Just 40 Minutes

40 minutes. That’s all they have to play out their dreams. Just 40 minutes.The montages shown as CBS returns from commercials bring us back to the afternoons, nights, weekends and work nights we watched these games at friends’ houses, bars, restaurants, computers, living rooms, offices, dorm rooms, bedrooms and hotels.

The highlights remind us why we watch, showing Bryce Drew hit a shot he dreamt of taking since his childhood, Texas Western start five black players and win a national title while the world around them allowed racism and hate to rule their ways of life, Christian Laettner and his turnaround jumper to start a Duke dynasty or Ty Edney running the length of the court in five seconds to devastate Missouri on the way to UCLA’s eleventh title.

As tears well up in my eyes– tears of joy and sheer love of the game– I hear the voice of Gus Johnson call the 2005 shocking upset of Kansas by Bucknell:

“Simien…No! No! He missed it! Bucknell wins! Bucknell wins!”

I see the teardrops of delight– pure, unequivocal delight– stream down Thomas Hill’s face as time runs out and his Duke Blue Devils take a title.

I see the eyes of elation, euphoria, ecstasy, enjoyment, exhilaration and excitement.

18-year-olds, 19-year-olds, some players even in their mid-20s, all reaching the highest of all highs, the goal of all goals while never knowing quite what to do.

I see Jimmy Valvano sprinting around the court after his North Carolina State Wolfpack shocked the ranks of college basketball, the nation, the world, the critics and even their supporters. I see unparalleled joy in his eyes.

In a world filled with anger, barbarism, death, divorce, fighting, grief, hatred, murder, racism, rape, robbery, resentment, road rage, sexism, suicide, terrorism and war, we find ourselves searching. Searching for an escape, a chance to let go and let other people create history. Amidst the pain that consumes everyday life, we find one month. One month in our world that takes all that pressure, all that chaos, all that confusion and produces the greatest competition in sports.

We tune in on Selection Sunday to see a bracket we will look at for the three weeks immediately following its release. Look at it, memorize it, compare it, contrast it, tear it up, frame it, black ink for the predictions, blue ink for the right ones, red ink for the wrong ones, the bracket consumes our thoughts and minds.

Some might call that an obsession, an unhealthy love of something that ultimately holds no real affect on our lives.

But it is something.

It is something that gives us that escape, that break from the woes of the world. We watch basketball from noon to midnight, Thursday through Sunday, constantly checking our bracket predictions with the hope that maybe, just maybe, we can win our office pool and the bragging rights that come with that victory.

We find our eyes glued to ten student athletes, fighting for the right to stay alive in the proverbial battle to recognize their biggest dream. Wedding receptions seem empty on first glimpse, only to find hordes of basketball fans– men and women, children and grandparents, mothers and fathers– all swarming the closest television.

All they have is 40 minutes. 40 minutes to make a mark on our lives, change our memories, shape our future or simply ruin our ride home. Like the young boy named Bryce Drew dreaming about taking that last second, game-winning shot outside his house in Valparaiso, Ind., we all dream of heroics and fame. Where else can a young man with nothing but his dreams and aspirations driving him find his place in history?

It’s everything we need as people to get through the troubling times. It’s watching a 20-year-old kid, and that’s what they are–kids, live out his dream of playing just 40 minutes on that floor. It’s watching people make history, break records, forge the future or even challenge the norms of society.

It’s March Madness, and I’m so glad it’s here.