While we talked about this year's men's tournament bracket and the unusually top-heavy crop of title contenders, we also talked about the stuff that will actually make the tournament fun to watch: the surprisingly varied styles of the teams that have been out ahead of the field all year, what a good college basketball roster looks like in this weird moment in the sport, how the transfer market actually works and why, and what has happened to the 5-12 upset.
Cheering on your favorite team can cause severe mood swings, violent outbursts, and even, at times, tightness in your chest. It's why I'm a fair-weather fan. There's a backstory: I used to have a team. As a Baltimore native, when the Ravens came to our city in 1996, I was all in. After buying tons of black and purple, winning two Super Bowls, and then white knuckling through the lackluster seasons that followed, I decided to set a boundary for my own sanity.
The Mets had been too troubled by injury and addiction and natural attrition to come close to repeating in the years after '86. Getting to watch that utterly dominant and worryingly disinhibited team so early in my life as a fan was disorienting and set some very strange expectations; watching it fall apart, little by little and then all the way down to stinking rubble, was my first and most painful lesson in what being a fan is mostly like.
At some point in late 1975 or early 1976, I became aware of "Opening Soon at a Theater Near You," a monthly review program on WTTW-Channel 11. The show featured Chicago Sun-Times film critic Roger Ebert and Chicago Tribune film critic Gene Siskel talking about new releases in the low-key but instantly engrossing style that made you feel like you were eavesdropping on your two favorite teachers as they verbally sparred between classes. (Roger was 33 when the show debuted; Gene was just 29.)
Boxing is not, and has never been, a perfect sport. Even in the throes of an enthralling duel like Joseph Parker and Fabio Wardley's last Saturday night, you might find yourself shrinking into your sofa under the violence or bursting forth in rage at a controversial stoppage. It depends on your threshold for violence, but the violence itself is just
However much grumping you might do at the water cooler-about the stupid idiot coach and his refusal to trust the rookie, or about the big brick-handed lummox mucking up the offensive spacing, or about the sleazy executive with his hands on the purse strings-when it comes to games and scores and outcomes, you have to root for your guys. That's your end of the deal.
What is it all for, these early mornings and evenings in the park with her notebook? The bruises and the pain? She wonders about it many times, but is quiet, self-conscious. She does not spend too much time trying to answer the question. And whatever answers she comes by are less interesting, anyway, than the quality of the light at dawn, and the crash of bodies, and what she's recording in the notebook.
It helps when I look at the standings and see that they're still only three games behind the Los Angeles Dodgers. Could be worse, but also very easily could get worse quickly if they don't turn it around.
