Or how I managed to pick the losingest bracket ever.

I enjoy basketball well enough.

I tried to play in 7th grade, but my desire to travel was something I couldn't escape, even on the court and against the rules.

In high school, I quit cheerleading as soon as football season ended because I wanted to be able to watch the basketball games from the stands, not as a captive Stepford robot on the sidelines. I'm so glad I got to watch our own Derrick Brewer dunk in the final seconds of a game, only to realize he'd run the wrong direction and made it in the opposing team's basket. They don't make a cheer for that.

In college, I fell in love with the Louisiana Tech Lady Techsters. BUT I DIDN'T KNOW I WAS GAY. I was a regular at the games, "talking out the side of my neck" with the Hoop Troop, watching the, uh, lady bulldogs deliver what I dubbed "The Lady Techster Butt Pat" after every play. For the big games like Tennessee, Purdue, UConn, I'd skip class to wait at the ticket office for a floor seat. That right there was worth my quarterly student fees.

My roommate, King James, ran film for the girls and apparently had nothing better to do than come home and watch it. Sometimes I'd join him ... when I wasn't busy using a butter knife to stab angry letters into his door about how his ass exploded in the toilet again and I refused to tolerate it any more.

I sort of worshipped the Lady Techsters. My first year at Tech, I vowed to follow them to the Final Four. Unfortunately, Penn State destroyed my dreams in the Midwest Regional Finals. So I was left to do stupid things like lose my words when I ran into Christie Sides and Brooke Lassiter in the Tonk and only come up with "What kind of shampoo do you use? Your hair looks amazing on court," as a means of intelligent conversation. Turns out: Suave®, Strawberry flavor. "88 cents at Wal-Mart," according to Christie.

I played intramural flag football on my dorm team and was absolutely shocked during our first game of the season when we got to the field, a true Disney team (beginning-of-a-movie Disney team, not-end-of-a-movie Disney team), and realized that somehow we'd been bracketed against the "current and former Lady Techster" team. I had trouble picking my jaw up. And then playing any sort of a game that resembled two-hand touch. I was seriously in awe and spent way too much time during that game wondering if (coach) Leon Barmore knew that Tamecha Jackson and Betty Lennox were throwing a pig skin around with me. I could have seriously injured them. When the score was somewhere in the 70s to nothing, all of those greats with whom we shared the field stood still and let us run one in. They rejoined the game in time to NOT let us get the extra point. I'd never been prouder.

I was the girl who always muttered "corn-fed" whenever Trina Frierson stepped on court. I believed it improved her free-throw percentage, if not her self image. I was the girl who didn't leave the Thomas Assembly Center until I'd swayed and sung every single word to "Oh, Lord, it's hard to be humble," as it related to my Lady Techster fan status. I'm still the girl who wears the misprinted old school Tech blue Lady Techster t-shirt that laundry-lists all their accomplishments and is supposed to end with "#1 in our hearts," except someone forgot to screen the "#1" on there. So, the girls are just randomly in our hearts, wherever they may fall.

March Madness is here. Almost gone, really. I've never had the love for men's basketball that I do for women's. First, exposed armpits WITH HAIR. Second, dudes. Sure, I've chanted "Cha-lu-pa" at Blazer's games as we've neared the hundred point mark. And yeah, I remember shaking the hands of David Robinson and Dennis Rodman after a Spurs game, conflicted over whether I should never wash my hands again or never stop washing them. And yes, I accidentally ran into Karl Malone once and when I looked up, too startled to say anything, he joked, "My Momma taught me to say 'excuse me' when I run into somebody." Later that day, while driving my brother's 1969 (?) VW Bug, I beat Karl Malone off of three different lights, but I didn't realize it was him until the third one when he rolled down his tinted window and smiled at me. This is the perfect time to end a lame story with, "And then I saw Karl Malone." But I digress.

So I jumped on board and threw some money in the family pot and made a bracket. But not until after Erin made hers. And not until after she pulled a classic Crazytown and let Merritt make his, an experience I'll allow her the pleasure of explaining. A couple of days into the tournament I shared the sentiment that I dream big big and bracket bigger and neither pay off. Erin enjoyed my use of "bracket" as a verb, and the fact that she was beating me (as was everyone else). I suppose making picks based on what you knew about the women's teams at each of these universities ten years ago isn't necessarily the best way to win the pot. But the current leader in the family standings is a three year old who based all her picks on uniform colors, so it's not like my methods are that unorthodox. Also, what's up with no pink uniforms? Go, Annie, by the way.

My bracket looks like somebody genocided a box of red ink pens. I'd be better off if I had (1)Unicorns and (-86)Calzones going to the finals. And even though Calzones are "Like pizza, but harder to eat. They're dumb," I'm still picking them for the upset. They have a better chance at winning than, say, UNC.