For all its promise, the NCAA basketball tournament, like Tootsie Rolls and every Wes Anderson film after
Rushmore, can only disappoint. It’s not just the brackets—the goddamn brackets—whose untold drama and fury on Thursday morning are a red-penned clusterfuck on Monday. It’s what the brackets represent: The annual reminder you’re not half as smart or crafty as you believed yourself, all your inadequacies and unforgivable sins spelled out on one handy 64-team grid...
Read more
