To be a sports fan in mid-March is a pretty great thing. Now one might argue that early September is the best—college football is finding its footing, the NFL season is finally, mercifully underway, and desperate MLB teams are vying for a playoff berth—but it’s hard to argue with the wonderment of March.
In March, your favorite NFL team is signing an offensive lineman you’ve never heard of and heading into the draft with “some really great ideas!” Baseball is so close that you can almost feel the soft, gelatinous belly of the man behind you pressing into your lower back as you wait in line for Buck Night hotdogs. And college basketball? Well, duh. It’s almost as if some sort of “madness” descends upon the whole sport, turning everyone around you—for a few weeks, anyway—into a rabid college hoops fan.
But here’s one thing I could do without in March: hearing about your fucking bracket.
Now don’t get me wrong. I love filling out a tournament bracket. I love pretending to know what I’m talking about when I analyze the competitors and decide that “Davidson’s defense is just too porous this year to make any real noise”, or, “Northern Iowa sure has a lot of black dudes for a section of the country that, well, really isn’t known for having a lot of black dudes.” I love the added interest that a bracket provides. Aren’t most sports inherently more fun when you’ve got a vested reason to watch? I mean, isn’t this why gambling is so goddamned popular?
All of that being said, I don’t give a sweaty hippo’s Doritos Locos Tacos-induced shit about your bracket.
I don’t care how cute it is that your grandmother filled one out, or that your wife did one out based solely off uniform colors or mascots. (LOL! Adorable!)
The president’s bracket can suck my cock.
Unless your bracket makes me money—and frankly, I don’t see how it can—I don’t want to hear about it. You blathering on about your picks is ALMOST as interesting as hearing your thoughts on the weather (“BRRRR. SURE IS COLD FOR MARCH, DON’T YOU THINK?”) or a topic that I find as equally detestable: your fantasy football team. Because unless we’re in a fantasy football league together—and we’re not, because I don’t play, because I’d rather be kicked repeatedly in the shins—I don’t want to hear about THAT, either.
OMG, HOW UNLUCKY IS IT THAT JEFF GARCIA PUT UP 45 POINTS FOR YOU, BUT IT WAS ON THE SAME WEEK THAT YOUR OPPONENT HAD VAI SIKAHEMA WHO PUT UP A GREATER AMOUNT OF POINTS? HOW WILL YOU SLEEP TONIGHT? DID YOU YELL AT YOUR KIDS WITH MISDIRECTED ANGER, BECAUSE I FEEL LIKE I MIGHT HAVE.
Your bracket is absolutely boring. I don’t care if it got “busted” in the first round when Pig Rape State scored a massive upset over Gonzaga. It’s really, truly, not worth sharing. Let’s keep the water-cooler talk focused on the important topics: that Tuesday night last week where you got black-out drunk, saw an episode of The New Adventures of Old Christine and confused it with Seinfeld, which was really weird because you’ve seen every episode of Seinfeld ever. Or maybe you can tell me about boils that you’re considering having lanced. I’d rather hear anything else, really.
And I know that there are those who will read this, and feel like I’m overreacting. “Why don’t you just not listen to people when they talk about their bracket?” they’ll ask, or “hey Brandon, how about you just shut right the fuck up, already?” and those are all very appropriate, very valid responses. But the thing is, it’s pervasive. I can’t log-on to my Myspace without hearing about it. I can’t get my nails done without hearing sweet Lin’s thoughts on Duke’s perimeter shortcomings. My grandfather is texting me—from the grave, mind you—to tell me why he picked an early ouster of KU.
It’s everywhere, and I can’t stand it.
Stop ruining what should really be an awesome couple of weeks, please.
I beg of you.
To hear ALL about MY bracket—j/k—follow me on Twitter @StanfordWhistle