A part of me feels shame even though it feels so good. It happens every spring in these halcyon days for those of us who love college basketball. Even those indifferent to March Madness fill out a bracket and spend countless hours watching it go up in flames. For three weekends, the nation sits transfixed as college teams we’ve never heard of commit a string of Herculean feats and miraculous upsets. It’s a time to cheer for that season’s Cinderella story, the little guys who overcome all odds to show us we can accomplish anything if we set our minds to it.
Except I don’t. In my old age, I’ve become uncomfortably aware I’m no longer rooting for the long shot to win.