Sorry, Fall. But your colors and crunchiness and cool breezes don’t make up for the pumpkin spice propaganda. Or the premature Christmas merchandising.  Or the Sunday concussion fests.

But, hey Spring…how you doin’?  You, with your mama robins and redbuds and open restaurant patios. Showin’ off, staying light out until 8:30 pm. I see you, and I’m so glad you’re here. You’re giving me a major lift right now. Because of you, my kiddos are coming home exhausted from longer recesses. My husband is geeked up to work on our house. And I’m thoroughly enjoying one of your greatest blessings, March Madness.

Let’s set the mood…

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dhC5-uIJJWQ

There’s simply nothing better. It’s unpredictable. It’s unforgiving. It’s when you start rooting for teams that you aren’t even sure which state they’re from. It’s when Dick Vitale fades away, and Bill Raftery takes center stage, AS IT SHOULD BE! (Author’s note: Bill Raftery joins Julie Andrews and Carol Burnett as my answer to the “If You Could Have Dinner With Three Living People…” question. So, I’m sort of biased, but still…Dick’s time is up.)

And my god, the feature stories.  The in-depth reports on each team. The players’ backstories.  Their coaches’ long & winding paths to get to this point. And the closer we get to the Final Four, the more heartstring-tugging these can get. I don’t care what you think about a team or a coach—watch one of these pre-game profiles, and damn it if CBS won’t have you in tears, looking across the couch, saying “Well, you know what, they deserve to win.”

This March…actually, this basketball season in general…has been especially enjoyable because Vivian is SO into it. She played on her first team. She had a basketball party for her birthday. She watches Hoosiers once a week. She knows that Frank Mason will probably drive to the basket, that Nathan Adrian never gives up, and that John Calipari is a cheater. She has an insatiable curiosity about all things hoops-related, and constantly wants to hear stories about my playing days.

Viv is our family bracketologist. Suz is her unpaid intern.

 Which makes this March…actually, this basketball season in general…especially tough. I know how much Dad would have enjoyed her interest and enthusiasm and, if I may, killer shot. He would have been able to answer all her questions and share those stories from my playing days—even the ones that have fallen from my memory. He knew them all by heart, and he told them with the excitement and passion and embellishment of a true fan.

When Dad realized his bad days were outnumbering his good ones, he and Mom jotted down a few notes about what he wanted for his funeral. One of those lines read, People can just wear jeans. Another, Alyssa can say something.

Of course, I did. And I started out with one of my favorite basketball stories, which I’m sharing now, as a nod to the guy who fostered my love for this game and for this special time of year:

As far back as I can remember, Dad was trying to convince me to play basketball. He’d drag Ryan and I to the gym with him for practice, and he’d toss me a ball and say, “Do you want to just dribble a little bit?”  But, I was happier reading my books up in the bleachers.

He put a goal in our backyard and asked “Do you want to come shoot, Lys?” No thank you, I’ll just be in my playhouse, pretending to be Laura Ingalls Wilder.

When the YMCA brochures would come out, he’d gently suggest that maybe I’d want to join a team with some of my friends. But, I was learning to play the violin, and that was keeping me quite busy.

In 5th grade, he stopped asking. And, that’s when I came to him and said “You know I think I’d like to try basketball.”

Fast forward 5 years…I’m a sophomore in high school and we’re facing off against Junction City, the #2 team in the state, led by a 6’4”, 250 lb. powerhouse named Carla Littleton. This is a huge game—not only for South High girls basketball, but for me. It’s my chance to prove that I can hang with the big dogs. Wow, doesn’t that sound intense and cutthroat and 90’s?  Especially when, just a few years earlier, I was wearing pleated khaki shorts to practices, and saying “Excuse me” when I ran into my opponents. Unlike my little brother, who came out of the womb as an athlete, this was all very new to me, and I was still trying to figure it out.

You know what else I was still trying to figure out? Driving.  I had just turned 16, and didn’t have a lot of experience behind the wheel. So, on game day, a few hours before tip-off, I decided I needed some new socks. Wigwams would be my competitive advantage.  I drove my Ford Tempo on over to Sports Connection, and somehow, between the adrenaline, the butterflies, and trying to remember whether the play “Cougar” called for a back screen or a block-to-block screen, I failed to come to a complete stop at a 4-way stop. And there on my right was a police officer, watching the whole thing.

The officer didn’t care that I had a game in 2 hours, or that it was against one of the top teams in the state, or that college scouts might be there. He slapped me with a $100 fine, and said, Good luck at your game.

Well, damn. Barely old enough to drive, and I’ve got a moving violation, and, in my mind, the biggest game in Salina South history on the line. And I’m a mess. I’m worried that I’ve let my folks down, and I’ll surely let my team down because I’m not focused at all.

And as we’re warming up, with about 15 minutes on the clock, I see my dad, making his way down from the bleachers, motioning to get my attention. He looks really anxious and distressed. I just know he’s heard about the ticket, and he wants to find out what the hell happened.

And over the noise of the balls bouncing and the shoes squeaking and the band playing, he shouts, “Lys! Alyssa! Don’t worry about the ticket. I’ll pay it! Just make sure you go straight up against Littleton. No early fouls!”

Wish you were here for this, Dad. I’d love to know who you’re picking in the North Carolina/Kentucky game.