March Madness

I was in the throes of March Madness.

For those of you who don’t understand my dilemma, let me try to explain.

Once a year as sand gnats begin to stir, and fresh tender green of Lowcountry water oaks shove off their eleventy zillion tired, leathery leaves and sticky vines rise triumphant in azalea beds and suffocating pollen rules, after a winter of fierce play, the best basketball teams in our nation compete in a soirée we call March Madness.

Not professional basketball, although some might say that status is iffy. This is collegiate basketball.

Once everything settles down, the elimination process to find the winner of March Madness is simple. Sort of.

You begin with 64 teams from 4 regions: South, West, East, Midwest. South teams play West to find the winner, East teams play Midwest teams, and then the winner on this side plays the winner from that side for the final glory.

First Round was March 20 -21, Second Round March 22-23, Sweet 16 March 27-28, Elite Eight March 29-30, the Final Four April 5, 2025, at the Alamodome in San Antonio, Texas, and the final final April 7th also at the Alamodome.
I don’t pretend to be an expert at the game of basketball.

No. I marvel at the referees’ ability to see what’s happening in that tangle of bodies on court and am thankful for television’s replays. What fascinates me are the intricate patterns of the game, the interaction of players, the swiftness of movement, the accuracy of impossible shots, the agony of a ball that falls short, or slides around the rim or hits the backboard and falls aimlessly to the court floor.
Unlike football players covered from head to spiked shoes in protective gear, subject to thudding tackles on grassy fields, basketball players are dressed in shorts, polyester sleeveless jerseys with at best a long-sleeved undershirt, and can be slammed in midair only to land concussion-vulnerable on hard court floors.

This is not a game for sissies.

Before COVID, I was a big fan of high school basketball. Nothing suited me better than to pay my entrance fee, grab a nuked hot dog and soft drink from the concession stand, and make my way to the top row in the basketball court, where I could use the wall as a backrest and see all with a bird’s eye view. Not surprisingly, many a time I shared the space with scouts from colleges who were on the lookout for scholarship candidates.

I miss it, going to the games, the enthusiasm, the earnestness, the comradeship, and determination of those young players. Even with not a peach basket in sight, James Naismith would be proud.

For the Final Four games in this year’s March Madness, it was Florida vs Auburn and Houston vs Duke. I knew, I just knew that it would end up as Auburn vs Duke.

It didn’t. Both of my favorites bit the dust.

The Final Four was a double-game night. Bowing to time zones, played way past my bedtime.

These were nail-biter games.

Each team, champions all, determined, honed, the game tied, then a two-pointer, tied, a three-pointer from outside the paint, foul shots bringing in needed points. Defense’s “ten foot tall” dude under the net smacks the ball away, a player twists and turns crashing his way to the net to slam the ball in, double defense smothering, long arms reaching, huge hands controlling the ball, Players pounding up and down the court, crashing onto the floor in a blob of arms and legs.

At evening’s end, Florida 65, Auburn 63, and Houston 70, Duke 67.

I was demolished.

The final game of March Madness for the coveted title of National Champions would be between Houston and Florida.
Go figure.

I could almost hear the roar from Las Vegas. The game was held in San Antonio at the Dome.
Of course, I had to root for Florida, although I doubt if there were many native sons on the team.

It was one of the best games ever. Clever plays, aggressive, vulnerable players even at six feet plus plus, powerful defense, I didn’t dare leave the room to get a drink from the kitchen during an advertisement. I might miss something.
My pacemaker worked overtime.

Final score? At the very last, I mean with seconds left, when I had all but given up hope, those Gators ate them Cougars, Florida 65, Houston 63.

Oh, my heart.

Same time next year?

March Madness 2026. Be there or be square.

Annelore Harrell’s journey is a tapestry woven with fascinating experiences and extraordinary accomplishments. Even at 92 in 2025, Annelore’s energy and zest for life continue to inspire. Annelore Harrell’s story is a testament to living with passion, resilience, and an unquenchable thirst for adventure.