In 2026, I need March Madness more than ever

My own basketball career ended in middle school, not because of a game-altering injury but because of stick-thin limbs and an embarrassing lack of coordination. Because I was playing as a guard in the state of Iowa during the swan song of the six-on-six game, I probably never even shot a basket in a game. I didn’t have much of a stat line.

But then, after becoming a mom to sons obsessed with the game, I transferred my lifelong love of the Iowa State Cyclones to my boys, and we all fell deeper in love with the Boston Celtics.

A new friend recently asked me if I had played basketball in high school and college because of how much I talked about the sport. After recovering from my uproarious laughter, I said, “No, I can’t dribble a ball down the court to save my life. But I’m a basketball superfan.”

And as a superfan of the sport, this time of year feels like my birthday, Christmas and the first day of spring after an interminable winter all wrapped together with a beautiful bow that punctuates like a Milan Momcilovich pull-up jumper.

From Selection Sunday until the national championship game, my pulse will beat to the steady drum of dribbling. Instead of doomsday news-related podcasts, I will consume podcasts with intel about player injuries and can’t-miss matchups. My conversations will be sprinkled with comments about “Kenpom” ratings and offensive and defensive efficiency instead of anecdotes about midterm elections or the Strait of Hormuz.

In March 2026, I need basketball more than ever.

I live in Minnesota. I’ll use classic Midwestern understatement to say this: It’s been kind of rough this year. From the assassination of Melissa Hortman to the recent federal occupation and immigration raids, residents of our state — home of Prince, Spam and a few big lakes — have been through it. And that’s just the local news. In 2026, we can add rising gas prices and lengthy TSA wait times to our list of worries. But for the next couple of weeks, I will happily stick my head in the sand. Or at least drown out some of the news with a soundtrack of sneakers squeaking on a gym floor.

Some might say it’s frivolous to get so worked up about a sport that involves humans bouncing a ball on a wooden court and launching it into the air, hoping it makes it into a hoop so numbers on a board increase. Some might say it’s ridiculous to spend innumerable hours on my couch with a bowl of popcorn, enthralled with background stories, bracket busters and buzzer beaters.

But I say March Madness provides a healthy distraction when we need it most. I say the basketball court is a magical space where tragedy is rewritten into triumph, where the rules are clear and a perfectly-timed alley-oop gets us all to our feet.

I say The Big Dance is the safest, sweetest kind of insanity.

During March Madness, I suddenly care about teams and programs I’ve never heard of. I lose my voice cheering for the Santa Clara Broncos and the South Florida Bulls. Off the court, I care about inspirational fans (RIP, Sister Jean) and slobbery mascots (Hopefully you get in next year, Griff!) March Madness brings out my superstition, a trait born in childhood when I would drown out the noise of roaring crowds during close games by hiding in the bathroom and flushing toilets. If I think I’m bringing bad luck to the Cyclones now, I will switch shirts at halftime.

It’s a narrative of highs and lows. I jump and cheer when my team’s stifling defense topples a higher seed. With a lump in my throat, I watch coaches hug their senior players at the end of a game and feel a strange grief when the buzzer signals the end of another season.

Pick your metaphor: David versus Goliath, Cinderella at the dance, the sleeping giant. They all inspire.

I need the madness every year, but this year — because there’s a lot of despair in the world — it feels more like a lifeline than a pastime. Long-term stress about the state of the world will be replaced with a short-lived blood pressure spike when the Cyclones are playing. And by the end of the tournament in early April, that pesky wrinkle between my eyebrows will be temporarily erased. Because — win or lose — this is a game of joy.

Basketball, however, doesn’t fix the world, and the despair isn’t going away. So I will attend protests, deliver groceries to immigrant neighbors too frightened to leave their homes and vote like my life depends on it.

And I will continue to watch basketball. I’ll take in post-game interviews and read post-game analyses the next morning. I’ll delight in every dunk and Cinderella story. I’ll complete a mascot bracket (does a boilermaker beat a lion?) and send trash talk texts to my sons.

Because in 2026, my life depends on basketball, too.