My bracket is officially busted. It's time to save it from the purgatory it now rests in, pull it off life support, and send it off to the big paper shredder in the sky.
Giving a cursory glance at the 8.5" x 11" sheet of lies, it appears as if somebody spilled an entire well of red ink on it. Gone is the glory of a Syracuse, Kansas, Oklahoma State and Louisville Final Four. In its place are scribblings of vulgar language and a smattering of broken dreams.
What was once the crown jewel of my ego has become the bane to my existence.
Probably the worst part about having a destroyed bracket submission is that there's nothing you can do to mitigate the destruction. Apparently, these bracket terrorists of Sweet Sixteen destruction didn't get the memo that I had them hitting the bricks before they could unpack their suitcases. All you can do is watch the horror unfold before you on CBS and ask God what you did to deserve such prognosticating punishment.
My bracket just never saw it coming. It was as if it was blindsided by a Santa Claus-size sack of bricks.
Bucknell over Kansas?
Vermont over Syracuse?
Forget cheap shots, those are two low blows.
Despite being shaken, I was sure the bracket would pull itself off the mat. There had to be a Rockyesque rally around the corner. There could be no more punishment served up, right?
NC State over Connecticut?
UW-Milwaukee over Boston College?
Michigan State over Duke?
West Virginia over Wake Forest?
Oh, the humanity!
I think it's time for the NCAA to create a Department of Matt Glaude Bracket Security. The first action by this agency would be to promulgate a policy that places a moratorium on allowing mid-major universities from winning a tournament game. Something must be done.
How about a strict immigration policy of excommunicating Cinderella from the Land of the Big Dance?
Regardless of what may be done in the future, the sorrow from watching my bracket turn into a shell of its old self persists. Maybe it was due to the shock and awe provided by seeds as large as my shoe size. Maybe it's because I saw a lot of myself in that bracket and it never reached its potential. I don't know.
All the bracketology, all the punditry – all for naught. There's only one thing left to say.
Farewell, my friend. Godspeed.
Giving a cursory glance at the 8.5" x 11" sheet of lies, it appears as if somebody spilled an entire well of red ink on it. Gone is the glory of a Syracuse, Kansas, Oklahoma State and Louisville Final Four. In its place are scribblings of vulgar language and a smattering of broken dreams.
What was once the crown jewel of my ego has become the bane to my existence.
Probably the worst part about having a destroyed bracket submission is that there's nothing you can do to mitigate the destruction. Apparently, these bracket terrorists of Sweet Sixteen destruction didn't get the memo that I had them hitting the bricks before they could unpack their suitcases. All you can do is watch the horror unfold before you on CBS and ask God what you did to deserve such prognosticating punishment.
My bracket just never saw it coming. It was as if it was blindsided by a Santa Claus-size sack of bricks.
Bucknell over Kansas?
Vermont over Syracuse?
Forget cheap shots, those are two low blows.
Despite being shaken, I was sure the bracket would pull itself off the mat. There had to be a Rockyesque rally around the corner. There could be no more punishment served up, right?
NC State over Connecticut?
UW-Milwaukee over Boston College?
Michigan State over Duke?
West Virginia over Wake Forest?
Oh, the humanity!
I think it's time for the NCAA to create a Department of Matt Glaude Bracket Security. The first action by this agency would be to promulgate a policy that places a moratorium on allowing mid-major universities from winning a tournament game. Something must be done.
How about a strict immigration policy of excommunicating Cinderella from the Land of the Big Dance?
Regardless of what may be done in the future, the sorrow from watching my bracket turn into a shell of its old self persists. Maybe it was due to the shock and awe provided by seeds as large as my shoe size. Maybe it's because I saw a lot of myself in that bracket and it never reached its potential. I don't know.
All the bracketology, all the punditry – all for naught. There's only one thing left to say.
Farewell, my friend. Godspeed.
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