It takes a village to raise a bracket, and one Davidson to screw it up

I’ll never give birth to a kid. Don’t have the equipment-hips too slender to be considered child bearing, an extremely narrow birth canal, etc.-or a high enough pain threshold for that gig. But I have filled out several NCAA Tournament brackets, and I assume the process is pretty comparable-except without the whole “Alien”-meets-cheap-smut scene in the delivery room. For those of you who’ve never been through this bracketology process, I’ve prepared a little video-put on the imagining cap, you’re going to have to turn my words into moving pictures-that will take us step-by-step through the life cycle of a bracket and the proud parent who asexually reproduces to make it come alive. It will be just like freshman health class, except without all the acne, the lack of confidence in one’s ability to speak without sounding like a squeaky toy and strange tinglings about the opposite sex that are hallmarks of mid-to-late puberty. Imagine this done by a monotone-science-movie-voice-over-guy voice: The life cycle of an NCAA Tournament bracket is a strange, touching and often heartbreaking roller coaster. From excited conception in the middle of March to the growing pains of the First and Second Rounds, the pain and happiness of the Sweet 16 to the untimely end sometime in early April. Though it is but a flash on the retina of time, a sea monkey in the great ocean of existence, the life cycle of the bracket is an important one, especially for the parents-often unemployed males of the humanoid species. Like many reproductive acts, the conception of a bracket is a moment filled with elation, excitement, vigor and light-headedness. Although it shares many qualities with human sexuality, it lacks the instantaneous sleepiness, sobbing and resentment usually present in the mating habits of humans. The birth of the bracket is also far less painful, with less swearing and icky, goopy baby stuff-placenta, maybe?-to clean up. In a normal case, the infant bracket is brought into the world from the depths of the printer-spit out into the world with ink still slightly damp, a blank canvas for the parent to mold-wait, those are different artistic mediums-into something beautiful. First, the proud parent gazes in wonder at the pure incarnation of their dreams, cradling it close to their hope-filled heart. Then the parent closely inspects the child, studies it for clues to making it grow up to be big, strong and better than John or Jim’s new bracket. After taking it home, analyzing how to rear this untouched miracle into something deemed respectable by the community of fans, the luster starts to wear off. The tiny, infant bracket starts keeping the parent up at nights. The naive parent rises at 3 a.m. to the sound of it crying for attention. The mind of the parent drifts during all tasks to the baby bracket, worrying about it’s development. Parents of a new crop of brackets often consult with each other to figure out the right course, the right balance of top seeds and Cinderellas to allow the bracket to stand on it’s own two feet. A concerned parent also looks to bracket-rearing experts-bracketologists-for ultimately shoddy advice. They consult reams of stats and studies, often leaving confused by what they find. With careful consideration, and the bracket still in its impressionable, formative stage, the parent goes about placing their stamp on the bracket, imparting it with all the knowledge and direction needed to hopefully live a successful life that will end in a showering of accolades for the parent. Often at this stage, there will be a lot of tension, erasing and cursing. The stress of worrying often bleeds into social, career or education realms of a parent’s life. Hopeful or stupid parents often take financial stock in their brackets, praying for a return on their investment. And then it happens. There is no time for no more amending. No more directing. Only praying. With the first tipoff on a chilly March morning, the brackets are all set free to live out their lives without any more parental input-alone in a mad, mad world. The parents watch their babies either sink or swim, soar or crash, more cliches indicating opposite things. But they aren’t disconnected from their brackets-far from it. They mark and tally the errors, crying over the failures and celebrating with or taunting fellow parents over the victories. It’s at this time that many fathers turn to drinking to numb the pain of watching their bracket be ruined by the cruel, upset-filled world of the Big Dance. Other fathers consider just ending it, tearing up their still fledgling brackets and starting over. In the end, after all the pain, sorrow, joy, cursing and consoling of fellow less-than-perfect parents, it’s all over. The only hope the once-proud parent has is that, despite all the mistakes along the way, the one decision they made for their sports offspring-the jersey their bracket-child would wear as a National Champion-will be the thing that has their bracket still standing after April 7. Roll credits. If you were wondering, the Department of Bracket and Tournament Services already came and took my bracket away from me for being such a terrible parent. So cherish your bracket and hold it tight, maybe even kiss it goodnight, because come next Sunday, yours could be ripped from your arms, too.

DAVID BAKER is a senior majoring in print journalism. Comments can be sent toda.bake@aggiemail.usu.edu.