twitter, the NFL is officially locked out and I'm now unable to embark on a light jog in the nude.
The one upside? March Madness is finally here.
The announcement of the bracket symbolically lifts us from the depressing doldrums of winter into the vibrancy of spring. It's my yellow brick road. The NCAA Tournament is my Land of Oz.
March Madness isn't about glorious metaphors or flowering imagery. The literary can eulogize the spectacle with far−reaching comparisons about the meaning of life, but the NCAA Tournament is grounded in realism.
And that's what makes it so amazing: not the larger−than−life game−winners or the eternal blasting of "One Shining Moment," but the fact that March Madness appeals to everyone. And I mean everyone.
It's the only sporting event in which my mother gets invested, even if it's just to check out the "cuties on the blue team." To that end, filling out brackets transcends all manners of social boundaries. In the (semi−doctored) words of coach Herman Boone, "I don't care if you're black, green, blue, white or orange, but when you fill out that bracket, everyone has the same chance at glory."
At face value, we have the bracket pools, which seem to unite co−workers and peers alike under the common mantra of competition, even if the speed at which the tournament operates seems to dissuade trash−talking, because one's hopes at winning can be zapped instantaneously. It takes little skill to copy team names into blanks (read: my mother) and even less to accept an envelope containing cash rewards.
I guess it's akin to a cult in some ways, except a cult likely consists of an excluded minority. Once again, if my mother likes — or even knows about — something sports−related, I'm going to go ahead and assume that everyone does. One could describe March Madness as a fad, except fads are ephemeral. Given college basketball's amateur status and the general mania that exists from the opening tip−off to the final snip of the scissors, the tournament isn't disappearing anytime soon, especially in the face of one of the most depressing sports years in recent memory.
Perhaps we like the NCAA Tournament so much because it's so quintessentially American, the epitome of the working−class ideal, which gives it so much cross−cultural appeal. George Mason's legendary run in 2006 didn't just ruin brackets and provide a beacon of light for college basketball's mid−majors; it embodied the spirit and the capabilities of the American underdog. We long to rise from nothing and succeed.
We invest ourselves emotionally in the fates of the mid−major Richmonds and Oaklands of the world in the hopes that David can topple Goliath. If No. 16 seed Boston University beats No. 1 Kansas on Friday, it would be one of the most uplifting moments in sports history. In the end, life goes on, far beyond a relatively meaningless outcome on the court.
But sometimes we need a departure from the monotony of college, from the daily grind or real−world angst. And that's the beauty of the NCAA Tournament: The madness is simultaneously engulfing and intoxicating. It makes it socially acceptable to eschew homework to fill out a bracket, to have a laptop open during class with one eye on the 5−12 matchup and the other on the professor.
March Madness turns us all into screaming children, which ultimately isn't such a bad thing. In fact, it's something we occasionally need. All of us.
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