I have done it every year for the last 25 years.…tournament brackets, that is. And every year, I’ve done it along with other people in sort of a contest. For years, my college buddy, Dave, and I had a milkshake riding on who “won” March Madness brackets. He drank a lot more milkshakes than I did.
And still I insist on pitting my stunning basketball acumen against that of others year after year. Why? Mental instability? Maybe. A grasping attempt to be known as the tourney guru? More likely. Last year was my great opportunity. I joined the office pool that included four people who watch college basketball as much as I watch Oprah. Some of them hastily filled out brackets in minutes.
Not me. I labored through the bracket with my usual assortment of Sheridan odds, RPI numbers, USA Today team summaries, ESPN expert picks, and other analytical datas. Each game was carefully chosen.
I started off with a…let’s call it an average first round. Not bad. Not great. But then I hit a run like I’ve never had before. I had a great second round, and it only got better. Get this. I correctly picked 7 of the elite 8, all of the Final Four, the final two, and the tourney champion! Remarkable! Unprecedented for me! And I lost the office pool to a gal who probably picked on the basis of cool team mascots!
So, why does that bug me so much? I’ve been wondering. Why does winning matter so much to me? Why do I make everything a contest, even trying to pick which line will move the fastest at the grocery store? Part of it is a love for games, a cool thing God has built into life. But there’s this other piece of me always trying to prove something about myself.
It’s as if winning makes me feel significant, that I matter. The truth is that winning doesn’t make me significant. I’ve been wondering, though, why it is so important to me to feel significant or prove I’m significant. I’m still thinking through that, but it is this reminder to me that there’s something deeper to me than simply bone and skin. Part of me is simply matter, another part of me wants to matter. I can’t escape that there is this “soul” part of me. It shows up every year in March!
And still I insist on pitting my stunning basketball acumen against that of others year after year. Why? Mental instability? Maybe. A grasping attempt to be known as the tourney guru? More likely. Last year was my great opportunity. I joined the office pool that included four people who watch college basketball as much as I watch Oprah. Some of them hastily filled out brackets in minutes.
Not me. I labored through the bracket with my usual assortment of Sheridan odds, RPI numbers, USA Today team summaries, ESPN expert picks, and other analytical datas. Each game was carefully chosen.
I started off with a…let’s call it an average first round. Not bad. Not great. But then I hit a run like I’ve never had before. I had a great second round, and it only got better. Get this. I correctly picked 7 of the elite 8, all of the Final Four, the final two, and the tourney champion! Remarkable! Unprecedented for me! And I lost the office pool to a gal who probably picked on the basis of cool team mascots!
So, why does that bug me so much? I’ve been wondering. Why does winning matter so much to me? Why do I make everything a contest, even trying to pick which line will move the fastest at the grocery store? Part of it is a love for games, a cool thing God has built into life. But there’s this other piece of me always trying to prove something about myself.
It’s as if winning makes me feel significant, that I matter. The truth is that winning doesn’t make me significant. I’ve been wondering, though, why it is so important to me to feel significant or prove I’m significant. I’m still thinking through that, but it is this reminder to me that there’s something deeper to me than simply bone and skin. Part of me is simply matter, another part of me wants to matter. I can’t escape that there is this “soul” part of me. It shows up every year in March!
