I’m free, liberated and unenslaved.
I took the iron chains known as “bracketology” and threw them aside this year. For the first time since grade school, March Madness has rolled around and I shunned any bracket challenge, office pool or friendly wagers.
I didn’t pull out my lucky black-ink pen, print out a golden bracket (one and only one mind you, I am a man of ethics) or waste an inordinate amount of time dissecting if Colorado State’s size, depth and experience can offset Missouri’s foot speed (turns out, that’s a big, fat yes after the Rams beat Mizzou 84-72 last night).
It’s not that I’ve retired from acting like I have any idea which 12 seed will pull the upset (because there’s always one, right?).
No, abstaining from the annual ritual, is something I’ve considered for a long time now. I was like Brett Favre, waffling back and forth, unable to make a decision before ultimately scribbling in my picks, succumbing to pressure and the compulsion to compete.
You see deciding the collective fates of Jayhawks, Ducks and Tar Heels before the tournament all those years ago started off innocently. I didn’t base my picks on logic, RPI or defensive efficiency.
My thought process was more like, “Let’s see, Duke has a defensive terror known as Shane Battier patrolling the perimeter, but my friend — and we’re in Montana here — is a total frontrunner and lover of all things Cameron Crazie, so I’ll take Iowa State in the Final Four just to spite him.” (A poor decision considering the Cyclones lost to Hampton — a No. 15 seed.)
In those early days, life was easy and the stakes were low. It didn’t matter if my elite eight looked as shoddy as Scott Drew’s postseason record. I just enjoyed the ride, loved the madness and soaked in all the non-HD basketball I could.
But as each successive year passed, I began to slowly take more time deciding between Nevada and Illinois or Stanford and Marquette.
I took ownership of my bracket. Suddenly “being right” had some added importance. Manhood, fandom and respect rode on that sheet of paper.
I couldn’t simply cut Duke out in the second round because a buddy happened to swear loyalty as a “fan” of America’s most popular (and least) college basketball team. I had to consider matchups, experience, rebounding, benches, injuries and trends.
What’s sweeter than rubbing your bracket in someone else’s face making sure they knew that you had Butler over Pittsburgh (2011) or Vermont topping Syracuse (2005, and no, I didn’t have that) or Hampton stunning Iowa State (2001, it still hurts)?
I wasn’t rooting for upsets or chaos or even good basketball. When Butler and Gordon Hayward blitzed through to the Bulldogs’ first-ever Final Four, I was infuriated. They destroyed my West Regional picks like “Teen Mom” ruins television.
But shouldn’t I look back at Butler’s historic, improbable and mind-numbingly unpredictable run to the NCAA Championship with awe? Instead, I just remember a bracket that revealed how wrong and feeble-minded I was.
I hated how after every result, the first thing that sprung to mind was how it correlated with my picks, and the fact my self-esteem would actually fluctuate with whatever luck I might have had is repulsive and embarrassing.
So, no, I didn’t feel out a bracket this year and I don’t care about yours. And it’s great.
I can once again vehemently root against Duke and my childhood friend while pulling for upsets, living and dying with the underdogs.
I am free.
But I’m can’t dismiss every vice. There’s no way I’d give up on Fantasy Football. Next season, that title is mine.
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