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I hate office-pool predictions for the NCAA tournament. Absolutely hate them.
Why in the world would I so detest something as innocent as a few friends getting together to pick winners of college basketball games, all in the hopes of a couple hundred dollars payout and water cooler bragging rights? Those little photocopy brackets couldn’t do you any harm … could they?
Yes, actually they could. Just listen to my story.
Hi, my name is Kyle, and I’m an addict.
Before I ever learned about this annual springtime tradition I watched college basketball’s conclusion as a fan — a fan of the athletes, the teams, the excitement. Every game I prayed for a fantastic finish, and so often the tournament provided. I can’t ever remember being more enthralled over a sports game then when I witnessed Christian Laettner beat Kentucky in the semi-finals, on an improbable last-second jump shot from the free throw line.
But that was before the predictions, the brackets, the madness …
I got hooked early; in fact, I got hooked the first time I ever tried it. My dad passed me a blank bracket, said, “Hey, kid, fill this out with who you think is going to win, and we’ll see how you do against the guys at my office. And if you win, you might even get some cash.”
All my 12-year-old-mind heard was “predict … win … cash …” So I grabbed the sheet and went to work. I think I had all 63 games worked out in about 10 minutes. A few days later, after the first two rounds of the tournament, I was far ahead in first place. Yes, me, ahead of a plethora of middle-aged military men.
I think I stared at the little sheet of paper that had my name on top for 25 minutes. Life couldn’t be better.
Then, after a flurry of unlikely upsets in the latter rounds, I wound up third or fourth. Disappointing yes, but that little taste of bracket prediction fame was enough to get me hooked.
Now, nine years later, I am a complete addict. The yearly prediction ritual has made watching the tournament work, not fun. Instead of rooting for a good game, I find myself screaming for teams like Western Kentucky, Valparaiso and Fordham, not because I like them, but because I picked them. And anybody whose knows anything about the tournament, knows getting it right is as impossible as beating Charles Barkley in a head-butting contest.
It’s not like the people who win actually have some talent, skill or superpower, they simply guessed right more times than you. But for some reason, your mental capabilities are called in to question when all your final four picks are out by the end of the fifth day.
Today, I find myself hating to watch by Sweet 16 because I’m so frustrated with my picks. It’s been made worse by the fact that my household chooses to post everyone’s picks in clearview — now I get personal and public humiliation.
I’ve tried to kick the habit. I’ve tried bracket-rehab. But every year I find myself reaching for that Bic pen, the Sporting News and a few pieces of scotch tape.
Maybe this year I’ll quit.
Submitted March 20, 2003
MALIBU, CA
