I know all this, but still. I love the college basketball tournament. I have loved it for as long as I can remember, bonding with my big brother over a shared visceral hate for both UNC-Chapel Hill and Duke, a distaste for the milk-fed farm boys of Kansas and Kentucky, but how he can love USC so much when UCLA is right down the road (public school over private every time, I thought—where’s his class solidarity?!?!). I remember swooning over Mizzou’s coach for years, what with his piercing blue eyes and strudel-like blond waves atop his head. I hate Cincinnati, because they’re the rivals of the University of Memphis, where my brother earned his Ph.D. Go Orange—my sister got her library degree by mail from there—and go Cal, not really because I’m an alum, but mostly because Uncle Kevin went there when Jason Kidd played on the team. My baby sister went to Gonzaga, so Go Zags, and besides, they’re a Jesuit school, and my parents both went to Seattle University, another Jesuit school, and that one played the 1958 championship game with an integrated team in front of an all-white crowd, so GO JESUIT SCHOOLS in general and down with Notre Dame, for reasons I can’t quite explain. And then there are teams I root for because I like their mascots: the Hilltoppers of Western Kentucky, the Spartans of Michigan State, the Salukis of Southern Illinois. There’s something visceral about fandom that cannot be explained, really, and everything I know that troubles me about big-time college basketball doesn’t seem enough to get me off the March bandwagon.