Portrait of a basketball crazed nation

For the American sports fan, mid-March marks the start of the most intense part of the year. The NCAA tournament is a coast-to-coast competition and celebration of our ingrained athletic prowess and dogged determination. Nothing captivates every part of this great nation in the same way:

In East Coast country clubs wealthy old men stand around in groups, sipping cocktails before dinner and rooting for their alma maters, their wives exclaiming at each successive 3-pointer scored by Reddick, Morrison and McNamara, wunderkinds all, and marveling at the size and strength of the young gods romping and gliding up and down the court of battle.

At the same time, the children sit at home and watch the drama on big screens, moaning and groaning as their five dollars goes down the drain.

But wait! It rises again! Hallelujah! The Power and the Glory! All of a sudden the children are on their feet, jumping up and down and throwing themselves around the room, all because the undersized point guard from a small New York school catches fire, draining jumpers and feeding big men with no-look alley-oops, inspired by the memory of his recently murdered brother, a reminder of the great dream college athletics provides for many young people from many different backgrounds.

Along the recently ravaged Gulf Coast, again sports get the chance to uplift: witness the good ol' boys of LSU and Alabama, largely white and moneyed, cheering without shame or irony for their beloved players from the concrete jungles of the south, parts of the nation only now visible to all but which have always been an integral part of the soul and vigor of the nation. The sins of the past and present are forgotten more with each bounce of the ball and swish of the net; the united energy of these fans and their players, their representatives, is so meaningful. Yes, New Orleans will be rebuilt, and it will be made better.

In the Midwest, upright fathers and mothers, owners of homes lined with trophies and plaques and medals honoring the physical capabilities passed down from father to son and grandfather to father, stand and watch with authentically quiet and humble manners as their son, weaned on red meat and motor oil, their son who took up sports because it's what people do, rebounds the ball as if he were back in front of the family barn competing with his knowing but less talented older brothers, who took it upon themselves to make sure their youngest family member lived up to his potential and made the family proud. This gifted son's strength comes from days spent tossing bales of hay, only now he tosses opponents out of the lane, a master of the craft of rebounding, underestimated as a player by the East Coast gurus in the same way the coasts underestimate the simple elegance and productivity of the vast middle of the nation.

California players, smooth operators all, prepare themselves for each game with Tupac as their personal motivator. They harbor hazy memories of lazy afternoons on the beach because now they are forced indoors, into the cool, climate-controlled environment that exists in all basketball arenas, the only heat is that which they can generate in the crowd with their play, and the only sunshine is on the faces of the cheerleaders, who, while flipping, twirling and yelping for their schools, their states and their nation, demonstrate the pureness of the tournament when compared to the lies, corruption and misguided rhetoric of other parts of American life.

Not to say there is not a dark side to this time of year: In Vegas, vulgar swine and rubes, their ties twisted and loosed, dress shirts and slacks soaked through with sweat, holler spittle onto a wall of televisions as they clutch their last hundred dollar bill, all of it resting on the shoulders of eighteen-, nineteen-, and twenty-year olds; dying with every bricked shot and errant pass, observing every dribble, screen and substitution as if it was a key to the game, thinking that the outcome is somehow knowable, that there is some abstract control in the whole equation.

These gamblers still pray for Divine Intervention, for Providence (not the team, they haven't been good since the days of God Shammgod) to take over and reverse the downward spiral of their lives; one win and they can reclaim the family they drove mad with their obsessions or buy a classic convertible and drive off into the sunset or simply survive another day of the American nightmare.

Overall, the tournament is one of the few things in popular culture today that lives up to the hype. There are always upsets, game-winning shots, heroic performances and shocking mistakes. And as long as you didn't bet your livelihood on Winthrop to win it all, a good time shall be had.