After voyaging on a journey through the heart of the Mexican jungle to a hotel in Puerto Vallarta, I am here to tell a story of a week full of excursions, sunburns, and, most importantly, my utterly horrific March Madness bracket. I feel this same urge, like Drake, to “give the people what they want.”
I had a set picture in my mind of sitting poolside while a waiter named Giovanni (real guy) brings me and my dear friends endless virgin Pina Coladas. Relaxing. Comforting. Delightful. Not so. There’s no room for relaxation and Giovanni’s Pina Coladas when your March Madness bracket is at stake. Nobody’s bracket was safe…
The first news came at the beach while a harmless game of whiffle ball was easing our fears of a swift miss-pick. But we weren’t immune from news of the tournament, even on the beach. Baylor and Iowa State had been shocked in the first round of the tournament. At that moment, we realized that our brackets, along with the Big 12, were complete and utter dog poop.
I felt confused. Alone. Degraded. I felt like the poor University of Villanova girl crying while playing her tiny flute after her beloved Wildcats were routed by NC State. That was unquestionably the saddest face that I have ever seen in my life. In fact, that’s even more impressive that she was able to weep all over her metal instrument while staying on pitch. Good for her. I hope I’m as good at something in my life as the weeping flutist of Villanova.
The shame didn’t stop after the news of the Big 12 blowouts. I predicted that West Virginia would be upset by Buffalo for the sole reason that if you say buffalo ten times, you successfully make a grammatically correct sentence (no joke. Google it). Although Buffalo didn’t pull through in the first round, West Virginia and their overzealous freshman point guard Daxter Miles Jr thoroughly embarrassed themselves two rounds later. For context, our friend Miles Jr predicted a Mountaineer victory over the unbeaten and “unstoppable” Kentucky Wildcats before their meeting in the “Sweet 16…” Miles didn’t score a point in their 78-39 slaughter. Nice one, Miles. Even though I had sand all in my bum, at least I wasn’t the laughing stock of half of the nation.
Anyways, I was still comfortably sitting on my bum at the beach, watching an NCAA tournament to remember. No matter the outcome of my bracket, it truly is a pleasure to be able to watch players like Frank “the Tank” Kaminsky and the Sunflower League’s very own Willie Cauley-Stein (you blew that one, Bill Self) tear it up on the court. But I haven’t even mentioned the best point guard in the nation, Jerian Grant of Notre Dame, nor the freshest of freshman D’Angelo Russell of Ohio State.
The level of talent in the nation this year is incredible when compared to years past. The best illustration of this would be the Big 12’s horrific, awful, blindingly terrible showing in the tournament. The nation was positive of the conference’s superiority because of their high level of talent. Yet, the nation, as well as the players of the Big 12, were shocked to realize that the talent in the rest of tournament was easily equivalent to the “superior Big 12.”
Regardless, the week carried on. The beach and sunset cruises were overshadowed by some of my stranger upset predictions. For instance, Georgia didn’t end up beating Michigan State. Rather, the Spartans won three more games and are going to the final four: Montezuma’s Revenge… Get it? Yes? No? Scratch that joke.
In other news, being an Oklahoma fan, this is the first year since Blake Griffin’s “Sweet 16” appearance that I was able to say “Boomer Sooner” in March without fear of ridicule. Oklahoma’s Buddy Hield is a man among boys on the court. But, all good things come to an end as Michigan State and Travis Trice showed Hield that he wasn’t a man, but was, in fact, a little boy with a pogo stick compared to their superiority. Don’t laugh because that wasn’t even funny in the first place — you should be just as impressed with Michigan State as I am. Electric. Efficient. Terrifying to OU and Louisville fans.
The lesson that I am haphazardly and decrepitly attempting to convey is this: if you are so inclined to embark on a journey of your own to Mexico during spring break, shut off your computers. Throw your phones in the water. Let the resorts play futbol on all of their televisions. Believe me when I say you will be sorry if you’re told of any news of the tournament. As they say, “what happens in the tournament must stay out of Mexico, or it will ruin your trip.”