Let the madness begin

Resslin' Around, by Casey Ressler

Awesome, baby! Slam, bam, jam! He's a diaper dandy. Watch him take the rock to the hole and flush with authority, bay-bee! They need to get a T.O.!

It's the classic Dick Vitale hangover, and I'm waking up with one every single day in March.

And I couldn't be happier about it. I'm living for all those Dick Vitale clichŽs these days.

The Madness has arrived. March Madness is upon us, and while for normal people, that means the coming of spring and getting ready for summer, for sports maniacs and others with no lives, it means camping in front of the television, thirsting for views of Dickie V's bald head and Digger Phelps' snazzy suits.

It all starts with Championship Week, in which small, non-basketball power colleges with names like Winthrop, Florida Atlantic A&M and Radford show up on my television screen, and I always end up watching them.

For about two weeks in March, I honestly care what is going on in the MAAC conference, even though I don't know what MAAC stands for. I can stay glued to my television for 16 consecutive hours if need be, much to my wife's amazement and disappointment.

About the time March Madness begins, so does the Iditarod. This is sort of a problem for me, as both an addict of college hoops and the Last Great Race.

At every commercial break, it's time to run upstairs, hop online and check the current standings in the race.

Then, its back downstairs at breakneck speed, jumping the last flight and hurdling the baby gate at the bottom, ensuring you don't miss a single alley oop or tomahawk dunk.

My wife has tried to pry me away, but like wives everywhere, she just doesn't get it. Men live for this stuff. At least those men with little social lives and a passion for sports, a group I merrily belong to.

March Madness requires setting your alarm and skipping the first half-hour of work because your alma mater, Michigan State in my case, is coming on at 7:30 a.m. and you have to have at least one cup of coffee in your system before you can handle Dick Vitale screaming.

It's getting bad, though, and it will only get worse when the final tournament starts Thursday morning.

"Honey, Martin Buser just drained a three at the buzzer to beat Jeff King and get the automatic berth into the Big Dance next week," I told my wife the other day. "And Charlie Boulding, he can flat out shoot the rock."

"OK. That's it," she said adamantly. "No more hoops for you, baby! You're getting a T.O."

And then she switched the channel to Law and Order. Just like that.

At least she put it in terms I could understand.

Casey Ressler (valleylife@frontiersman.com) is the Valley Life editor. His 15-month-old loves his Dick Vitale impersonation. But she is the only one.