Forgive me, but it is March Madness.

When I first heard that the University of Illinois Men's Basketball team was ranked fifth in the country before the start of the 2004-2005 season, I thought, that's too high. When they won their first few games without breaking a sweat, I thought, maybe they deserve it. And when they blew out the then-#1-ranked team in the country, I thought, you go to hell, Sean Higgins.

The team was coached by Bruce Weber, who had trouble connecting with his players during his inaugural season the year before. So much so that he held a widely-ridiculed "mock funeral" for the beloved previous coach who had left for greener pastures. Not too long after, something clicked and the team finished the season playing much better.

The following year, he could do no wrong. The Illini finished the regular season with one loss, and was on its way to the Big Ten tournament title, when news broke that Weber's mother died after emergency surgery. He continued to coach the team and they continued to win, taking the Big Ten tournament title. They won their miracle game in the NCAA Regional Final against Arizona, coming back from 15 points down with 4 minutes left. The only thing left to do was to win the championship game - the culmination of a story that had every reason to have a happy ending.

They lost.

And as I watched the North Carolina players and fans celebrating their fourth/four hundredth championship, it dawned on me that this wasn't right. And it was not that it wasn't some hollywood ending, where the underdog prevails against impossible odds, but that, all of a sudden, the world seemed like a more indifferent place.

A dozen years earlier, Chris Webber called a timeout that he didn't have.

Webber was the centerpiece of Michigan's Fab Five. Freshmen, then sophomores, baggy shorts, black socks, black shoes - they were something to behold and I beheld them with all my heart. And he was the one with the most talent, the most potential, but not, unfortunately, the most def.

When he retired last week, he received an inordinate number of articles dedicated to his career. It wasn't because his was something to tell the grandkids about, but precisely because it wasn't. What sportswriter can resist playing amateur psychologist?

Bill Simmons finished his article wondering what could have been. "But that's the thing about real life: You don't have a reset button, and if you make a couple of poor decisions along the way, those decisions can end up shaping the player or person you become."

And those words meant something to me.

After spending the first few days getting over the intial shock, the depression started to set in, as I knew it would. And I decided on two very similar and completely different things. First, I gave up. I gave up on ever leaving, on being happy, on finding someone, on God. Only the thought of $200,000 of debt transferring to my parents kept me from giving up on life. Second, I embraced the absurdity of it all, albeit somewhat sarcastically. I put an aerial picture of Chicago as my laptop wallpaper. I started looking at neighborhoods to settle in. I looked to buy a UIC t-shirt.

None of it is healthy, but for now it gets me through the day, and I feel surprisingly free.

Just know that when I do lose the madness, I plan to hold on to the freedom.

first as tragedy, second as farce

chasekoo: have you seen america's best dance crew?
shyBanana12: HAHAHAHA
shyBanana12: you watch that stuff?
chasekoo: i saw it on youtube

shyBanana12: who are you cheering for
shyBanana12: jabbawockeez?
chasekoo: i'm torn between them and kaba
shyBanana12: sounds like a teenager
chasekoo: i should really grow up
shyBanana12: yea
shyBanana12: and act your AGE

shyBanana12: proms are lame
chasekoo: hahaha
shyBanana12: they juke for like ten hours
shyBanana12: and i don't do that
chasekoo: hahahahahaha
shyBanana12: wow chas
shyBanana12: you're older than myung and know what juking is
shyBanana12: myung didn't know... and sarah han refuses to explain to him
chasekoo: hahahahahahahaha

shyBanana12: bye
chasekoo: bye
shyBanana12: fyi, you've talked to a high schooler for an hour again
chasekoo: thanks for nothing
shyBanana12: anytime

I suppose you get what you pay for.

After a year of off-and-on use, my $20 Payless basketball shoes lost their cushioning overnight. With an achy right heel, I limped my way to Kohl's and laid my offering at the altar of the goddess of victory. She said, "Be reborn."

*****

By a strange twist of fate, one of the M3s on my new team happens to be someone I'd met a long time ago. She's an MD/PhD student, so she started at UIC while I was still in my working-for-The-Man phase. And when I stopped by 4 years ago to discuss the last book I'd read and why I wanted to do what I wanted to do, she was there, asking me.

"So either you helped me get into med school or you were outvoted by the other two people."

"I wasn't mean, was I?"

No, not at all.

*****

Mr. C came in late Thursday night. He was there for a blood transfusion, to raise his hemoglobin levels enough so that he could get his chemotherapy. Mr. C was not a healthy man. His cachectic body was ravaged by the prostate cancer that had spread to his bones and maybe more by the drugs that were meant to help him.

It wasn't a Tuesday and he wasn't Morrie. Mr. C was angry at having to wait all day to be admitted. He had things to do, people to see. He still had his dignity, damnit.

But he was a human being. He laughed when he found out that his brother-in-law was on the same floor, and was planning on playing cards with him after my physical exam was done. I stopped by later that night and saw him asleep on his bed, his deck of cards still on the night stand, the bag of blood slowly flowing into his vein.

*****

I was covering for the other Sub-I on Saturday and went to adjust a feeding tube on Mr. B. No one likes having a tube stuck into their nose, down their throat, and sitting in their stomach, and no one likes putting it there, either. Mr. B got it Friday afternoon and had it readjusted later that night. And still it wasn't in the right place.

"Mr. B, I'm afraid I'm going to have to move the tube in a little more. I know it's uncomfortable, but we really need it in the right place in order to be able to get you some food. Will you be okay if I move it?"

He nodded. Mr. B was a 91-year-old man who'd had a laryngectomy and his frail old body didn't even attempt to use the electronic larynx hanging around his neck. And so we were both silent as I undid the tape and pushed and pulled at the thin tube at his nose. He flinched a few times, but did his best not to resist. I taped it up again and prayed that it was down deep enough.

When I got back to the team conference room, I had a message from Mrs. B, asking me to call her at home. She wanted to know how he was doing, whether he'd be able to eat again normally, and to tell me - to tell someone - that he was a good man, that he was never one to complain, and she so clearly told me how much she loved him without telling me any such thing. She asked me if he clapped because when he's well, he claps instead of nodding. I told her that if all was well, we would start feeding him that day and start him back to health.

The tube still wasn't far enough.

I went back in the afternoon and explained it again to Mr. B. I pulled back a bit and pushed and pushed and pushed until it wouldn't go any farther. And as I was taping it up again, there were tears silently rolling down his cheeks.

*****

Mr. C was arguing right up until his discharge: The nurse had made him wait for his chemo. Where was the pharmacist? Probably eating lunch, while he had to sit and wait. Should have been in and out.

I was walking out of the room when I heard him tell the nurse, "He's a nice guy." I'm sure the nurse wasn't in an agreeable mood at that point, but I was glad that he felt that someone was on his side, that attention was paid.

When I went to talk to him one last time before his sister came to pick him up, he asked me to grab his bag off the table. He pulled out a disposable camera and told me that he wanted a picture of me. I suppose it'll sit somewhere in his home until he passes away and a family member will sweep it away, a long forgotten memory of a weekend when someone listened.

*****

Our team came to Mr. B's room this morning during rounds. I mentioned that he was tolerating feeds through his tube and had an uneventful night. We walked in and the attending asked, "How are you doing, Mr. B?"

With all his might, Mr. B joyfully clapped.