Madness Withdrawal

Image via greenandwhite.com

Four days, forty-eight games, two 15 seed-over-2 seed triumphs in the same day, hundreds of beers, dozens of shots, legions of vodka-infused gummy bears, one Civil War general, one man dressed as a giant Schlitz bottle, eighteen Schlitz "Tall Boys", one Elvis Impersonator, one Elvis impersonator-Impersonator, and thousands of Legos.

This is the tally for what is quite possibly the greatest March Madness party in all the land. It was once again hosted by good friends of ours who live here in Chicago, not far from RAJ HQ. Over the years, the party has grown into a massive, orgiastic celebration of the greatest event in all of sports, college or pro.

After all of this, upon returning home last night, I found myself despondent over a chicken breast sitting in my refrigerator. March Madness withdrawal had overwhelmed my consciousness, and the site of that single, lonely chicken breast was the final trigger in unleashing that tidal wave of despair.


The reason that a mere chicken breast could have such a profound effect on me was simple: it was left over from a package I had bought early last week, back before the Madness had begun. Back when my life was consumed by giddy anticipation for the four days of joy soon to come. Similar to those sweet, gooey, liquor-laden gummy bears, the past four days had gelled into one long, gorgeous, summer-like day of swilling beer, cracking jokes, playing bags, and of course, watching games.

Now, less than a week later, it was all over. And that chicken breast that had once symbolized so much joy, now represented utter despair.

Of course, it had to end. Life's responsibilities can only be neglected for so long. Thus, I returned home to my empty, cavernous apartment last night around 7:00 pm Central time. As I sat on my couch and flipped the TV on to CBS only to see the beginning of 60 Minutes, I was confronted by two crushing reminders:

1) That the evening games were now on TBS, TNT, and TruTV.

2) That I do not have cable.

So the end to my personal Madness was not gradual. It was abrupt and unceremonious. I was alone, at dusk, on Sunday evening. One of the most lonely, dreadful times of the week, now magnified one-hundredfold. No more beer to drink, no more pretzel rods to gnaw, no more basketball to watch.

The fun was done.

And then I made that fateful trek to the fridge...and saw that chicken breast.

The more I thought about that chicken breast, the more my depression mounted. It got so bad that I actually teared up in less than ten minutes.

As always, though, it just took some time. After trudging around the crib for a good half hour, envisioning Kyle O'Quinn's heroics, Kendall Marshall's anguish, and Draymond Green mopping the court, I began to reel myself in from the abyss. I began thinking clearly, logically, rationally. I remembered that I own a laptop and that I have access to the internet, so I could at least track the remaining handful of games being played last night. I also took solace in a more primitive technology, the radio sitting on the countertop in my kitchen. Thus, I was able to at least listen to the exciting Kansas/Purdue finish while making dinner.

And yes, I cooked that chicken breast. While eating it with some pasta and vegetables, I began to analyze the upcoming Sweet Sixteen matchups. The last of the despair dissipated, and that familiar giddy anticipation began to swell inside me.

I can't wait for Thursday.