The Madness of March Always Ends Abrup--

March's real madness lies in the amazing outpouring of school spirit that reinforces the concept of "the cult of your school." As soon as bids are announced, casual alums and fans transform into super-fans. Unlike professional sports, which place a stronger emphasis on individual achievement, college games unleash a unique emotional charge that transcends the game at hand. When I watch a Villanova game, I'm pulling for things beyond this or that player; I'm pulling for the kids drinking pitchers at Erin's, or plotting late-night Pat's runs, or reading all night in Bartley. March Madness is not about basketball; it's all about sentimentality.

Though I'm a huge sports fan, I'd never been to a tournament game before. As luck would have it, 'Nova drew a Chicago bid for this year's first round. I am ashamed to say that I missed them during the regular season, due to a strange set of circumstances: I had a meeting during the Notre Dame game, and Marquette was midweek and started really early, and I was too busy to go out east for a weekend. So, not willing to miss a 'Nova tournament game in my backyard, my brother and I immediately launched into action, calling everyone we could think of to get tickets -- I even emailed the history chair and friends in the alumni office. Conventional wisdom says that most of the tickets, somehow or other, "go to the school." Wrong-o. No one at school knew anything about tickets. Response from other sources were bleak -- scalpers' prices skyrocketed thanks to Wisconsin, Kansas, and Kentucky road-trippers. Thankfully, on Thursday night, one of our contacts came through with seats for face. We were in business. Then I got to thinking hard about the game.

Nardi's got a bum ankle. Ah, Nardi and his stupid ankle. Ankle injuries are ruinous to a point guard's game plan, no doubt about it.

Here's the breakdown, from the 'Nova fan's perspective:

Nardi' will probably have a good professional career in Italy or elsewhere overseas; he doesn't have star-power skills, but he's the essential component of our offense. (And, incidentally, he is one ugly dude! Bill and I have nicknamed him Splinter.) Curtis Sumpter, also a senior, will probably end up playing overseas at some point as well. Once hailed a sure-fire lottery pick, an agile strong forward who could dominate on the inside, a guy who could win Player of the Year every year. Then his legs gave out, and 'Nova Nation was sad. But his injuries appear to be in his past, and he's had a great year. He'll be good for about 15 points and 5 defensive boards tonight against Kentucky -- more if he's got his A-game. [It was actually 18-4 -- close enough.]

Scottie Reynolds has a dazzling array of tools, but at this point he's most effective as a 2-guard. He plays point occasionally when Nardi needs a breather; this causes the team's swagger to slow considerably. Reggie Redding, another freshman guard who gets big minutes, can't be relied upon to light it up in terms of scoring or assists. Sheridan, Cunningham and Clark are solid college players, but someone's got to get them the ball.

If Nardi's not in the starting lineup, they won't come out of the gates firing on all cylinders, and that's not a good thing for a squad with a short bench. If we had any chance of winning, the boys needed to take a decent lead into halftime. That's a tough task given the state of Nardi's damn ankle.

I had a good feeling about the game. It was a toss-up game, an 8-9 matchup, both teams balanced and equally talented. Tubby Smith, the other Wildcats' coach, spent much of the season on the hot seat, given Kentucky's high expectations and perennial successes. Maybe the pressure on their coach will distract these other Cats, a weakness we might be able to take advantage of.

Incidentally, 'Nova won the 1985 national championship at Rupp Arena in Lexington, a point which has nothing to do with the game but is interesting nonetheless.

Anyway, back to Nardi's bum ankle. I tried looking at Kentucky's stats, but I couldn't get past Mike freakin' Nardi's dumb ankle. Nardi's ankle made me want a drink, because I knew that if Nardi was healthy, 'Nova would have fulfilled my prediction and win one tournament game, but without Nardi, it was a toss-up.

My brother called on Friday evening just as I pulled into my garage. "Yo, should we go to a bar, or do you have any beers at your place?" Surprisingly, I had eight beers in my fridge, which Al had bought a couple weeks before. I hadn't even thought about them since. I usually don't keep beer at my place, because I'm a horrendous binge drinker, as you probably have figured out. There's nothing more revolting to me than drinking a beer while eating food -- my stomach can't take it. As far as I'm concerned, drinking is a science and an endurance test -- a marathon for degenerates. I drink neither lightly nor frequently, hence the usual lack of beers at my place.

My brother came upstairs toting another six-pack, owing to his recent and rightful obsession with Weisse beer. We watched the end of the early games while waiting for his buddy Corcoran to take the train down from Wrigleyville. Before entering law school, Corcoran covered college basketball for the New York Post and is a great guy to watch sporting events with.

I took it easy during pre-game boozing, because I figured on getting solidly liquored up while 1-seed Kansas beat up on poor little 16-seed Niagra, as I pondered Nardi's bum ankle. We grabbed a cab in front of my building at 10 to 6, rode through the River North and West Loop, and on over to the west side. Honestly, there wasn't as much activity around the United Center -- it wasn't nearly as crowded as I thought it'd be.

Upon entering the stadium, we were angry to discover that the NCAA does not allow beer sales at any NCAA-sponsored games. You can drink beers at the high school hockey championship (no rules in place there), you can drink beer at DePaul games in Rosemont (those are conference-hosted games -- different than NCAA-sanctioned), but there's some b.s. NCAA rule whereby any host venue is technically considered to be "on-campus," therefore no booze can be sold inside the venue -- sounded pretty fishy if you asked me.

To add to the inanity of the situation, beer was being served in the sky boxes, because those are "private." The thought that the hoity-toity fucks in the boxes could booze but everyone else couldn't irritated me to no end. I felt an adrenaline rush come over me, one very particularly associated with the quest for acquiring banned alcohol, a feeling I hadn't had to this degree since high school. Nardi's ankle lurked in the back of my thoughts, and my thoughts were focused on beer.

There were still a large number of Badger fans lurking about following their afternoon game, as well as Illini faithful who were there to hang out and watch their game against Virginia Tech on t.v. The majority of fans were there to support Kansas or Kentucky; we 'Novans were a definite minority. I avoided eye contact with fans wearing enemy colors, and nodded silently to my fellow Villaovans. We took the long escalator ride up to the third level. Surprisingly, most of the concession stands were locked up, and the security presence was relatively slight. Grrr Nardi's ankle, I thought to myself.

My brother and Corcoran went into the tunnel to pay the guy who got us our tickets, a big Jayhawks fan who works for my dad. I told Matt I was thinking about going to a bar until the 'Nova game started, but he and Corcoran wanted to watch the Kansas-Niagara bloodletting, and so I ventured off on my own.

I cruised around the lower level concourse for a couple laps, kept an eye out for Ashley Judd, and wondered about how the hell I was gonna get beer. I thought for a second about going on my own to a bar in the Loop, but knew that I would get sucked into the bar and never make it back to the game. I went outside for a smoke and pondered the situation.

For those of you who haven't been there, the United Center is a terribly bland building, one of the first of the modern mega-mall, grey arenas, lacking any remarkable feature aside from its massive size and dullness. It is, I believe, the largest hockey-basketball arena in the country, seating over 18,000 people. Surrounding it are several acres of parking lots, which are in turn surrounded by a few public housing high rises, as well as Malcolm X City College, home of the Brawlin' Black Panthers (just kidding). Given the housing projects and a sordid history following the assassination of Dr. King, there's no neighborhood to speak of adjacent to the U.C., though the area immediately west of the Loop has gentrified to a degree -- still, it's a bit of a hike from the stadium, and certainly not a safe place to be alone at night.

I circled around the exterior of the stadium, pulled the hood of my favorite 'Nova sweatshirt over my head, leaned against the heavy winds. The scalpers were out in full force, as were the homeless people, ghetto hustlers, and game-attending drunks.

Drunks? Wait...where were all these drunks coming from? Where were they getting their booze? And where can I get some? Did anyone know if Nardi was starting? People shot me strange glances and claimed to know nothing; liars all!

I was admiring the Michael Jordan statue when Seamus called to meet me outside for a smoke. I hadn't seen him in a while, not since he returned from a family wedding in St. Augustine. On Thursday, before we got our tickets, Seamus offered me a skybox ticket, but I turned down because I wanted to go to the game with my brother. (If my brother hadn't been interested in going to the game, which was a definite possibility, I would have taken the skybox in a heartbeat, but so it goes.) He laughed at my sobriety, reminding me that he could drink as many beers as he wanted. What a fucker, rubbing it in my face like that!

After the smoke, he went back in. I made another lap around the stadium and wondered: What to do about booze? And, what's up with Nardi's ankle?

At the end of my walk, as I approached the smoker's entrance, a random Illini fan approached me outside the north entrance and asked me for a smoke.

"Sure thing," I said. "Sucks about no drinking."

"You can drink!" he said, "You just can't bring it into the stadium."

"What?" I asked.

"Go to exit 7. Other side of the stadium."

"Nah," I said, "That sounds a bit risky -- better to try to sneak into the luxury level."

"I swear, man. Try it," he said.

I thanked him for the advice and started over to the south side of the building and the smoking re-entry gate. Just then, Seamus's brother called me and said he figured out a way to sneak me up to the skyboxes.

"See the fire exit door by 119? Go up those stairs, and I'll hold the door open for you up here. I came down that way ten minutes and nobody was there."

I found the door and (after trading some smack with some Kentucky girls) gave the handle a jiggle. It was open! I headed down a narrow hallway, past a security camera, and nearly had a heart attack when I saw a guy in a suit sitting with a clipboard at a security table. Damn! He must have just gotten there!

"Can't do it, dog," I said, "I'll see you guys later. No worries."

Still, my heart sank a little. Though I figured that to be my best shot, my quest continued.

I walked around the concourse again, and the hallways slowly began filling up. Not quite a full house, but definitely a better draw than any recent Blackhawks game, that's for damn sure. I went to the ATM by 105 and headed back to exit 6. On the way there I bumped into Maggie Landry, one of my classmates at 'Nova and a close friend of Page's wife. After preliminary pleasantries, I got right to the subject.

"The no drinking thing totally sucks, huh?"

Tim, Maggie's husband and a classmate of mine from Loyola Academy, suddenly appeared out of nowhere, offered me his hand to shake, smiled like a Cheshire cat.

"Hey Paddy," he said, "Guess who just had a meeting with Captain Morgan in the bathroom?"

I shook his hand, he handed me his cup, and I took a sip. Mmm...sweet sweet rum. I told them about the plan to go in and out of the stadium, and we said "Let's Go 'Nova!" as bid farewell.

I went outside, getting my ticket scanned at the re-entry door. I couldn't tell if the woman scanning smoking tickets didn't notice or didn't care that I'd gone in and out three times in the last half-hour, but that was beside the point.

The plan was so simple, I didn't quite understand why I hadn't seen it before. There's a large brew-pub looking bar in the southeast corner of the stadium that has an entrance feeding into the entry lobby (but not actually past the ticket gates). For today's game, there were large locked doors barring entry to the concourse, but you could still enter from the outside, even if you didn't have a ticket, which therefore technically made the bar separate from the stadium. What a fantastic loophole! I made my way into the bar without a hitch, making sure my ticket was tucked away safely in my front pocket.

The bar was packed three-men deep and hosted the nauseatingly sweet scent of stale beer -- something I guess I'll have to get used to once the smoking ban takes effect this summer. I wedged myself between two Wisconsin fans and ordered two of my most-hated beers: The hangover-inducing, sugar-filled, fundamentally nasty ass rot known as Bud Light. The second that first sip of Bud Mud hit my lips, the urge to hurl nearly overwhelmed me, though I suppressed the waves of nausea by a slim margin. It just...the yucky bullshit sweetness of it...it just makes your mouth taste so fucking bad...blech! I drank the two beers as quickly as possible, and immediately ordered up two more at the ridiculous price of $7 apiece.

Just as I ordered, my brother called and asked where I was.

"Drinking!" I exclaimed.

"Fucker! Where?!"

I told him how to work the scam, but he was confused, most likely at the simplicity of it. I pounded my beers and headed outside, right as halftime of the Kansas-Niagra slaughter was winding down.

My brother and Corcoran were outside Gate 7 talking to Sly, who was a couple classes younger than me at the Academy. As I took him under my wing when he was an underclassman, he too looked out for my brother.

The four of us headed into the bar, which had gotten packed like you wouldn't believe. My brother said he saw Burns, a N.D. grad buddy of mine whose wife was a classmate of mine 'Nova. My brother reported that he was dressed up in a full 'Nova outfit. I tried to call to give him crap for selling out to another Big East team; he didn't answer.

Right then, the subject of Nardi's ankle popped back to mind, and my heart sank a little. Fuck it. Beer me.

I put my phone away and followed after the other guys. They tried to push into the front of the bar, but I wisely headed directly to the back, where I found an open patch of breathing room, and they followed. I gave my brother the remainder of the cash I had on me, which he promptly blew on drinks. He's the master of the early and repeated shot order; his usual weapon of choice is warm vodka neat. The bartender claimed the liquid was Ketel One, but it tasted suspiciously like rubbing alcohol. My brother said, "I bet Old Man Wirtz is in the back room pouring the Popov into the K1 bottles himself!" Who could disagree?

The bar suddenly and unexpectedly ran out of beer with the exception of Bud Select, which is everything I hate about Bud Mud magnified about a million times, with a confounding advertising campaign to boot. I switched over to double vodka tonic, and began double-fisting when I saw on t.v. that Nardi wasn't in the starting line-up. We had another smoke outside before going up to our seats. During the smoke, we bumped into a 'Nova '97 who lead us up to the student/alumni section. We grabbed some seats in 320 with about 15 minutes left in the half, making plans with Sly to meet at halftime for more drinks.

As I feared, Nardi wasn't in the starting lineup, and we came out of the gates slowly. When Nardi was in, we were effective. When he wasn't, we were less so. Kentucky shot the ball poorly at first, but we didn't strike.

It being a 'Nova game, there were a few incredibly hot girls in front of us who seemed really, really into the game -- some female 'Nova fans harbor a college basketball obsession that borders on psychotic. Begin half in the bag, I started at her ass as often as possible, especially during t.v. timeouts. Ultimately, however, I was disappointed to discover that she was a butter face. 9 from the back, 5 from the front -- the infamous 9-to-5 girl -- sometimes causes me wonder if there's a God.

Anyway, in the presence of this gaggle of hot 'Novans, Corcoran commented on the intense hotness of Villanova girls, and we told him about how their hotness warps your sense of hot after you leave school. A random girl on the street who might be an 8 in Chicago might only be a 5 or a 6 at 'Nova. We like to joke, only half disbelieving it, that female applicants must turn in photos, as there's no way so many beautiful women could be concentrated in one place by chance. Judging by the talent before us, Corcoran got the point. [I talked to Mela the other day, who's on a contracting job in Philly, and he said, "It's not just that they are hot; it's the density of hot girls here that is so amazing."]

The game was pretty much tied at the half, and I knew that put us at a disadvantage. The dawning of that thought fueled my drive to get even drunker. We met Sly outside his gate and hit the escalator right as the halftime buzzer went off.

Back in the suddenly less-crowded bar, Matt immediately went off to buy another round of unnecessary shots, and I started to tell my Kerry Kittles story.

[A pack of us dumb freshman was leaving my dorm, taking the road around the Lancaster side of Tolentine. Two extremely tall guys approached, and one of my friends said, "Hey Kittles!" "What up," he drawled. Then he looked at me and the trashy blonde I was hooking up with and yelled, "Freshman, you gonna hit that shit tonight?" And I looked at the girl and said, "Kerry Kittles wants to know if we're gonna get it on." I picked her up, threw her onto the grass, and started going to town on her, grabbing her boobs and butt and generally slobbering all over her. As our friends hooted and hollered, Kittles jumped around over us, shouting, "That boy gettin' his! That boy gettin' his!" It was hysterical. 'Nova cagers were always cool guys.]

Just as I was finishing up my story, my brother came over and rolled his eyes.

"Oh, the Kittles story. Yeah. Whatever."

"Why are you such a dick?" I asked.

Corcoran and Sly looked stunned.

My brother went on, "I mean, that's a good story, but I'll just say this: Pat's a pretty good storyteller, that's it."

"Dude," I said, "I can call two people right now who will verify the story."

"Whatever," he said, "One of those guys is a renowned liar, and who knows about the other one."
What the fuck? Why was he being such a dick? What was his problem? Who cares; he looked like a fool. I changed the subject.

The awkward dickness passed. Of course, I got him back with a taste of his own medicine: At one point he started telling a story and I absolutely shit all over him, saying that his sources had questionable moral characters by throwing a bunch of legalese in his face. What an unnecessarily strange moment, like intentionally scratching a CD. I'm still confused.

Anyway, with time winding down on halftime, I started drinking my vodkas ever more quickly. At that point I was severely bombed, and it was only about 9:30. I vaguely remember talking on the phone to Bill -- he had just gotten back to his hotel room following the Cubs-Sox Spring Training game in Mesa. I have no idea what we talked about, but it probably was something like: Our bench isn't deep enough. He said he'd call me tomorrow. I said I hoped to be alive to take his call.

We headed outside to have a smoke and meet up with Seamus. Now he changed his tack and started taunting us about having access to free beer. Adding to our irritation, he refused to come into the bar for drinks, because he could go upstairs and drink for free. Whatever.

The random 'Nova fan who'd shown us our seats and had subsequently been adopted into our crew gave me the lowdown on the 9-to-5 girl, who suddenly became more beautiful in my memory as the drinks took effect. He told me she was a completely crazed 'Nova fan to an alarming degree, and that any guy who had a chance of dating her better be a college basketball encyclopedia. Hmm, I thought, maybe she's into baseball as well.

We went back upstairs, and random guy immediately started hitting on the 9-to-5 girl. She shot him down pretty severely, so I didn't even bother trying to hit on her, seeing as I was definitely a puddle. I got involved with my brother in a lengthy conversation about the state of his relationship with his girlfriend. I was completely hammered at that point, definitely slurring my words and making no sense whatsoever. Thankfully he was also bombed out of his mind, so that any of the advice I might have given him was probably forgotten as soon as it left my lips.

As the game clock wound down to the five-minute mark, it was clear that our boys had run out of gas. Iron unkind, left, right and center. We couldn't shoot for shit, and the last two minutes turned into a dragging-along, boring affair consisting of timeouts, t.v. breaks, and foul shots. In the end, Reynolds and Sumpter put up big numbers, but we were lacking that certain spark that would have given us the edge. Final: 67-58. Sucks. Fuckin' Nardi's ankle. Ah well.

We waited for the crowd to die out before heading into the cold night air. I'm not sure why, but we started walking out of the stadium to the west, away from the Loop and the River North, which is where we wanted to be. At one point I remember talking to my mom on the phone while taking a pee behind a crack house. (I have a horrible tendency of talking to my mom at the worst possible moments, in case you didn't know.) We finally hailed a cab after what seemed like forever, and I vaguely recall my brother engaging in some verbal altercation with a random homeless guy who wanted money for helping us get a cab. I was too out of it at that point to care about what was going on around me, and the next thing I knew we were back in the Loop, on our way to meet up with my brother's girl.

My brother, Corcoran and I ambled out of our cab at the Rock Bottom Brewery on Grand. My brother's girlfriend was there with one of her friends Katya, who is cool and hot -- and, unfortunately, knows how much I want to go out with her. It's confusing and stupid and I try not to think about it, so I don't.

Katya was there with some guy I'd never met who looked like the strong man at the circus. His head was shaved and he had a goatee, a really massive dude. After one look at him, I knew that I must stay the fuck away, because I was too drunk to resist the comical comments that immediately flooded into my mind -- "Is your leopard skin suit at the dry cleaners?" or "Was the Bearded Lady busy tonight?" or "Do you have a barbell in the trunk with '1000' painted on each weight?" or "Which is the coolest Ringling brother?" I'm sure he would have been less than amused by my wisecracks, and he probably didn't deserve the abuse anyway, so I headed directly to the bar and away from their table as quickly as possible.

The place was packed, so I sidled up next to a trio of desperate-looking 40-somethings and started to flirt in an effort to buy drinks on their tab. They thought I was cute and funny, and I told them that I was even more charming when I wasn't slurring and spitting all over the place. Unfortunately, one of their friends, a middle-aged drunk dude, cornered me and started going on and on about his life story, particularly about his oldest son who was weighing going to B.C. or Wisconsin.

"Tell him to go to Madison," I said, "B.C.'s cool but Wisconsin has a much broader network if he wants to come back to Chicago."

I probably repeated myself at least fourteen times, but the guy kept asking me what his son should do. Despite his persistence and drunken state, he was pretty cool and bought me a couple vodkas. At one point my brother came over and he reiterated my advice. The drunk guy said something about how awesome brothers are, and it was at that point that I opened a tab, and shortly thereafter that I started blacking out.

At some point -- who knows when? -- Corcoran declared that he was heading home, starting a flood of everyone else leaving. I vaguely remembering Katya waving to me as she left, and I think my brother and his girl were having words about his tendency to refer to women as either "bitches" or "sluts." I remember absolutely nothing about the half-mile walk home, nor do I have any idea who was working the door upon my arrival. I probably passed out at about 1:30 or thereabouts, but I really can't say for certain.

I was suddenly awoken by my alarm clock at 7:30, and I knew that there was no way in hell I was making it to work. I sat up slowly and realized I was fully clothed and critically dehydrated. I stripped down naked and went to the kitchen for water. I was startled to notice a big orange pop and a bag with an untouched Quarter Pounder sitting on my desk. A large sleeve's worth of fries was thrown all over the place -- on my desk, in my shoes, under the table, next to the couch, everywhere. I cleaned up the fries and cursed myself for blacking out -- up to that point, I had absolutely no memory of going to McDonald's. I fell asleep for a couple more hours.

At about 12 I engaged in a long series of calls and texts with various people. My brother said I was "a fat wet pussy" and "Greenberg to [his] Golic for not manning up." Also, a guy I'd met while smoking called to offer tickets for Sunday and asked if I was still interested, even though 'Nova was knocked out; I said thanks but not interested.

Succumbing to the throbbing pain in my head and legs, I slept soundly until about 5, at which point I got up and checked scores. My brackets are pretty much fucked, though all my Final Four picks were still alive. I had 7 messages on my phone wondering why the hell I wasn't out on my namesake's day. I thought about partying for about thirty seconds, and decided that my stomach wouldn't stand the mere sight of drinks, let alone drinking twenty of them.

I looked at my money clip and realized I'd never closed my tab at Rock Bottom. My heart sunk, because I realized that if they didn't have my card, it could be at any of the fifty bars, restaurants, or hotels along my trail home. I called the restaurant and the hostess said she had it. Whew!

I took an hour-long shower to clear the cobwebs, and headed ou--