MARCH MADNESS

By Ben Greenman

Originally in the New Yorker

March 15th: Selection Sunday for the N.C.A.A. tournament. I was hoping that Connecticut would get a No. 1 seed, and they did, though it could just as easily have been Memphis. On the other hand, I’m not so thrilled about Louisville’s No. 1 seeding. They deserve it, but James from the office went there, and he’s going to be gloating all week.

March 16th: Just like I thought. I saw James in the parking lot on my way into the office and he put two fists over his head and started hooting. “Woo!” he said. “Louisville rules! Pitino forever!” James hated Pitino when he was coaching the Celtics, and now he’s the guy’s biggest fan. How convenient. When we got upstairs, James went into some kind of huddle with Tom, the new guy: they were discussing which twelve seed would beat a five seed, whether or not Syracuse was depleted by its conference-tournament run, if North Carolina’s chances were down because of Lawson’s injured toe. “So much depends on health,” James said. I walked over to say hi, and Tom glared at me and drew a finger across his cheek. The gesture was surprisingly threatening.

March 17th: Maureen had to work late, so when I got home from work I made myself a sandwich and filled out my bracket. I went for favorites, mostly, with a few underdogs: I have a good feeling about Dayton and Arizona. When I finished picking first- and second-round matches, I folded up my bracket sheet. It’s how I like to do it: wait a day or so, let everything marinate, then go back to pick the Elite Eight and the Final Four. Then I went out into the front yard. I think I heard a noise in the trees that wasn’t just a noise. It sounded like a voice, and it was calling to me. “Andy,” it said. “Andy.” I went back in and waited for Maureen to come home.

March 19th: Tom and James were talking today in the lunchroom and Tom said that he’s hoping to go to Detroit for the championship game. A buddy of his works for some Michigan politician and thinks he can swing it. James picked Pitt and UConn in the finals: chalk. Tom had riskier picks. He took Temple over Arizona State and Portland State over Xavier. I think he gets his information from a higher source. This afternoon, I went by his desk and picked up a transmission in my fillings that I think was meant for his fillings. It was a series of long pulses and short pulses. I tried to remember it until I got home, but I couldn’t. Maureen was out late again, so I stood in the front yard and waited.

March 20th: First-round games today. Last night, I was so excited that I kept waking up with night sweats, and whenever that happens I get eggs under my skin. The last batch of eggs hatched and I had to scrub hard in the shower to kill whatever it was that was underneath there.

March 22nd: I ended up 28-4 in the first round, which wasn’t bad at all. James and Tom each lost six games. At the end of the day, when Tom asked me where I was going and I told him that I was going to meet my wife for a drink to celebrate, he lowered his eyes and shook his head. I waited for Maureen at the bar. There was a buzzing noise coming from behind the mirror.

March 24th: Maureen and I had a fight last night. She yelled at me in a way that sounded like the trees yelling. I went to sleep early, and when I woke up she wasn’t there. Her books weren’t on the shelf. Her clothes weren’t in the closet. I watched some second-round games I had recorded before heading into the office. Blake Griffin can really go when his knee is healthy.

March 25th: Maureen’s still gone. The kids came out and asked me where she was. The older one is a boy. The younger ones are twin girls. I let them all fill out brackets, even though the tournament has already started, as a distraction from thinking about Maureen. The girls cried, because they knew they had no chance to win. The older one, the boy, wasn’t crying. His face looked flat, like the face of a dead man.

March 26th: This morning, I couldn’t find my way into work. I drove the roads I thought would get me there but ended up on the edge of a barren field. The sky was dark. Then there was a tree in the middle of the field where there had been no tree. That tree called my name like the trees in my yard had. An old man was sleeping underneath the tree. The sky was bright white. “Where’s my office?” I asked the old man. He lowered his eyes and shook his head. I sat next to him and explained why it’s unfair that James fills out multiple brackets. I mean, sure, he’s paying for each one, but he can hedge his bets this way.

March 28th: My father is a big man. I am, too, but I am seventy per cent underground. When you scrape the rust off the coffee can, you can get a poison that will burn out your enemy’s stomach. Kansas advanced.

March 29th: I am still out here in the field, still squinting against the bright white sky. This afternoon, a huge cigar-shaped aircraft landed in the center of the field and James and Tom stepped out. The two of them were dressed in all white, bright white like the bright white sky. James started yelling at me that Maureen didn’t exist, that she had never existed. Tom started yelling at me that James did not exist. Tom’s eyes, the two I could see, burned the way they burned that first day when he drew a finger across his cheek. Then Tom was gone, too. The old man on the bench traced a bracket on the ground with a stick and the lines of it burst into flames. I opened my mouth to scream and a jet-black bird fell out onto the ground. So much depends on health. Wait a minute, I am Japanese here. Someone has put hair on all my clothes.