SPORTS PROLOGUE

I have a strong sports personality, I admit that. When my beloved Red Sox lost to the Yankees in Game 7 in 2003, I was unhinged, unkempt, and unbathed. Wouldnʼt you know, a squealing Irish bastard with a Yankees cap decided that next morning was the morning to give me an earful about Bostonʼs perpetual playoff failures.
Hereʼs what I remember from the confrontation: He approached me. I blacked out. He ended up in a river embankment at the bottom of a hill. I exchanged nods with bystanders, and never spoke of it again. When called to the Administratorʼs office, the Yankees fan couldnʼt find a single witness to testify, because “nobody saw it”. The truth was, I come from Boston, a place with a sports passion cranked to eleven. A place that survived for years on “thereʼs always next year.” where fan emotions run deep culturally, philosophically, socially. A place where itʼs called BoSox Pot Roast, because the word “Yankee” isnʼt allowed. I may have shoved that Yankees fan into a dirty river, but I was well within my fan rights to baptize his ass.
I learned four things that day, as I nodded silently to those dozen eye-witnesses: 1. Never mess with a man in the gutter of sports fandom - itʼs as real as any other gutter. Itʼs expensive, time-consuming, isolating, keeps you awake, and hangovers from bad losses are blinding. 2. Crimes against Yankees fans are socially acceptable. 3. Sox just lost a shot at the World Series? You shouldʼve known better. 4. Iʼm the most passionate sports fan youʼll ever meet -- and I am pleased to make your acquaintance.  

“I HATE MARCH MADNESS”

Beware the Ides of March.

Sixty-four teams! Four weeks! Spanning every single channel! Spawning dozens of bad wardrobe decisions! Hours of useless conversation! Hundreds of lost dollars! Brand marketing! Brand marketing! NCAA! “Do you think Duke will run the table?” “Michael Beasley, huh? “Does this go good with this Maryland jersey?” Iʼll tell you: No, no, and no. What about my jockish build and frat guy face & personality says to people, “Please tell me everything there is to know about college basketballʼs national tournament” or “Ask me about your office pool”?
Well, I donʼt know or care. Weʼre past the stage where college basketball meant anything, and a national tournament means even less. Besides, this isnʼt like hockey, where violence is a sub-culture -- Thereʼs not nearly as much on-court murder and coaching outbursts as there were in the sixties, and you never find out how much
money an athlete makes until the school is suspended on booster charges. Why even root for a team that will get their tournament standings vacated because of recruiting violations? Iʼm looking at you, John Calipari.

THE MONTH, THE PEOPLE, THE FANS, AND ITS CRAZE
Has Shakespeare taught us nothing about “bewaring the ides of March”? We already deal with lousy weather, tax season, awful baseball news (“Francona gets haircut!”), bad movie releases that couldnʼt fit the prototypical January-February shit pile, and coincidentally, the biggest drinking holiday of the year is in March. We have snowstorms while the sun shines, and most of us just realized the crap we ate over the holidays is rearing its ugly head with shorts season two months away. Our News Years resolutions have already been forgotten, why canʼt March Madness?
Iʼd swear, this tournament just gives middle-aged men reason to wear jerseys of colleges they never attended, so they can justify rooting for a college athlete is “like rooting for your son”. Well, no, it is not. Especially less so, if you have a son, who is alive, unsuccessful, and not worth shouting drunkenly at the TV over. Tyreke Evans doesnʼt care that you attended Memphis, why would I?
Nothing angers me more than a college basketball fan, dressed to the nines in red and gold, with more energy than a six-year-old on Saturday morning. Whatʼs worse? I donʼt need a calendar anymore, I just need an spastic man with an expense account strictly for buying Duke merchandise, and a mailbox above mine, and Iʼll know its March. Iʼll say this, if youʼre covered head to toe in team apparel, there better be bar graphs and charts, showing a direct correlation between Dukeʼs freakish, unparalleled tournament winning streak, and that sideshow attention-grabbing ensemble youʼre parading around in. At least that way, I can make a calculated bet on it.
For the last eleven months, Iʼd totally forgotten about this man. However, last week, in the time it took me to leaf through my Comic-Con Magazine and Harrahʼs coupons, I was descended upon by him, like a zombie seeking out fresh brains, “Join us, friend”. In a span of forty seconds, I was outlined this yearʼs entire tournament bracket, accepted an invite to his place, agreed to bring beer and dip... and I didnʼt say a single word. He prodded me with March Madness picks, his finger jabbing me more intensely every time. Questions never ended. I didnʼt know what a Terrapin was before last week, but apparently, itʼs an animal that plays college basketball. Before I met him, I was happy. Not for the same reasons a sunny day makes one happy, but because I didnʼt think people like him existed. Not ever, just not in my building.
I wouldnʼt mind if March Madness fans were drunks with season tickets, because of the “oh, you!” factor: People are much more accepting when youʼre a comical drunk with monetary fandom investments, decked out in team-ware, whose bumbling attempts at insults and sexual harrassment are seen as jovial and good for team spirit. Nor would I mind if he were fourteen or younger, because at the point, body paint and a thong are still considered a “phase” than an illness.

THE TOURNAMENT, THE GAMBLING, THE HYPE, AND ITS ODDS.
To me, college basketball is the minor leagues of basketball. Do I care which minor league team defeated the other minor league team? Unless youʼre watching the defining player of a generation, or a bone-crushing upset, youʼll be seeing these people next year, at a higher level, making more money, in a different jersey. At least at the NBA level, they play for something substantial: A World Championship (of the United States...since weʼre the world), but in college, they just get the parquet floor. Congrats, you just outlasted sixty-three other teams, hereʼs a floor? Iʼm all set.
So, if youʼre emotionally invested in watching a college team win a floor, then youʼll enjoy their commercials. You know, the same advertisements that roll over and over again... “WATCH THIS 16-SEED TRY AND UPSET THIS TEAM!” and I think, boy, every time I watch Cal State-Northridge play, we keep getting pummeled and the only people I see upset are the #1 seeds forced to get out of bed early to play them for four quarters in a game more reminiscent of fly-swatting. They get benched for breaking a sweat.
Truth is, sixteen-seeded teams are 0-73 all-time (not including 2010) against one- seeded opponents. Ten teams have come close, and only one game went to overtime: Murray State versus Michigan State in 1989. Yet they continue to pump out commercials touting possible wins, not to mention BRACKETS! BRACKETS! BRACKETS!
Itʼs hard to find camaraderie in gambling. Very few things provide ample elements of likeness between people with addictive habits, disposable income, and children that at any time are referred to as “collateral”. Every one of them is looking for the next big thing -- something with an automatic edge. March Madness is not one of them. Did you know the Chicago Cubs have a better chance of winning the World Series than you do of getting any of your tournament bracket picks to the second round? Thatʼs right. According to Pregame.com, the odds of a perfect March Madness bracket: 9- quintillion-to-1. To this day, no one in history has ever achieved a perfect bracket, yet Yahoo! offers $1 Million to anyone who can do it. How the hell are any gamblers supposed to find assurances in that? My suggestion: eliminate two rounds, and reward the championship team with a chance to square off against someone more devastating than any college team. Ready?
NCAA Champion versus NBA Champion. It would be epic.
Both schedules end in June. Both champions crowned in June. Throw in a two-week layoff, its own ESPN show, something for the women, and the Human Hype Machine would burst into flames. Good vs. Evil. Talent vs. Experience. Young vs. Old.
The Human Hype Machine would explode.
Who wouldnʼt want to see the best college player take on an NBA squad in a one-game showdown? Itʼd finally end years of message board bowel movements. “Han or Greedo: Who shot first?” would become “Who would win? College Magic Johnson or NBA Larry Bird?” Itʼd be like Mystery, Alaska, but good. With both post-seasons ending in June, everyone would be watching two TVs at once, wondering what the College/Pro match- up would be. Youʼd have to dig up that old TV (circa 1994) to use picture-in-picture. Arguments would become shouting matches -- which player match-ups work the best? who guards who? One game. One night. One showdown. If you canʼt picture two 100 ft. billboards, of the best player in each rank, facing each other on opposing skyscrapers ... then you donʼt understand love, which is what Iʼm feeling in my penis.
There are sixty-four teams, which means that in all likelihood, none of your friends will gamble on and pick the eventual winner. If they do, heʼs more likely to be shunned as “the lucky schmuck that picked Gonzaga and won”, instead of accepted as the guy who, along with your other friends, also picked the underdog team and won.
David and Goliath is the crux of the Human Hype Machine. You want a profitable business? Screw the crystal ball -- get a gambling license, College/Pro match-up, and a burlap sack with dollar signs on it. The odds of the 10-6 New York Giants beating the 18-0 New England Patriots? 50:1. I bet $100 on the Giants that year for two reasons: The Patriots have won three super bowls and Iʼve made $900 total, and if we lose, I might as well win $5,000. Turns out the Giants won, I won, and so did Lloyd from down the hall, who also knew the odds and bet on the Giants. Iʼm purely convinced Lloyd and I will be best friends in about twelve years. Thanks, gambling!
But, of course, that idea is outlandish. Itʼs ridiculous! Well, Iʼve got a better idea: Best NCAA champion record-wise of the past four years selects its official USA basketball team for the Olympics. Draft them like the 1980 Olympic hockey team, and send them off to play for the gold medal. ESPN and Boston sports writer Bill Simmons called the 1980 gold medal run the “greatest two week ride of his life”, and heʼs right. The youth of America trying to defeat other countries for American pride? Iʼm totally down.
Anything is better than the broken system whose holes are covered up by hourly ESPN newscasts, looping commercials, team fight songs, tournament brackets, and brand marketing! More brand marketing! Letʼs get back to basics, and find the grit we once had. Letʼs give this tournament some substance, a higher purpose, a unifying theme. For once, letʼs give this tournament some meaning.

THE WRAP-UP
I only have one rule: If I canʼt bet on it, or watch it consistently without wanting to crack a 2x4 over someoneʼs head out of sheer frustration over its existence, then I wonʼt bother with it. March Madness is that to me -- a sheer annoyance. It has no function, no use other than to use a tournamentʼs brand marketing to rope in copious amounts of cash towards a collegeʼs athletic programs.
Before writing this article, I told a friend (and only other sports fan in LA) my thoughts on march madness; it brought about this exchange:
“I hate March Madness.” “What are you, the only guy?”
...You know what? Maybe I am. But Iʼm a guy that enjoys gambling, David and Goliath, the last two minutes of a basketball game, and rooting for Cal State-Northridge, regardless of their seed or chances. I like calculated bets, minimizing loss, and making profits off sports. I love unity of sport, return on investments, devastating upsets, and camaraderie in pain. I love dedicated fans, their wealth of knowledge, and passion for team. But for the love of God, I hate hate hate March Madness. And if thatʼs too much to ask for, at least get me another mailbox.

BRAIN THOUGHTS: One tidbit to get your mind brain working.
1961: Michel Foucault writes Madness and Civilization: A History of Insanity in the Age of Reason
1996: NCAA trademarks the term “March Madness”. Coincidence? I think not.