I've said it before and I'll say it again: whenever I'm feeling low, I can always count on my NCAA bracket to kick me in the chest and spit on my face. Yesterday's games set two records: one for the most overtimes in one round (four), and one for the most damaging to my lifespan. March Madness causes me nothing but stress. I've never won. I begin every April on anti-depressants. And yet I come back every year.
Thursday and Friday's Round of 64 is like taking that weekend away with a new significant other: you start out with the highest hopes, sometimes the most confidence that coitus is inevitable, and then halfway through the first night you start to wonder if you're dating an ax murderer. Sometimes the warning signs are subtle and can be overlooked. But sometimes the car ride works as a signal flare for trouble to come.
This year it's been a goddam signal flare. The small percentage of people who chose Dayton only did so because they went there. NC State should have won - its 12th-seed win wouldn't have even been considered and upset - and agree with me or not, probability dictates that in no way should Harvard have made it out of the Round of 64 again.
So at this point, it looks like my bracket wears tighty whities and black socks to bed, and calls his mother every two hours. But it's not totally a deal-breaker. I refuse to Seinfeld myself out of this one.
Only one of yesterday's losses was supposed to survive the next round, anyway. There is still hope.