Look, I’m American. I’m not trying to hide it. I’ve sewn the stars and stripes into every pair of pants I have and my ring tone is a Garth Brooks song played over an Alan Jackson poetry reading. So naturally, I get wrapped up in the madness that comes every March, also known as March Madness, when the NCAA (National Collegiate Association Association) holds its basketball tournament.
I love nothing better than to watch exploited university students run and jump to make money for TV networks and universities while they are subjected to a moral scrutiny reserved for no one else in the world and who, if they are even marginally talented, leave after one year for the pros. And I’m passing on that appreciation to my little miracle baby.
“Bababababa,” he said, getting into the spirit. “I hate Duke.”
My son looked up at me with those huge, puppy dog eyes, hoping for approval from his old man in what was sure to be a monumental bonding moment that neither one of us would forget.
Then I said, “Duh! Who doesn’t? Yawn!”
Along with my lady friend, we’ve all been glued to the television, watching every game I was interested in, which actually turned out to be not that many, sharing in every thrilling victory and crushing loss, though I can’t remember one of them.
So after the vaunted Final Four (I don’t remember who was in it), we geared up for the great championship game, which aired here in Australia yesterday morning. Because I was home and my lady friend was at work, I offered to record the game so we could all watch it later, because that’s the kind of attentive and considerate and handsome life partner I am.
Unfortunately, we both accidentally saw the results of the game on the Internet during the day, so we ended up just fast forwarding through the game. I think Duke won. No, wait. UNLV. Grant Hill? Shaq? Did Shaq win?
It was Shaq.