Pondering March Madness Picks

This year I did something I’ve never done before. I filled out my very own March Madness brackets. The picking of winners in the NCAA tournament has been a ritual in my home for as long as I can remember. As in years past, my husband and son pondered—no, painstakingly labored—over their picks, considering things like player and coach quality, tournament history statistics and testimony from columnists and ESPN commentators before printing out on their web-site generated brackets form. Their picks were chosen with the wisdom and meticulous care only the most compulsive college basketball fans possess. I, on the other hand, did something only slightly more sophisticated than eanie meanie minie mo before scribbling my picks on the newspaper brackets sheet.

The one bit of information I paid attention to were the seeds, the ratings between 1 and 16 assigned to teams in each region based on records and schedules. I stubbornly ignored the advice of the handicapping help sidebar, information that included statistics and tournament history to supposedly help pick the winners. I paid no attention to things like the top 25 teams by region, nor did I check last year’s tournament record that showed the Big East with more bids, first round wins and a higher winning percentage than the Big 12 or Pac 10.

I ignored information about the Final Four berths and national titles from the past twenty years. And I skipped over the seeds of hope section that revealed the not-so-surprising news that #1 seeds had a winning percentage of almost 80% as compared to a 0% winning record for the #16 seeds. No, these things I looked at only afterwards in a useless attempt to understand what my husband and son deem critical to the successful pick process.

Though I wasn’t as knowledgeable as the men in my family, I took the whole thing quite seriously. I wanted to take some risks—to show some guts, so to speak—so I chose a few upsets in the first round. My heart played somewhat into the process as I picked my childhood hometown teams to go far—Georgetown to the Elite Eight and Maryland to the Final Four. My other Final Four picks included Pittsburgh, Texas and Louisville, this last pick made because—and this is one thing I know—Rick Pitino is a great college coach.

Sentiment also played into my pick for the overall tournament winner. One of the few players I’d heard of was A.J. Abrams, a guard for the Texas Longhorns, and for reasons that might seem both silly and obvious, I was rooting for him. For this namesake reason—in addition to the presence of freshman phenomenon Kevin Durant—Texas was my choice to win it all.

It wasn’t until I’d finished my picks that I realized I’d failed to have any # 1 seeds make it beyond the Sweet Sixteen. Not too smart in retrospect, a scenario that would no doubt leave bracketology experts snickering and shuddering and shaking their heads. But I’d scribbled my picks in ink, so that was that.

So how have I fared so far? The good news is that eleven of my picks made it to the Sweet Sixteen. The bad news? Three of my Final Four picks were knocked out, including Texas. Though my picks were admittedly pathetic, it was fun following it all, rooting for teams that, with a mere stroke of a pen, became “mine.” And I will definitely fill out my brackets next near, though only after analyzing every last tournament trend, record and statistic from the beginning of time.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com March, 2007)

The World of iPods

It is only recently I’ve learned to appreciate iPods. I know I’m coming to this rather late, seeing as how they’ve been around for years. Though I hate to admit it, this coming-to-things-late tendency is fast becoming my M.O. I watched the television show “24” for the first time a few weeks ago (the premier of its sixth season), was one of the last people I know to get a DVD player, and have yet to trade my bulky Canon for a digital camera. My children got their iPods fairly recently — my daughter for her high school graduation last spring, and my son this past Christmas — so that may partially explain my limited iPod knowledge.

When my daughter got her iPod, I didn’t pay much attention. I never learned how it worked, and since she always had it with her and was rarely home, there weren’t many opportunities to check it out. My first real introduction to the wonders of iPods came earlier this year, when my son called me over to his shiny new black one.

“You’ve gotta see this, Mom,” he said, motioning to me as he clutched his iPod. He was watching a mini-football game — the 2007 Fiesta Bowl, to be exact — on the tiny 1.5 by 2 inch screen. The iPod downloaded version of the game contained 25 minutes of highlights, including Boise State’s trick behind-the-back handoff “Statue of Liberty” two-point conversion play that led to their victory over Oklahoma in overtime. I was immediately pulled in. Though the picture was tiny, it was incredibly clear. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It was all quite amazing.

He then showed me some songs he’d downloaded, and how they were organized. Later, when I saw his iPod lying around, I scrolled through it, flicking to bands and songs, running the tip of my finger around the circular touch pad at the bottom. I tried to imagine listening to my music, white wires dangling from my ears. It took about five minutes before I knew I had to — someday — get one.

The greatest part is how everything is so organized. For someone like me, this is incredibly appealing. At the peak of my record collecting days, I was obsessed with sorting, storing my LPs alphabetically in plastic bins. Though it was rather neurotic, it was comforting to know I could always find Jackson Browne next to the Allman Brothers, the Eagles alongside Fleetwood Mac.
By the time I transitioned to CDs, I’d relaxed my organizing system somewhat, grouping them by type — one shelf for rock, one for classical, another for Broadway shows, and so on. Though I didn’t go crazy if my CDs were inadvertently misplaced, I tried to keep some semblance of order.

Invariably, though, someone (i.e. husband, child) would swipe a CD, leaving the plastic case either empty or with a CD that I was not at all interested in listening to. To me, the #1 advantage of an iPod is never again suffering the infuriation of the CD swipe-and-switch.

Just as I’m beginning to understand iPods, Apple announced a new gadget — the iPhone. Though it won’t be released until June, it is all the rage. The main appeal, in addition to its sleek touch-pad design, is its multi-use capabilities. It has everything people on the go deem essential — a mobile phone, e-mail, usable Web access, text messaging, and yes, an iPod.

And, unlike some multi-use gadgets, the iPhone is user-friendly. The 3.5-inch screen morphs into whatever you need. Touch the music icon, and up pops your music collection that you can flip through by album cover. Touch the text-messaging icon, and you see messages arranged by recipient and a fully functional keyboard. The Web browser displays real Web pages, ones that you can actually read.

Though I don’t plan on getting an iPhone — at $600 it is far too expensive — I’m definitely putting in a plug for an iPod. Maybe this summer, for my birthday, I could get one. By then the credit cards will be paid down from all the holiday gifts, car repairs, vacations and college textbook charges. Maybe if I hint and plead and petition and beg — maybe then someone will get the message. It sure is worth a try.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com March, 2007)

A Beautiful Beyond-Basketball Story

Basketball is a huge topic of discussion in my house these days. It is, after all, the beginning of March Madness when the top college teams battle it out for the National Championship. My husband and son will soon be feverishly working on their brackets, making picks, predicting upsets. As always, I'll root for my alma mater, Boston College, as well as an assortment of likely-win favorites and underdogs. Nothing, though, not even a major upset like a #20 seed knocking off Duke or U-Conn will move me as much as the story about the kid from the little town outside Rochester, New York.

For those who may have been in hibernation, the story is about Jason McElwain, the 5 foot 6 inch Greece Athena high school student who has autism. For the past two years as basketball team manager, Jason has been an enthusiastic supporter - keeping statistics, handing out towels, fetching water bottles, encouraging his teammates. He never missed a practice, made all but one game. For the last home game of the regular season, Coach Jim Johnson decided to give Jason, a senior, a chance to feel what it was like to sit on the bench wearing a uniform instead of his usual white shirt and black tie.

With four minutes left, Coach Johnson sent Jason into the game, hoping he might somehow get a basket, make a memory. After missing his first two shots, Jason got unbelievably hot, hitting a 3-pointer, and then another and another and another. In four minutes, he'd drained six 3-pointers and scored 20 points, tying a school record. His final shot, a nothing-but-net NBA distance 3-pointer swished through as time expired. The crowd went crazy, storming onto the court, surrounding him in a wild frenzy, as they whooped and cheered. It was a moment of pure magic.

There is so much to like about this story it is hard to know where to begin. With all the problems I've both witnessed and read about in youth sports these days - coaches yelling and berating, parents whining and interfering, fans complaining about calls-here was a refreshing example of the polar opposite. This story is a life lesson for coaches, teammates, fans and communities on how to do things right.

Here is a coach who showed compassion, giving a dedicated hard-working kid a chance at a dream. Here are players enthusiastically supporting their teammate/manager who they fondly refer to as 'J-Mac.' Here are fans - on both sides of the court - cheering, encouraging. And here is a kid, against all odds, achieving what he never dreamed possible.

The other part of this story goes back in time. Like many communities, the Greece Athena school system had been struggling with how to best serve kids with special needs. Six years ago, the school district was cited by the state of New York for not doing enough for kids with disabilities. Special needs students in this now progressive district are an integral part of the schools. The integration is so entrenched that at first the team didn't understand what all the fuss was about.

"Jason is so much a part of us and our program that we kind of forgot he was autistic," one teammate said. There is a lesson here for all communities - both large and small - about creating opportunity, embracing difference.

I missed the report when it was first broadcast, learning about it later from my husband and son who'd caught it on ESPN. When I finally saw it, I watched in awe and wonder. Like many people, I was completely overcome. It wasn't so much that this kid was making these amazing shots. It was the reaction of his teammates and the crowd that was so touching. It was the fans yelling and waving signs with Jason's picture when he stepped onto the court. It was the hooting and howling and jumping and screaming, over and over, longer and louder after each basket. It was the complete and unequivocal support for the "little guy."

After my son and I finished watching the report for a second time, I struggled to describe the feeling. My son turned to me and said, "It kind of gives you chills." Yes, that is it. That is exactly what it does.

This March Madness season, I'll be watching and cheering through the Sweet Sixteen, Elite Eight, Final Four and Championship game. As in year's past, I'll go crazy over Duke and Gonzaga, U-Conn and Kentucky.

There will no doubt be buzzer-beaters and upsets, overtime games and amazing thrills. But there will never be a moment like the four-minute miracle in Greece, N.Y. Not the kind that leaves you breathless, stirred. Not the kind that takes you away to another place. Not the kind that leaves you trembling - in a good way - with incredible chills.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com March, 2006)

The Pleasure and Pain of a Ski Vacation

Like many families, we went skiing over winter school vacation. My son took a friend, and other friends with their teenage sons also stayed in Waterville Valley, so it all worked out quite nicely. It had been a while since I’d skied. My husband, kids and I vacationed at Mount Snow three years ago, and we skied in Canada several times before that. I have fond memories of those ski trips—the thrill of winding down a trail, the invigorating coolness, the quiet beauty of the mountains. Memory, it seems, is a very peculiar thing.

I’d forgotten all the work connected with skiing, which is much like camping in that respect. There’s the pre-trip task of finding things—long underwear and ski socks and goggles and mittens. There’s the renting of the ski equipment, and the schlepping around in those clunky ski boots, the ones that press painfully into shins. There’s the cold and the wind and the frost-bitten fingers and toes. And there’s the difficult mission of making it down the mountain, suffering quiet humiliation as kids whiz past, no problem.

There’s the long, arduous walk to the car at the end of the day—back straining, quads aching, shins bruising, skis and poles perched precariously on sloping shoulders. Since it’s only been a week since our trip, these are my memories. In time, I know I will recall the fond ones.
As a kid, I was an excellent skier. During my high school years, my family went to Utah every Christmas where we skied down the majestic slopes at Snowbird and Alta and Park City. The conditions were perfect—ankle-deep powder, no lift lines and weather so mild we’d often ski in our sweaters. We’d hit the slopes as soon as they opened, skiing all day on intermediate and expert trails with barely a break. We never thought of taking a day off to rest. Not a chance.

I had several things going for me back then that I don’t have now—limber legs, infinite stamina, agility and, most important, no fear. The trepidation I’ve developed since my youth led me to choose the No Grit intermediate trail over the True Grit double black diamond trail at Waterville Valley.

When I think about it, my pleasant memories from our recent trip have little to do with skiing. My most idyllic moments include sipping coffee with a splash of hot chocolate while reading my Pushcart Prize collection of short stories (during one of my many ski breaks), kicking off the shin-bruising boots at the end of the day and lingering in the hot shower back at the lodge. Mostly I loved sitting around in the evening with friends, talking about our day and our children.

If I try a little harder, I can recall some ski-related good times, like the thrill of making my way down Oblivion, Tippecanoe, And Tyler Too before the pain in my quads became unbearable, and my success getting on and off chairlifts without falling, or worse, wiping out a stranger. And I will never forget the beautiful sight of the snow-capped peaks from the top of Sunnyside.

Some not-so-great memories, though, are still on the surface. Like the panic we felt at the top of White Peak, when after stopping for coffee we were hit with winds gusting at close to 60 miles per hour. Skis and poles (thankfully not ours) were blown clear off the mountain as I crawled on my hands and knees to retrieve mine. The winds had blown most of the snow from the trails leaving huge patches of ice. In the midst of the blinding snow-swirling wind I thought, “This is about as far from fun as it gets.” I wondered how I’d ever make it down alive, and just how bad conditions had to get before they closed the lifts. After two more wind-whipped runs, all but one lift was closed for the remainder of the day.

For the most part, the bad memories are starting to fade. It seems there is a direct correlation between the level of pain in my legs and my recollection of what caused it; as the aches subside, so too does my memory. Like childbirth, in time I’ll forget—or at least repress—the pain, remembering only the good parts before eagerly choosing to go through it all again. Who knows? Next time I may even try True Grit.

In Pursuit of the Golden Oscar

Now that the quest for Olympic gold is over, we can turn our attention to another golden pursuit: the Oscar. Like their Olympic athlete counterparts, those who vie for the ultimate prize on Academy Awards night are hard working, determined and exceptionally talented. As in the Olympics, the field of competition plays a major part in who goes home with the gold. While the quality of the film and acting performance are obviously key factors, winners (and therefore losers) are often determined by which other films and actors happened to be nominated that year. And, like subjectively judged events such as Olympic figure skating, the Academy Awards voting process doesn’t always produce the “right” result.

The list of ‘great ones’ who never won an Oscar is both long and surprising. It includes actors Charlie Chaplin, Buster Keaton, Cary Grant, Claude Rains and Peter O’Toole. And actresses Greta Garbo, Gloria Swanson, Lauren Bacall and Judy Garland. Directors who never got an Oscar include Robert Altman (who will receive an honorary Oscar this year), Hitchcock, Fellini, Truffaut, Renoir, Kubrick and Scorsese. The problem was obviously not talent, but timing.

In no year was timing more significant than in 1939, undoubtedly the greatest year in American film history. While it is hard to argue with the decision to name “Gone With The Wind” best picture, in any other year, any one of the other nominated films could have taken home the big prize. The other films up for best picture that year were “The Wizard of Oz,” John Ford’s classic western “Stagecoach,” “Mr. Smith Goes to Washington,” and the haunting “Wuthering Heights.” Several other outstanding films were not even nominated that year—the classic adventure film “Gunga Din,” “Only Angels Have Wings” with Cary Grant and Jean Arthur, “Destry Rides Again” with feisty saloon singer Marlene Dietrich, and “The Hunchback of Notre Dame” with Charles Laughton’s unforgettably heart wrenching portrayal of Quasimodo.

Vivien Leigh’s Scarlett nabbed best actress that year, leaving Bette Davis ironically less than victorious in “Dark Victory,” and Garbo anything but laughing in the romantic comedy, “Ninotchka.” Robert Donat shocked all by winning best actor for “Goodbye Mr. Chips,” beating out three of Hollywood’s most famous and talented leading men in some of the best performances of their careers: Clark Gable as Rhett Butler, Jimmy Stewart as Jefferson Smith and Laurence Olivier as Heathcliff. Talk about a packed field!

Many times the Academy is asked to choose between entirely different films, with sometimes surprising results. There was “How Green Was My Valley” winning over “Citizen Kane” (1941), “Rocky” over “Taxi Driver” (1976), “Annie Hall” over “Star Wars” (1977), “Ordinary People” over “Raging Bull” (1980), “The English Patient” over “Fargo” (1996) and “Shakespeare in Love” over “Saving Private Ryan” (1998). It hardly seems fair, pitting such different but equally exceptional films against each other. It’s a classic case of apples vs. oranges—like asking us to choose between Michelle Kwan and Bonnie Blair.

Sometimes the problem isn’t a packed field, but a disgraceful mistake, like the Academy’s failure to even nominate Chaplain’s greatest film, “City Lights” (1931), the original “King Kong” (1933), the brilliant Cary Grant—Rosalind Russell newspaper flick “His Girl Friday” (1940), or Hitchcock’s “Rear Window” (1954). And perhaps the worst blunder in the history of film, when the entertaining but frivolous “The Greatest Show on Earth,” won best picture over “High Noon” (1952). It was enough to make Gary Cooper leave town for good, even if he did walk away with the best actor award.

This year is an interesting one, with the best picture nominees having more in common than in recent years. Four of the five films up for the top award are either biopics or based on real life events. As has been the case in recent years, I’ve been slow to see new films, having seen only two of those nominated—“Goodnight, and Good Luck” (terrific) and “Crash” (had some good moments, but a bit too neatly tied up). I suppose when choosing between venturing out into the cold and sitting at home curled up on my couch, I’ll choose home, even with the considerably smaller screen. And, being the old movie buff that I am, it’s likely I’ll watch something filmed in black & white. Unless of course, it’s “Gone With the Wind.”

(This column was originally published on townonline.com March, 2006)