I am writing a dangerous blog because it’s a dangerous time of year.
March Madness, rendered Hoosier Hysteria in Indiana, attacks even the most level-headed citizens of our sensible state.
Take my husband, for example. He wears navy/gray one day and brown/khaki the next. Hubby functions as the voice of sanity on boards and committees. While airport officers seem to regard me as a permanent threat to national security, they never search him.
When they lose, I steel myself for the usual statistical post-mortem and week of mourning.
Yet despite our team’s early tourney exit this year, we continue to watch the games. While Hubby perpetuates his (loud) role as High Judge of Referees, I occasionally can remove my protective gear.
Still recovering from a recent cold, I retired last night at halftime. When he came to bed, Hubby turned on the brightest light possible and whispered tenderly in my ear: “Just so you’ll sleep better, Fairfield beat Quinnipiac.”
That’s the gentle side of his fanaticism.
I can’t blame him, as Hubby’s very DNA impacts his tourney-time behavior. While reserved during off-season, his grandmother displayed no gentle side during March. A lovely old lady, she resembled Mrs. Santa Claus, with bright blue eyes, wavy white hair and pink cheeks. No doubt, she was Etna Green High’s prettiest cheerleader when she met Grandpa, a player on the opposing Atwood High School team. Their marriage marked the last time she fraternized with the enemy, however. When I.U. played, she yelled for their foes’ blood. And for that of the referees, who were crooks! Liars! Democrats!
Some critics, appalled by March Madness’ bizarre symptoms, insist this disease should be eliminated.
Contrariwise, I believe it serves as an important coping measure for those living in the rural Midwest. During long, dreary winters, we cannot linger on sunny beaches. We cannot ski down scenic mountains to deal with stress.
Nevertheless, with the exception of school bus rocking and mascot theft, we enjoy lower crime rates than other sections of the country.
Why? Because basketball games function as group therapy. We shriek, clap and stomp, taking out frustrations and hostilities on the refs. My family’s good health testifies to the positive effects of March Madness. Grandma lived to be 95. Hubby possesses enviable blood pressure numbers.
Um … not so much. Perhaps they, like the rest of the world, believe we all were dropped on our heads.
We do abdicate our signature sanity during Hoosier Hysteria.
And we wouldn’t have it any other way.
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: What sports madness seizes your community or state every year? Do you join in?