Missoula News

Bob Wire Has a Point (It's Under His Cowboy Hat)

March Madness Picks Simplified

By Bob Wire, 3-22-11

"Gee, I'm so sad we lost to those nice fellows at SDSU. At least we handed Penn State their own ass."

Picking eight winners out of a field of 16 will be a cakewalk compared to last week, when I had to utilize my entire collected knowledge of NCAA basketball to fill out my original brackets for the March Madness tournament. Actually, it didn’t take that long because my entire collected knowledge of NCAA basketball would fit into the dot over the letter “j” in the word “idjit,” with enough room left over to store everything I know about electricity and plumbing.

My bud Jonathan came over Saturday night to help me drink some IPA and shout at the TV. Even though Jonathan’s a recent inductee to the ranks of fatherhood, he can’t understand how a child’s orchestra recital, ball game, birthday party, or non-lethal medical emergency could keep a person from “the greatest four-day sports weekend of the year.” This was exactly the kind of passion and commitment I needed to help guide me through the rapid-fire confusion and breathless hype of March Madness, Opening Round. I mean, I know the basic rules of the game, but being roughly the same height as Michael J. Fox, my personal experience with organized basketball is right up there with Sarah Palin’s knowledge of constitutional law.

We watched Butler’s highly entertaining upset over top-seeded Pittsburgh, which was better than pretty much any NBA game I’ve ever seen. I struggled mightily to keep up. “What? Butler’s calling their thirty-second timeout? How many timeouts do these guys get, for cryin’ out loud?”

“What do you mean, posted up? Who’s got time to mail a letter when you’re playing man-to-man?”

“Why’d the ref call that foul? He should swallow his whistle. You know what? That’s too good for him. He should ingest it rectally.”

“Give and go? The pick and roll? Up and under? The alley oop? These guys are copping all my best dance moves!”

If you’ve read this far, you already know that game came down to two stunningly stupid fouls in the last two seconds. In basketball, the final 20 seconds can take a long time. In the last 20 seconds of the Butler-Pitt game we had two pizzas delivered, sucked down four bottles of beer, watched “60 Minutes,” got our driver’s licenses renewed, and built a scale model of the Eiffel Tower using toothpicks and pizza bones.

Jonathan helped me understand the intricacies of these fast-paced elbow festivals, but before the first tip-off, I had to fill out my brackets. He’d started a group on the ESPN site, so my picks would be there for millions of other couch potatoes and sports bar jocks to laugh and point at and snort Miller Lite out their noses. For that part, I was left to my own devices. Good thing for me one of those devices was a Magic Eight Ball.

There are a lot of crazy-ass methods out there for choosing your bracket winners, with everything from the zoological classification of the team mascot to the combined arrest records of the starting five being taken into account. I suppose I could have jumped on the Web and done some actual research, but that sounded like a lot of hassle. Especially for a football fan such as myself. So I went with my strong suit: music. I would let the universal language guide my picks.

In the East bracket, for instance, I had #5 West Virginia easily handling #12 Clemson. “Almost heaven, West Virginia,” I sang as I filled out the bracket. “Blue Ridge Mountains, beat those Clemson assholes…” I’m sure John Denver would have been proud. I had the West Virginia Western Virginians (or whatever they’re called) going all the way to the Sweet Sixteen, where they would succumb to #1 Ohio State (“Ten seconds and Sullinger’s coming, Buckeyes of O-hi-o.”) Alas, Bob Huggins and his Blue Ridge Rangers were left crying in the cold Kentucky rain.

Ohio State was a no-brainer in the first round, on account of their playing UTSA. I don’t even know what school UTSA is. All I know is that a UTSA sounds like some kind of Finnish dumpling. No thank you.

Over in the West, I’ve got Duke, Duke, Duke, Duke of Earl landing in the Sweet 16 versus “Arizona,” the super-catchy 1969 hit that launched Mark Lindsay’s solo career after a successful run with Paul Revere and the Raiders. To reach this point, Arizona had to beat Texas, which was fine with me. If any state is desperately in need of a truckload of humility, it’s Texas. “T for Texas, T for…Temple?” Not this year, boys. Shirley is back aboard the Good Ship Lollypop after being dispatched by San Diego State, despite that SoCal school’s failure to lay claim to any music outside of a bunch of random Beach Boys surfing tunes.

My highly sophisticated music-based system had me wishing other teams had gotten in. Grambling, for instance. “Lord, I was born a Gramblin’ man. Settin’ up a screen and doin’ the best I can…” And what an opportunity if LSU had made it. I could see that obscure one-hit Spanish wonder, Mocedades, leading the cheers: “Una mañana, LSU, LSU…” And how about Alabama? “Alabam, you got one foot on the foul line, and one in the key.” Another great southern entry would have been Delta State University in Mississippi, home of the Fighting Crackers. Maybe Tanya Tucker could help point out some of their statistical weaknesses: “Delta State, your three-point shooting ain’t that great…”

But it all comes down to the Final Four, of course, and for any music lover, there’s really only one choice among the four #1 seeds. Forget for the moment that this team’s first coach was the man who invented the game of basketball (and his successor invented this tournament). Never mind that they should change the name of their conference from the Big Twelve to the Big One and the Eleven Wannabes. They’ve witnessed more Final Fours than ESPN, and their all-time winning percentage isn’t even approachable in the NBA.

Forget all that. Look at the music mojo. What team has a more suitable place atop my music-based bracket than the Kansas Jayhawks? Their very name contains two of the best American bands of all time. The other 63 teams in the tournament? They’re just dust in the wind, dude. Kansas’s Morris twins, Markieff and Marcus, will not lay their weary heads to rest until they have laid waste to all who stand in their way.  Their play mirrors the twin guitar attack of Americana heroes The Jayhawks. And just like the prog-rock guitar godhead Steve Morse of Kansas, they play in sleeveless shirts.

So carry on, my wayward sons. You’ll be champs when you are done. You’ve survived the Shitload of 68, and now it’s down to the Sweet Sixteen, the Elite Eight and the Final Four. And finally, the Turgid Two. Tomorrow the green grass! It’s crowded in the wings when you’re waiting for the sun, but whoever Kansas faces in the championship game will be nothing but a dead-end angel, as the headlines will proclaim in the Baltimore Sun. After all the build-up and knuckle-chewing overtimes and shocking upsets, it will come down to the point of know return, when it’s nothing more than ten little kids with nothing left to borrow. Over my shoulder, they’ll call. Pray for me. But they won’t need your prayers or your wishes or any of that supportive juju. They’ll take their championship slabs of mahogany and brass on a national tour, from Sioux Falls to Nevada, California, running on nothing but pride and five cups of coffee.

I think the message is pretty clear. Kansas will take it all, culminating yet another stellar season by mopping the floor with each opponent. Then, a brief period of gloating and adulation. Then graduation and summer vacation. Nothing lasts forever but the earth and sky. It slips away, all your money won’t another minute buy.

Hold on there, kid. Let’s not be too hasty. Lemme see how many zeroes we can put on the end of this number. Yeah, I think you’ll be able to get the Hummer AND the Maserati. Welcome to the NBA draft!

Bob’s Maximum Honky Tonk Website
Join the Bob Wire Appreciation Society

Stumble It!

Like this story? Get more! Sign up for our free newsletters.