March is its own kind of madness. The sun throws a wink, maybe two, coaxing shorts out of their winter hibernation. But the real game? It’s on screens, in bars, echoing through dorm halls where the fate of 64 college teams playing hoops grips twenty million Americans tighter than their favorite jeans.
Sam, with no previous knowledge of hoops, transforms overnight into “Bracket Guru Sam,” dispensing wisdom that would make a Vegas bookie blush. And Tom? He decked out in team colors, trash-talking like he’s been a fan of this school in the middle of Nebraska all his life.
Here, every dribble, every shot, is high drama. The scoreboard ticks with the suspense of a season finale, games hanging by a thread, often decided in those final, frenetic ticks.
This isn’t mere basketball, but rather the annual descent into madness, where David’s are slinging stones at Goliath’s and sometimes, just sometimes, the giants fall. Classwork? It’s on pause, because “just one more game” is the mantra that drowns out deadlines.
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