It’s ironic that after all my prattling on about basketball these last few weeks, I won’t even be around to watch the Final Four Saturday. Instead, I’ll be at the Southern College of Optometry in Memphis where I’ll be serving as an examiner with the National Board of Optometry. Fourth year optometry students take the Clinical Skills portion of the National Board shortly before graduating, and while for most it won’t be the last hurdle involved in obtaining a license to practice, it is a pretty significant one.

Basically, the students rotate among different stations where they perform various clinical procedures which are commonly done during an eye exam. My job is to “observe and record” whether or not they perform the required procedure correctly. All in all, it can make for a pretty stressful experience for these mostly twentysomethings who have incurred six figure debt and put in four arduous years of study only to have some middle age guy huddled over in the corner deciding their fate with each “yes” and “no” tick of a bubble sheet. I fully expect that most will sail through with flying colors. But there will probably be one or two major meltdowns as well (there usually are).

It seems like just yesterday that I was on the receiving end of such painful probing, and even though I’m prohibited from encouraging or helping them, inside I’ll be cheering on each and every one of them. What they may not realize is that even after passing the test and receiving their diplomas, the examinations will continue. For many there will be additional state board exams to pass, not to mention annual continuing education, some of which will require additional testing to receive credit. And then there’s the test of each and every patient who sits in the chair, the crucible where one finds out what he really knows (and often, what she doesn’t).

As the days turn into weeks, the weeks months, and the months years, there is the test of staying fresh and committed to a profession that can sometimes grind you up and spit you out with its demands for continued excellence and sustained performance (it is highly inadvisable to ever have an “off day” when holding the vision, eye health and sometimes even the life of your patient in your hands).

And if that weren’t enough, there are the tests of staying committed to a marriage, raising a family in an often non-family friendly world, keeping the faith at church when church disappoints and doesn’t keep faith with you, and finding sacred space in a world where profanity and the mundane demands of the day spring up like weeds threatening to choke the very life of the soul.

Life is a test–or, it seems, an endless stream of them. And just like those fourth year optometry students this weekend, I sure hope I pass.

If you haven’t seen the Hollywood ending of this year’s NCAA D-II Men’s Basketball Championship yet, then please go here immediately.

That one’s just begging to made into a movie. Oh wait, it already has been!

As much as I like to joke around about the UNC-Duke rivalry, schadenfreude has its limits. It goes without saying (but I’m going to say it anyway) that the feeling doesn’t extend to a tragic situation like this.

As the father of three sons who are increasingly out and about and pushing the envelope of safety, this one hits home. UNC mascot Jason Ray sounds like the kind of son that anyone would be proud to claim. My prayers go out for his family, friends, the UNC community and the unfortunate driver who was an unwitting participant in this tragic event.

Over the past month, Number One Son has had two close brushes with death. The first came on a trip home from a basketball game in Tuscaloosa when he topped a knoll on a stormy night and encountered a tree across the road. He managed to swerve around it but ended up facing the other way as he skidded to a stop. He never left the road, but it shook him up pretty good.

This past Sunday, he was enjoying the unseasonably warm Alabama weather while riding a jet ski on the Tennessee River. He had come to a stop when another driver accidentally rammed him from the side. He and his passenger were both thrown into the water, and the other jet ski skimmed across his head with a glancing blow. Thankfully, his passenger was not hurt, and Number One got off relatively easy with a large welt and a 3-ibuprofen headache.

Now I know how the physics of these things work–a few milliseconds and a few millimeters are the difference between a funny story told around a school lunchroom table and two parents and an entire community immersed in grief. One thing I do not understand is why Jason is dead and Number One is alive. That is a great mystery, one that stirs within me the utmost in humility.

Main Entry: scha·den·freu·de
Pronunciation: 'shä-d^&n-"froi-d&
Function: noun
Usage: often capitalized
Etymology: German, from Schaden damage + Freude joy
: enjoyment obtained from the troubles of others

–Merriam Webster’s Online Dictionary

For a Duke fan like myself, there’s nothing that could ever make up for the Blue Devils’ shameful first round exit against VCU or for Lindsey Harding’s two missed free throws with practically no time remaining against Rutgers on Saturday (bless her heart). But there is something that comes close.

There is this:

Now I know there’s something slightly askew and unseemly about obtaining enjoyment and satisfaction from the woes of others. But really, if you haven’t tried it lately, I suggest you give it a whirl.

In my case, it took the form of uncontrollable giggling, foot-stomping, lamp-pushing-over, coffee-table-dancing, high-fiving with Numbers Three and One Sons and loud, but very tame, shouts of “Go to Hades Carolina!” And had not Number One had one of his young lady friends over at the time, I might have really let loose with the Full Monty.

It was such an abysmal collapse, an utter chokefest rarely seen at this level of NCAA tournament play, that when John Thompson, Jr. (whose son the III is the current Georgetown coach and who was coaching the Hoyas in ’82 when they lost to the T—–ls in the championship game) tried to reach Michael Jordan on his cell phone after the game to rag on him a bit, “His Airness” wasn’t taking any calls. Man up and take your medicine, MJ; your boys laid a big powder blue brick.

To add to my glee, I, along with millions upon millions of other people in this upset-proof year, picked all four Final Four teams in my pool and so far am 46-15 through 61 games. As for allegiances, I am officially a UCLA Bruin for the remainder of the tournament, having picked them to win it all from the outset. If that happens, I should be sitting near the top of my pool, looking down on a bunch of twenty-somethings who think they’re God’s gift to sports talk. The old man’s still got game, boys.

Schadenfreude–it may be wrong, but it feels so right.

Well, he’s safely tucked away in my sports card album. Before the gym rat Billy Donovan, there was the fabulous Ernie D.

Keith, this one’s for you.

As I watched Tennessee’s Chris Lofton sprint around the court in his baggy, below-the-knee, capri-length shorts last weekend, it occurred to me that basketball players these days keep wearing their shorts longer and looser. Gone are the days when real men, like Bob Cousy, wore theirs “high and tight.”

I can remember when it started. In the early 90s, Michigan’s Fab Five sported longer, baggier bottoms (which by today’s standard’s appear short-short), and from there, things have continued to head south. I suppose it may have had something to do with bringing a “street look” to the court, and since street fashion has continued to become longer and baggier, so have basketball shorts.

Call me crazy, but if we’re talking about maximizing mobility and enhancing athletic performance and comfort, it seems like shorter would be better. It’s as if players today are afraid of showing off a little leg and “what they’ve got,” so to speak. Which begs the question: What are players hiding in those modest, Christian college regulation shorts they’re wearing these days? My guess is, not much at all.

Where have you gone Bob Cousy? We need you now more than ever.

In the last post, there was some discussion of what it would be like to “do over” one’s NCAA tourney picks after seeing everyone in action.

ESPN’s Gene Wojciechosky has done just that. As it turns out, he likes Kansas and UNC too.

My 35 correct picks out of 48 is nothing to write home about, but it is four better than where I was last year this time and leaves 7 of 8 of my Elite Eight picks intact and all of my Final Fours. I’ve learned to respect USC basketball a little more this weekend, was thrilled with my signature pick (Winthrop over Notre Dame) and delighted in watching the ‘Dores (gotta love that Lionel Ritchie!) play through to the Sweet Sixteen as I boldly predicted. As much as I hate to admit it, UNC’s depth and talent are going to be tough to overcome. Sans mask, “Psycho T” Hansbrough looks even scarier (is there a real human being behind those empty, dark eyes or is he merely a pre-programmed basketball borg?)

Speaking of Lionel Ritchie, with UNLV, Georgetown, Memphis and Southern Illinois in the mix, the Sweet Sixteen also has a little bit of a retro flavor. Those schools fielded some good teams back in the 70s and 80s, and for the most part, we’ve haven’t heard from them in a while. Having Memphis around is especially good since Coach Calipari is always good for a few choice quotes, such as this gem:

“I’m firm with these guys. If you’re sitting close enough, I’m hard on them. But they know I love them. They know I love them and I care about them, so I can treat them like I would my own son. I can grab them at times. You’re not supposed to grab them? I do. I kiss them at times. What? Oh, I kiss their sweaty faces. I won’t kiss them on the lips, because that’s a little bit too much. But I’ll kiss them on the face or on the forehead. Especially if I really ram them. I’ll walk over and say, ‘You know I still love you.’”

Coach C., that may be a little too much information. In this day and age, you gotta be careful going around talking like that.

That’s my first weekend postmortem. How’s your bracket doing? And, having seen everybody in action now, who do you think has the right stuff to go all the way?

Good mourning to you all. As you might expect, I will not be available today. I’ll be busy putting up some drywall over that new hole in our family room wall that, oddly enough, is exactly the same size as my head.

Truly, it cuts like a knife.

A few pre-tourney appetizers to get things going:

• If you still haven’t filled out your bracket and need some expert advice on possible upsets, Pat Forde dishes on the possibilities.
• If dark humor and bile are more your cup of tea, then this Slate article should be just the ticket
• If you want to relive some “shining moments” from last year, click here
• I’m not sure if my bracket will show up if you’re not logged into Yahoo, but hopefully it will. In case it doesn’t, my first round upset specials are Arkansas over USC (the Razorbacks should be hopping mad and have something to prove after receiving so much contempt last Sunday) and Winthrop over Notre Dame (the Eagles are due)
• I’m picking Florida, UCLA, Georgetown and Ohio State in my Final Four.
• I’m picking UCLA to take the prize. As talented as Florida is, it’s tough to repeat. UCLA went to the final last year, and I think they’re going to be experienced and hungry enough to chop down Oden and the Buckeyes in the final

Yesterday evening, Number Two Son was working out with the Rocket City Rowing Club (look for a future post about that little experiment) when he had his cell phone and wallet stolen.

They were in a friend’s car (in plain sight–lesson learned), and although the parking lot was only located a short distance away, the thieves waited until the team was rowing on the Tennessee River before quickly picking out the only vehicle without an alarm system and smashing the window. The driver also lost his phone, wallet and an iPod (Number Two had left his at home fortunately).

Number Two’s wallet contained his learner’s permit, a small amount of cash and his debit card. He called us on a friend’s phone while we were at a soccer match and told us what had happened. Eyegal immediately called Cingular and stopped service on his phone. After the match was over, we went straight home and Eyegal called the debit card company and reported it stolen. Number Two recently started a part-time job and we had just opened the account. In fact, since he has yet to receive his first paycheck, the account had a zero balance. Nevertheless, in the short time that it took us to cancel the card, the thieves had managed to swipe it twice for credit and had attempted twice more but had been denied.

We got off light this time, but it did get us to thinking about how important it is to have a list of the cards and items in our wallets in case they are ever lost or stolen.

What’s in your wallet? You’d better check now, before some young hoodlum uses it to purchase beer and gas at the local Texaco.

“I can keep myself involved in a good activity instead of keeping quiet, because if I sit alone and be quiet, I will think about my problem.”

– Victor Musa, captain of the Sierra Leone amputee soccer team.

One of my favorite moments in a soccer match occurs when a hard challenge is issued, followed by the resounding thud of a defender colliding with an attacker. In those milliseconds following, all eyes focus on the center ref who must decide in an instant if the tackle was fair or foul. My heart usually races a little when I hear the cry issuing forth above the fray–”Play on!”

Play on–through fair and foul, for better or worse, richer or poorer. For Number Three Son last Labor Day, it was more than just the usual collision as he lay wounded with a fractured tibia following what was probably a game-saving tackle. Recovery has been long–longer than we first expected–but I’m pleased to report that he’s back on the pitch and slowly recovering his old form. His match fitness and touch have suffered, but he’s playing in a local middle school league this spring and will resume more serious training with his club in a couple of weeks. It’s good to see him back out there, and I have no doubt that he’ll soon be the feared defender that he once was prior to his injury in Atlanta last September.

Of course, everything is relative. For some, it’s not a matter of a broken limb so much as it is a lost one. If you go here, you can scroll through some photos of some never-say-quit African footballers, most of whom have lost legs in the various civil wars scattered across that continent (H/T GKB). As you can see, they have their own way of crying “Play on!” in the midst of less than ideal circumstances.

Number Three was intrigued by the idea of playing with crutches and wondered how one might be able to use them to gain an advantage over those cocky, prima donna strikers with weird haircuts and hot pink boots who are always getting on his nerves (once a defender, always a defender).

I was inspired by these players and their persistence. The images of courage personified made me think twice about moaning over my latest nickel and dime “old man injury” that I’m always accumulating while running or the constant fatigue that I battle as a byproduct of my overscheduled, white collar life.

In fact, they made my heart race a little as I heard the cry of “Play on!” issuing forth above the fray.

I have my share of March Madness Memories, both good and bad.

Among the bad–last year, when I finished dead last in my own pool and looked on in agony as the fabulous Blue Devil duo of Redick and Williams ended their otherwise stellar careers on a down note to LSU.

But anytime your favorite team plays deep into the tourney or wins it all, it’s a good year; and needless to say, as someone who bleeds Blue Devil Blue, my good years far outweigh the bad. Of course, barring divine intervention, Duke will not go far this year (I have them making the Sweet 16 after eliminating perennial tournament underachiever Pitt, then falling to UCLA), and considering my poor track record in prognostication, I turn my attention this morning to some good March Madness memories from the past.

1992: I was in my tiny Nashville flat when Laettner took The Shot. I had a tough job that night, helping to entertain a couple of friends who had little interest in basketball while trying to watch the gripping ending to the regional final between Kentucky and Duke.

We had finished dinner and were working on desert, and I had at least managed to convince everyone to move from the kitchen to the living room where the TV was located. Trying to keep one eye on my guests and carry on polite conversation while keeping the other eye on the TV was a tough balancing act, but I did the best I could. But as Duke looked finished in the closing seconds, I stood and began to pace, as is my custom.

I don’t really remember the first few seconds after Laettner’s winning shot–euphoric haze I guess. I do vaguely remember Eyegal and my two guests fetching the step ladder and peeling me from the ceiling. I remember one of my guests laughing and saying, “Mike, I had no idea…” I didn’t know if he was referring to my being a Duke fan or my capability of losing all semblance of rationality and letting loose with a loud, “barbaric yawp.”

1987: Twenty years ago, along with some other first-year optometry students at UAB, I managed to scrape together enough cash to attend the first and second rounds of the Southeast Regional in Birmingham, Alabama. Both UAB and Alabama were there, along with North Carolina A&T, New Orleans, Illinois, Providence College, BYU and Austin Peay.

In the first game, UAB was annihilated by a Providence College team led by a “gym rat” of a point guard named Billy Donovan and a young, unknown coach named Rick Pitino. But that did little to dampen our enthusiasm as we quickly adopted Austin Peay as our team in the next contest. The 14th-seeded Governors pulled off a stunning upset of #3 seed Illinois in a 68-67 thriller. I remember joining in the chant “Austin Pee!” (who is this Austin who must be continually told to go to the bathroom?) and watching in amusement as their 300 lb, 6’10” center would dribble down the floor, pull up just beyond the arc, and pop a three. Austin Peay nearly did it again in the second round, barely falling to sixth seeded Providence (who would make the Final Four that year) 90-87 in OT.

On the other side of the bracket, the Crimson Tide, led by the backcourt tandem of Jim Farmer and Mark Gottfried and future NBA star Derrick McKey, quietly took care of business against North Carolina A&T and New Orleans. They lost in the Sweet 16 to Providence 103-82. The 1987 tournament ended in a thriller, with Indiana’s Keith Smart’s last-second winning shot against Syracuse, giving the Hoosiers a 74-73 victory.

High Definition TVs are nice, but nothing beats being on the premises when The Dance gets rolling. For that reason, the 1987 tournament will probably always be my best March Madness Memory of all.

(Incidentally, if you’re interested in intelligent commentary on this year’s tournament, you’ve come to the wrong place. But if you stay tuned to this one, you won’t be disappointed)

Don’t forget to set your clocks forward everyone!

“We are very proud of the program – we stand by it 100 percent.”

–David Levy, Discovery Channel executive

Yup. Sounds like it to me too, Mr. Levy.