Column

Dan Cromar / Roundup

It seems like yesterday that I first held you in my hands, a new tournament, a new bracket.

Hard to believe that just two weeks later, I would be unable to stand the sight of you.

I’d taken a different approach this time, picking purely from the heart. I may not have fully believed that Notre Dame could come through, but I wanted to, so I made them my national champions.

I went with my gut, going purely by instinct.

I’d never heard of Morehead State, but they were the first to shake my confidence. Their defeat of Louisville marked the first casualty of my Sweet Sixteen, but hope still endured.

Surely, I thought, this is an isolated incident. It will all get better.

How wrong I was.

Other picks began to come undone, but as I looked upon you, the green marks still outnumbered the red. Even when those upstarts from Virginia laid another blow to what was once a Sweet Sixteen, I wasn’t worried.

Besides, it was still early, just the first round. Everything would be fine.

Then, the next dagger.

It was one of my bold predictions, one of those that I’d hoped would catapult me to the top of the pool standings. St. John’s in the Elite Eight. I remember how proud of myself I felt when I first made the selection.

I’ll look pretty smart for this one, I thought.

It took just one round for those Bulldogs from Gonzaga to make me regret it. Suddenly, where I once felt confidence, I began to feel doubt, yet hope endured.

You continued to suffer in the second round. The fall of Pittsburgh to Butler, the fall of Kansas State to Wisconsin. The red marks were finally starting to become prominent.

And then… disaster.

I couldn’t wait to watch. I got off work and came straight home. The Irish were playing the Florida State Seminoles, and I knew that it would be my redemption.

At least, I thought I knew.

It all happened so fast. Suddenly I was standing among the wreckage sifting through the rubble of what just days before had seemed so strong and indestructible.

My champion was gone, and with it, all hope of success.

I failed you.

All the hope we had is gone. Every game I watch now is a bitter reminder of what might have been.

If only I’d chosen more carefully. If only I’d kept my heart out of it. If only I’d chosen more upsets.

It will be a long year until we meet again, and I will have a chance to make things right.

Next time, it will be better. Next time, we’ll succeed.

Next time.