Dear March Madness,
I’m writing to tell you how grateful I am for what you’ve meant to my life over this last decade.
You see, 10 years ago today I lost my best friend, my father. He loved you, too. We were watching you in the hospital a few days before he died. He was rooting for Baylor, saying he liked how they played defense. When they won last year in your tournament, I couldn’t help but think of him and that moment.
Ever since then, I’ve been watching you in a different way as a journalist. After I lost Dad, I didn’t know how to cope, how to survive the storms life hits us with. That’s where you’ve continually offered me shelter.
Because it hurt to watch you without Dad, I was blessed to write about you. To highlight your bubble teams and bracket busters. To glorify your Cinderella stories and connect with our readers who love you — just like Dad and I used to. I’d fill out an “expert” bracket even though sometimes those picks hardly felt like it. I’d talk about you on the radio, television and on video. I’d get fulfilment from seeing my byline next to your madness and think about how proud Dad would be — passing papers around the room like he used to.
But one thing I’m reflecting on this March Madness is how I’m thawing out from what our friendship has been this whole time. It was almost like Dad left you as a shield for me to feel safe with. But when we wear armor to be brave that’s not the true version of ourselves.
The true version — deep down — I feel like has been running away, sprinting even, since March 30 of 2012. But I think it’s time to stop running. To sit still.
This March, I was watching you with one of Dad’s favorite announcers, Dick Vitale. I had this epiphany as I was talking basketball with the greatest commentator in college basketball history: It was the first time I was watching you — just watching, no writing or covering — since that March in the hospital 10 years ago. Granted, I was there for a story. And I had a sneak peak at what life without you would look like in 2020 when COVID canceled you. But this was different. It was as if I was realizing it’s okay to stop running.
I think I was running in the first place, shielding myself with stories about your epic games and personalities, because reality means life without him. No more hugs. No more fist pounds. No more check-in calls. No more loving texts. No more playing tennis or playing basketball. No more going out to eat with Mom. No more corny jokes. No more picking me up when I’ve fallen or holding me up when I’ve succeeded.
No more watching March Madness.
You see, I know you’re not a real person, March Madness. But I’m certain — so certain — Dad left me you to coat my pain these last 10 years.
Finally pulling the bandage off, thanks to a fellow cancer battler on the couch watching you, I can finally start to feel what’s been at play this whole time.
When people die, everyone has their own idea of what grieving looks like. It’s funny because with one part of me, I’ve been grieving and processing Dad’s death this whole decade and honoring him in a variety of ways — coaching grade school kids, healing others and most of all, writing about you — our mutual friend.
The other part of me has been frozen this whole time. And you’ve allowed me through coverage, with your long work days in the first two rounds and trips to the Final Four to see you, to stay frozen for just the right amount of time. You’ve allowed me to grieve, while simultaneously becoming the man I’m meant to be. The man I know my father would be proud of.
Thank you, March Madness. For helping me by being a fill-in best friend.