Bracket-urology

The West

By Bandwagon Burt
Wind Sock



How will the West be won in 2008, haha?! There are SO many good teams in this portion of the NCAA Tournament, it HAS to be considered the toughest region in the tournament, besides the East and maybe the South. Hello, UCLA – is there a LOVE DOCTOR in the house? – is easily the favorite to win the whole thing, but how can you ever discount the greatest college sports franchise of all time, Duke? And look out for Professor X and Connect-I-Cut in the Sweet 16.

The way I see it, there are only a few teams who could win the regional: the ones I’ve already mentioned, plus BYU, Drake, Purdue, West Virginia, Arizona, Texas A&M or Belmont. Between Duke, Drake, BYU and Purdue, there are probably more white people in this bracket than any other, which means GREAT DEFENSE and lots of 3-point shooting. I love the DUKIES, who will be the second-seed, and think they could be the team to beat, unless they get upset by West Virginia, Xavier, Purdue or Connecticut.

UCLA, of course, has the LOVE DOCTOR, along with lots of other guys that are really good. Kevin Love has carried his team all year, and even though they’ve played in a lot of close games, there’s no substitute for a PAC-10 TITLE. Plus, they’ve been in the Final Four the last two years, which means they’re really experienced, even though their best player is a freshman. So, they’ll probably win the bracket.

But Duke is really good, and XAVIER! Anytime you have a school named after one of the best X-Men in history, you know they’re going to do well. They have mind control! More importantly, they have David West, who is a beast for the New Orleans Hornets.

I TOTALLY FORGOT BAYLOR WAS IN THIS BRACKET. Forget everything I just said, UPSET CITY BABY. I like Baylor to get to the Elite Eight and lose to either UCLA or Western Kentucky. Can you imagine if Drake played Duke in the bracket? THOSE NAMES ARE TOTALLY SIMILAR, and they both wear blue in the jerseys. I would be so confused which team was which. I guess the difference is that one team would have COACH K GENIUS MASTERMIND calling the plays. Drake’s probably not going to get that far though, unless they shock the world and beat Connecticut.

The South

By Dakota Brezinski
Seven-year-old



Austin Peay! It sounds like pee! Peay Peay pee pee.

Silly Austin, he should change his name so people don’t always say mean things, like “Austin, do you have to Peay, because the potty is over there!” Maybe it won’t matter because Texas will beat them in the first round of the South region. Texas is still mad that Kevin Durant went to the NBA, and they are going to teach him a lesson. Poor Austin Peay.

Tanner also thinks it’s funny to say “Oral Roberts” all the time, but I don’t get why. I don’t think it’s funny to make fun of a man who loves Jesus so much. What if Jesus sends lightning down to kill Tanner? My favorite part about Oral Roberts is that their eagle likes to beat people up. I think they will beat Pittsburgh, because the eagle will kick the hurt Pittsburgh players like Levance Fields.

I am also cheering for Temple and St. Mary’s, because they also remind me of Jesus. Mary was Jesus’ mommy, and she bought him gifts like gold and Frankenstein. I think Frankenstein is scary, but not Jesus. He was not afraid and said, “ I will now make a bunch of loaves of bread and wine.” I can’t drink wine yet, but someday, I will sneak into daddy’s liquor drawer and try some.

I don’t really know much else about basketball. I like Tigers (rahr!), and Memphis has some, so they’ll probably win the whole thing. Tanner says only smart people play for Cornell and Stanford, so they will probably do a lot of thinking when they play against each other, and talk about math and science and then hit a couple baskets. I hate math and science, but do you know what I love? DUCKIES. So I’m cheering for Oregon, too.

The East

Marv Blackstone
Editor-in-chief


That Bruce Pearl is a crazy sonofabitch. Wearing orange, sweating a lot, hugging Erin Andrews. I'm sure you all saw that recently on Deadspin or something. You didn't see it here.

I used to cover Bruce as a coach back when he was at Southern Indiana University. I had taken a job a small Evansville weekly after being fired from the Boston Globe -- I siphoned gas out of my editor's car when I was short on cash -- and got to know him pretty well. I have a story about me, Bruce and three transgender Vietnamese midgets that I could tell, but I won't.

OK, fine. I will. One night, Bruce and I decided to an interview at the local Asian cuisine dinery. I always got the fried rice. Bruce always got the fried rice. He would sometimes tell them he wanted the "flied lice" and they would laugh a lot, and I would laugh a lot, and so would Bruce.

That night, we were talking about his team's postseason chances when into the restaurant wandered these three Vietnamese midgets. As usual, I was doing the interview with a fair amount of Scopolamine in my system, and things were foggy. The night was foggy. The midgets were short.

I got up to go to the bathroom, because I had had two burritos before coming to the Asian Cuisine place. I was in there for about 30 minutes or so. When I came back out, chaos reigned. Bruce was naked and sweaty, and rolling around on the floor, which was covered in a six-inch layer of shrimp flied lice. Two of the midgets were naked, and the other was smoking a cigarette while standing on stilts, near the corner of the restaurant. There were two ducks gallivanting about near the service counter. The guy on stilts was talking to the shopkeeper about the skyrocketing price of fennel. As Bruce hoisted one midget high into the air, he paused, then dropped the poor little fella. The midget hit the floor, hard.

Bruce stood back and observed the three midgets, the shopkeeper and myself.

"My GOD!" he exclaimed. "Look at you! You're in a 1-2-1-1 formation! That might actually work! There's no way I can get through this!"

Still naked, he ran across the rice-covered floor and outside. He hopped in his car, and sped away. And that, my friends, is how Bruce created his infamous full-court press scheme.

That sort of moxie and innovation is what I like in a coach. That's why Tennessee is my pick to win the East Region. Book it, hombres.

The Midwest

By Dr. Charles P. Ipswich IV
University Professor


Oh, you silly Americans and your round-ball. You exclaim that March is your time for madness, implementing the alliterative name because you feel it captures some sort of idealistic passion for sporting. I must tell you that your version of madness is inconsequential; for true madness, you should consult Thomas Lovell Beddoes, who became fixated upon death in his writings, and eventually killed himself.

That, you wankers, is madness.

Alas, I am here, so I may as well tell you what to expect from the Midwest Region of you bracket.

First, do not pick Kansas to win anything. Coach Bill Self is the modern-day equivalent of King Harold II, who seemed promising but was then destroyed during the Battle of Hastings. You may not understand this analogy, but it because you do not have tenure on the faculty staff of a major Ivy League institution.

Mmm, yes, diamond.

My teams to watch are Georgetown, Vanderbilt and USC. Georgetown has a lovely History Department, and a beautiful colonial campus where one can spend hours losing himself in the library, whether you want to study things ranging from John Burgoyne to Isabel of Gloucester.

Vanderbilt, meanwhile, is represented by a Commodore, which, as you know, is equivalent to Brigadier in the British Army. This demonstrates a passion going beyond most other teams in your round-ball gaming tourney. Yes, you cannot go wrong by employing the quiet strength of a Commodore, especially in his dazzling uniform.

USC has OJ fucking Mayo. Watch out.

My appreciation for tradition runneth deeper than yours

By Dr. Charles P. Ipswich IV
University Professor

From where I sit, here in my oaken, naturally-lit office here at this Ivy League institution, surrounded by thousands upon thousands of volumes of great literature and periodicals, working in my position of molding young minds and hearts and spirits, I find much of American culture to be silly.

I find your customs of gorging on greasy fast food, treating every day of your lives like Saturnalia, disgusting. I do not understand American football, with all of its grunting and sweating. Your celebrities are all vain and as drunk as Bacchus. New JerseIy is a terrible place and, despite its nickname, I cannot find a garden anywhere in its borders that satisfies my tastes.

This silliness is constantly swirling around me, much like the winds of Wellington, and I must hold my tongue in check so as to not appear socially inept! Despite my odiums, I must confess that I do dearly love one American tradition, which will come about Thursday, on Saint Valentine's Day.

Yes, I am referring to the tradition of pitchers and catchers reporting to those grassy green baseball fields, littered throughout the colonies of Arizona and Florida, beginning the leagues of cactus and grapefruit. Oh, those sweet fruits, how they produce the sounds of cracking wood and smacking leather!

Verily, the site of these men is merely a symbolic display, but to these eyes, which have traveled across millions of lines of the most fanciful prose ever crafted, it is a sight of staggering beauty. From this, we know that warmer weather lie just around the proverbial bend. We know that Americans will soon gorge themselves on beer and hot dogs, and wash that down their gullet with a plastic tray of corn chips dipped in processed cheese. They will feign patriotism before the start of games, and sing a strange jingle in the middle of the arbitrarily-assigned 7th inning.

The tradition of the sport is what draws me. As you surely are aware, I am a great historical mind and I have therefore developed a much better appreciation for tradition than you have. And baseball hath have a great tradition than any other sport in this land. The juxtaposition of past and future in baseball is what gives the sport its appeal. As the ghosts of the past look down upon the current landscape of baseball, we feel ... well, we mostly just feel creeped the hell out because we are being watched by ghosts.

Forgive my collapse into colloquialism. As you can understand, pitchers and catchers reporting ranks up there with the great American holidays. As we wonder which American baseball team will rise above all others this season, much like the Phoenix rising after death, its breathtaking gold and crimson plumage fluttering in the air, ready to take down any competitors who dare compete against it in competition.

Behold, my friends -- baseball is just around the bend. As they once said in the great Mongolain empire: Huzzah!

Super Bowl prediction time

Marv Blackstone: I just am not going to allow myself to choose Eli Manning as a Super Bowl-winning quarterback. Look at him. I plan to sit back and watch Eli line up behind right guard Chris Snee no fewer than six times, fumble at least two snaps, throw at least two picks and get a wedgie from Osi Umenyiora on the sideline. And I will laugh and coat my chest hair with Gold Bond and picante salsa. Patriots 34, Giants 10


Curtis Woodsworth: I am really hoping that the Giants don't wear those awful red jerseys during the game. They just end up looking like cherry tomatoes, and what football player wants to look like sweet little balls that you pop into your mouth? Plus, those jerseys color-clash with Tom Coughlin's face. Get you some moisturizer, boy! Patriots 30, Giants 0


Vern Beedle: You're asking me for my prediction, man? My prediction is that a government plot to expose the link between Barack Obama and Giants' offensive coordinator Kevin Gilbride will come to light. You're going to learn all about how Obama is in cahoots with Dennis Rodman and Tori Spelling to inflate oil prices to more than $40,000 a barrel. And it's all coming out after a post pattern to Amani Toomer. That's my prediction, man. Also, Giants 24, Patriots 23

Dr. Charles P. Ipswisch Ah, the American football Super Bowl! It's one of my favorite sporting traditions, ranking right up there with the Egyptian Croquet Federation Championships and the ICC Cricket World Cup. I will eagerly be watching to see if Tom Brady's superior diction and reasoning ability, along with his muscular right arm, will be able to carry his Patriotic men to a victory over the Giants from New Jersey. Deductively, I think that they will be able to triumph, asserting their dominance, much like the late-1970s West Indies cricket squad. Oh, what a chess match this one shall be! Patriots 108, Giants 2

Harvey McGuffin: I remember when you had to earn perfection. The 1972 Dolphins created their empire on grit, determination and heart. There were no pretty faces getting hounded by TMZ, no cornrows and certainly no white wide receivers. They were football players, damn it. Hell, I remember when the key to getting to the Super Bowl was a black head coach and black receivers, all of them gritty. These teams are as bland as cornflakes served in malt-o-meal. If Brian Billick had just saved his timeout, what storylines would we have to pursue? We haven't had a legend play in a Super Bowl since Otis Anderson. God damn it I'm angry and it's almost bedtime. Giants 24, Patriots 21.

Bandwagon Burt:THE PATRIOTS ARE GOING TO BE UNDEFEATED. Dude, did you see that Hitler video online where he's all mad about Dallas losing? THAT WAS HILARIOUS, and then he's like "Well at least I can watch the Patriots go undefeated, at least that's something." EVEN HITLER KNOWS that a dynasty is brewing. I have loved the Patriots since I was a little boy, but this is the crown jewel of my sporting world. Super Bowls are nothing if you don't go undefeated! The Giants won't possibly stand in their way, but I like little Eli and love how they've built all this momentum in road games. That defensive line is incredible, and they played New England SO TOUGH at the end of the season. After that last sentence, I think the Giants have a real chance!!! Prediction: Patriots 68, Giants 67 (9 OT).

Dakota Brezinksi: I don't want to go to bed before the end of the Super Bowl! You promised, daddy, that I could watch. I never get to watch! It's not fair. Every year I only get to see the first half, and I miss all the really good stuff after you make me go to bed. I'm sorry I called Caitlin a bad name when she said, "Who cares if they go undefeated, it's just a game." I'm sorry that I kicked her in the knee and threw her dolly into the pond. I was trying to look like Tom Brady! Tom Brady is my hero! I want to see him win the Super Bowl! THIS HAPPENS EVERY YEAR! I hate you. I hate you and mommy. Patriots 35, Giants 14.

Brenda McDonald: So my older brother is throwing this, like, Super Bowl party, and I'm totally debating whether to go or hang out at Kimmy Dykstra's house. Like, there's going to be beer and stuff, but last time I hung out with my brother's friends, I totally got hit on by his smelly college roommate. I made out with him, of course, but it was kind of awkward and ... I don't know, like, smelly. I don't understand why people love the Super Bowl so much ... I mean, they have one every year. Plus everyone thinks Tom Brady is so hot, but oh my god, have you SEEN Wes Welker's eyes? Patriots 10, Giants 3.

I have a plan to save you!

By Dr. Charles P. Ipswich IV
University Professor

Hello, squires. Today I've been reclining in my maroon leather chair, nestled deep inside the English department of my local university at which I am employed. It's been a bit of a slow day here, and as such, I've been scanning the periodicals that are available to me online here on the Internet. There's lots of interesting reading, much of which I can print out to bring with me as I make my thrice-daily trips to the bog. Bloke's got to have his fiber, you know.

It seems that the big problem on this day is the rubbish that has come from your collegiate American football playoff system entitled the Bowl Championship Series. Academic institutions all over this nation seem to think that they deserve a chance to play for the title of the best American football squad in this land!

My, my isn't it a big mess! From reading the rags, it looks like you allow some mix of computers and human voting to determine who plays in the game. And there is only one game that determines the winner and all of the other clubs are left out in the cold. Codswallop!

How can this system possibly be used to determine the best sporting gents in this country? Just thinking about the randomness of a such an event makes me lose my knickers in a fit of vitriolic vitriol. Why, it's almost enough to make me hurl my half-full tea cup across the room towards my framed portrait of Winston Churchill.

A new system simply must be put in place. If this is not done immediately, I will declare your sport to be a farce. Don't you know that sample sizes are the only way to determine who the best team is? You cannot choose teams seemingly at random and then give them a one-game playoff and call them a champion. No, no. That would be as foolish as visiting the Glyndebourne Opera House on a full stomach so as you could not enjoy a pre-concert picnic before seeing a full-voiced baritone nearly blast the historic doors off the building with his rendition of Les pêcheurs de perles by George Bizet.

What you must do with your Bowl Championship Series of American Football is make it so randomness is unable to affect the outcome. If you truly desire in your heart that the best team is the winner, this must be the structure of this year's playoffs, as I propose it:

- You must include the top 16 teams in the nation, as voted on by a selection of no fewer than 30,000 college head coaches across the country, so as to eliminate any margin of error.
- The top fourteen teams receive a first-round bye
- Teams 15 and 16 play a five-game playoff on consecutive nights
- The winner of this game takes on Team 14 in a three-game tilt.
- The winner of that game plays Team 13 in a three-game tilt. This gives us the top 12 teams in the nation, removing the proverbial fat from the bottom of the barrel.
- The top four teams receive another bye. You then pair the matchups off as 4 vs. 12, 5 vs. 11, 6 vs. 10 and so forth. Each of these matchups is played as a seven-game series, much like the World Series of Baseball.
- Two days of rest
- After this, you would be left with eight teams. You may then go with a traditional "Elite Eight" format that seeds the teams accordingly. These series will be standard best-of-nine formats. Games will be rotated by home venue and played on a every-other-night schedule.
- The winners of this will compose the first "Final Four" of college football, to be held at a neutral site, far away from the influence of possible home crowds and snare drums. Given the geographic calculations I have found here, the Final Four should be held at Azadi Stadium in Iran. It is a large venue that seats 90,000 people and will not allow a home-field advantage to affect the outcome of the game and also allow one to take advantage of the necessary corporate sponsorship that are sure to be interested in these games.
- The semifinal matches will have altered rules, due to the likely attrition of players during the long playoff system. Each game will feature two 30-minute halves and feature 7-on-7 flag football rules. The semifinal teams will play a best-of-nine series with three games played per day. The outcome of this will provide a championship match.
- The championship match will then be moved to another site large enough to accommodate the likely interest in the greatest sporting event in the world -- the Championship of the Pure Athletes Who are Unpaid and Play Purely for the Love of the Game. Appropriately, we must move the event to the largest outdoor venue in existence: Rungrado May Day Stadium, located in Pyongyang, North Korea. The stadium seats 150,000 people, which should be sufficient.
- Each team will be allowed one week to rest for the Final Championship Series. Then, they will travel to the stadium and battle in a best-of-15 series that will truly showcase the best collegiate football team in America. The games will return to original football rules, in full pad regalia.

As with every plan, there is a downside, and this is that the regular season would be substantially decreased by my proposed playoff system. In my estimation, the new Bowl Championship Series Extravaganza would last approximately 44 weeks. This would only allow for each college football team to play three games in the regular season, and it would also shorten the football offseason to a mere five weeks. However, I feel this is still a better system than the one currently have in place.

Someone get the NCAA on the phone. I've got a plan!

Jolly good, Tiger!

By Dr. Charles P. Ipswich IV
University Professor

Hello, readers. I was lounging in my office, behind my thunderous oak desk, and perusing the latest issue of Harpers while enjoying a good scone, and I was distracted momentarily by the InterWeb, upon whence I noticed a story involving golf legend Tiger Woods.

It seems that our friend Mr. Woods was engaging in competitive action yesterday at a match play event when his designated opponent, Mr. Stephen Ames, took the opportunity to partake in some pre-event bravado talk. He told the assembly of media members gathered there on the driving range that since the event was a head-to-head match play format, anything could happen, "especially with where Tiger is hitting the ball."

Researchers have noted in studies done in various laboratories that caged tigers can be teased and pestered so that they bottle up their tension and anger and store it up in simply volatile capacities. When the beasts are then uncaged, the aggression is unleashed, often with staggering and incapacitating results.

I feel that there is an extreme corollary between what happens with those beasts of nature and what occurred yesterday with Mr. Woods. When it came time for competition, Mr. Woods wasted no time in giving his opponent a good rodgering, defeating him in just ten holes. Superlative dominance at its absolute, most critical apex, one must say.

It was a thing of beauty. Tiger's aforementioned dominance was like a vast steel barge that pressed onward unfettered through the sometimes-murky waters of the Caspian Sea in late October when the gulls frolic overhead much like children enjoying their recess time near the basketball hoop on the school playground commons with shouts and hollers of unrestricted human joy and emotion.

I, of course, never experienced that joy as a lad, because I was often duct taped to the basketball hoop during recess time. But I digress ...

And dear Mr. Woods, when asked about his dominance, would not take the bait. When asked what he thought of Mr. Ames' comments, Tiger simply repeated the score of the match! Bully, Tiger! I highly respect his ability to not give in and remain as cool as the cobblestone walks in Manchester on a crisp March morning.

This spectacle of Tiger's motivation raises an eyebrow-raising question: Does bravado talk actually increase an athlete's motivation? Or should these athletes be motivated already by the grand sums of money and fame that await them?

The answer, of course, lies in Harpers. When I read the magazine, I often feel a joyous sense of privilege that I actually have the magazine in my weathered hands. When Dr. Finnstein across the hall asks me if I've seen the latest copy of Newsweek, I can simply scoff at him and tell him, "No, Dennis, I've been too busy reading Harper's." I generally permit myself a good chuckle, which will sometimes elicit muttering from Dr. Finnstein.

Now I imagine that the muttering coming from within his office is not of a flattering persausion. So I take offense to the fact he may be engaging in shows of bravado. And I find that when this sort of happenstance occurs, I usually give my finest lectures later in the day -- I feel like a spectacular piece of art given its own exhibition at a prestigous gallery attended only by the finest people who are gathered to appreciate its perfect construction, tone and composition. Dr. Finnstein is not there at the lectures, of course, but his stifled mumbling from earlier in the morn has motivated me to prove that I deserve this copy of Harper's that lies on my desk.

Oh dear, Charles. You've gone tangential again. Time to digress, I must say.

I digress, readers. In conclusion, do not supply your fellow man with motivational incentive that could one day come back and haunt you. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must return to my strawberries and cream.