Another year, another however-many-pools-you-were-in-times-10-bucks poorer. March Madness has come and gone. You followed the same routine as you do every year, didn't you, boys? You watched all season, and then come bracket-time, you listened to the predictions for every round by every "expert."
Point of information #1: Basketball icon and former coach Bobby Knight was a new "expert" for ESPN this year. Bobby Knight predicted the University of Pittsburgh, a four-seed, would win the national championship. Pitt lost in the second round.
Point of information #2: Bobby Knight is considered an expert because he is a basketball legend. He is a basketball legend because his coaching style involved throwing metal chairs across the floor during games. Don't fill out brackets according to Bobby Knight.
The point here, kids, is that there are no experts. Why? Because no one ever knows what the hell is going on. Because the "experts" are never right, though they are paid to know the outcomes, down to the winner of the 64th-seed play-in game between Lima Bean Polytechnic and Crop Looks Purdy Good This Year State. (C.L.P.G.T.Y.S ... fine school, tricky sweatshirts.)
And because a coach who has won more games than any other in college basketball history predicted that a team who promptly lost in the second round would be the champion, while your girlfriend (who picked Kansas to win it all because "The Wizard of Oz" is her favorite movie, and because her first pet was a rabbit named Kasey, which, ha, also starts with K) just won $1,200.
When you tried to explain to her that four number-one seeds playing in the Final Four had never happened before, she scratched her head and said, "I thought the tiny little numbers next to everyone's name was their Outfit Cuteness Rating. And that little muscley bird Kansas has everywhere is just so adorable."
"That's a Jayhawk. It's supposed to be a fearsome and intimidating bird of war, battle and death-skirmishes."
"... just so cute, like ... like an athletic Looney Toon or something!"
It's not that all girls are devoid of sports knowledge or anything. Monday Night Football sideline reporter Suzy Kolber? A well of knowledge. Ask any guy. Two round, shapely ... wells of knowledge. It's just that while some girls legitimately follow athletics, others inject themselves into certain sporting events without the faintest clue of what's going on.
It extends beyond March Madness. A chick-friend of mine recently took in a game with me at the new Washington Nationals stadium.
Perturbed Girl: Excuse me? A "chick-friend?" Don't you think that was a little offensive?
Austin: Girls have the term "guy-friend." Everyone understands this to mean "a dude with whom she is friends, but not dating." But if I had said "girlfriend", everyone would think we were dating. And we aren't. "Dating" and "touching" are clearly prohibited in the club's paperwork. We entered the stadium, and my chick-friend announced that she was hungry. When I asked her what she wanted, she said she wanted a salad. I told her to grow a pair.
Perturbed Girl Again: Don't you think that was a little offensi --
Austin: Very.
I then told her this was a Major League Baseball stadium, and beer and hot dogs were the standard fare. Not salads. She refused to accept "no" for an answer -- a bit of a double standard, considering the aforementioned "paperwork". Not wanting to miss the first pitch, I eventually stole a pita from the burrito stand and wrapped in it every hot dog topping and condiment I could find. I told my chick-friend it was a wrap. Wraps are healthy. Airtight argument.
But even after we were seated, her lack of sports knowledge continued to reveal itself. During a lull in the action, she lustily implored one batter to "hit her a touchdown." When I asked her in the fifth inning "isn't this tight?" she heartily agreed. Following her next comment, however, I realized she was actually talking about the leftfielder's pants and the underlying accoutrements.
While everyone else stood during the seventh-inning stretch, she assumed a Warrior Three yoga pose. Despite the move's impressive complexity, it can ruffle the feathers of fellow patrons when performed in a jean skirt. As she begrudgingly unwound herself, she knocked the beer of the woman next to her to the ground. As the sour fan demanded compensation, my chick-friend casually pulled out a wad of bills. A recent March Madness take of $1,200 can leave a girl with quite a bankroll.
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