March Madness

It’s that time of year again: time for men everywhere to become glued to their television sets as their alma maters (and should-have-been-my-alma-mater-damnit!) vie for a shot at the NCAA Championship in college basketball. Over the course of several weeks, 64 teams will be slowly whittled down to two. They’ll go through lots of cool-sounding tourney rounds: “The Sweet Sixteen”; “The Elite Eight”; and then “The Final Four.”

And then, finally, the NCAA Championship. I know all about it, you see, because my sweet love’s should-have-been-his-alma-mater-damnit! is the University of Connecticut: “UCONN.” And in 1999, on a cold night in March, the UCONN Huskies won their first-ever NCAA Title. It was the most frightening night of my life.

Everything started out okay, of course. The game began, and my darling was pacing the floor and biting his nails, alternately cheering and screaming at the television. [Did you know that, if you yell extra special loud, they can actually hear you, right through the TV? Well, I’m married to an electrical engineer, and he seems pretty darn convinced.]

I mean, things were going pretty well, and then it happened: the game ended, the players and spectators stormed the court, the Huskies climbed ladders and began cutting down the basketball nets (this is some sort of basketball tradition that, like out-of-control body art and corn row hairdos, is simply beyond my limited powers of comprehension), and everyone was cheering. My husband, who thought he’d never see this day, was dancing around the living room, positively gleeful.

And then it happened. My big, strong, strapping husband jumped onto the couch, threw his arms around my neck, and started crying. More like weeping, really. Big, wet, girly tears.

I froze. I mean, I could hear voices in my head saying: “Crying proves he’s sensitive,” and “Real men cry, too.” One of the voices was mine. Because, until it actually happened to me, I believed all of that piffle. I thought men crying was just fine and dandy too!

But suddenly it was right there in front of me. Living color. Wet and salty. And I was completely and utterly horrified. All of those theoretical male tears – the ones I was so “okay” with – had in no way prepared me for the reality of a bawling thirty year-old six-footer with cheek stubble and hair growing out of his ears.

I mean, how could I possibly have children with a man who cried after a basketball game? Who would protect us from the things that go bump in the night? Who would hold my hand and reassure me when the little ones got sick? Who would hold me up when things got really, really scary?

As it happens, it’s the same fella who cried when the Huskies won. It’s taken me six-odd years to figure that out, but there it is. And this year, as we head into yet another championship season, I’m looking a little forward to the Final Four, and to what comes after. And if I’m very lucky, maybe I’ll get to see a tear or two from my big bear …