March Madness & The Girl
Originally published March 2004
It’s that time of year again. The time when the 64 best teams in NCAA hoops are invited to the Big Dance. The time of year when those of us infected with March Madness prepare for the strokes, aneurysms, and high blood pressure that go hand in hand with this magical sporting event. It’s also the time of year when people who don’t know me assume, based on my deep and abiding passion for college basketball, that I am a lesbian. I am not a lesbian, I am a tomboy—the lesbian’s straight cousin.
I was the only girl in my neighborhood, and as such had the frilly beaten out of me at a very young age. Summer games of Kick Ball always found me in deep center—a little-known hotbed of Kick Ball action—and whenever I actually caught that red, rubber ball somebody would scream (pre-PC Nation), “Smear the queer!” I spent many an unconscious night in the McIntyre’s backyard after a good game of Kick Ball.
And in the winter it always took me longer to get into my super-flexible, 6-inch-thick snowsuit for snowball fights. By the time I reached the battlefield, the boys were tired of throwing concussions at each other, so they would mercilessly bean me in the head from alternating sides. Picture the bear at the carnival shooting gallery with the target on its head, turning from side to side with every bull’s eye. You get the idea.
A tomboy from the word “Go.” I had no time for dolls and dresses, tea parties and playing house. Hell no! There were holes to be dug, Green Army Men to be played with, not to mention Cops and Robbers, Kick the Can and everybody’s favorite—Big Wheel Chicken. I sometimes wonder what would have become of me had I been exposed to a fluffier childhood: pink dresses and Mary Jane’s, ribbons in my hair and an army of dolls to treat as my own babies (ick).
Maybe I would enjoy shopping. Maybe baby talk wouldn’t make me want to throw myself out the nearest window. Maybe I could cry on cue. We’ll never know. Instead, I love sports. But that does not make me a lesbian. In the never-ending debate of nature v. nurture, I was definitely nurtured in a “butch” direction. Nurtured within an inch of my life, to be sure. But nature had another plan and as infuriating as I find them, I can’t help myself—I love men.
Now, most of you might think that being a fan of both sports and men would make me a pretty good catch. I’ve labored under that delusion for years. But it turns out that girls who love sports attract boys who don’t. Just as I was born without the shopping gene, most of my ex-boyfriends were born without the sports gene. They couldn’t get jazzed about a blocked field goal attempt late in the 4th that gets returned for the winning touchdown. They didn’t understand why I take a blown high-sticking call almost personally. None of them could figure out why for two minutes, on three Saturdays every spring I feel compelled to jump up and down and shriek “Go baby go!” at the TV—willing a three-year-old down the home stretch toward the finish line.
Nor could any of them even remotely comprehend the deliriously heady affliction called March Madness. And one, in particular, was wholly ill-equipped to handle the emotional chaos—unleashed like a dam exploding—when my beloved Terps won the NCAA tournament in 2002. Because for this tomboy, college hoops is tear-your-hair-out-chew-your-nails-to-the-nub gut-wrenching torture. And that’s when my team is winning. The buzzer-beaters and Cinderella stories; underdogs, upsets and wicked rivalries; and Dick Vitale, baby, for better or worse. All mixed in with a lot of praying and bargaining with the big guy upstairs, because there are no atheists at the Big Dance.
The Sweet 16, Elite 8 and Final Four—all whittled down to 1 National Champion. An emotional blender going faster and faster with every passing round. And it’s upon us. So jump into the frenzy and experience unbridled hysteria at its finest. Break out your brackets and come out for a beer. There’s always room at my table for ACC fans—especially those who love Maryland, or at least have a healthy fear of the turtle. Just do me a favor, don’t try to set me up with the “really nice girl” who lives down the street from you.
