How March Madness Reinforced My Gender Identity

Gender identity is fluid, as it should be.

There are times, however, when the fluid turns to solid, and the melting point is too high for debate.

 

March 2024

“Yeah, I’ll do a bracket!” said my wife excitedly.

I gulped.

Married for almost 20 years, we obviously shared the same funding source. I knew that her $20 entry fee would, by default, be my $20 entry fee.

And I didn’t like her/our chances.

There was a time in her life when she could have named a couple active college basketball players.

That ship had sailed long ago.

As of March 2024, she could name only one person who had played college basketball—ever.

Michael Jordan.

“How about Lebron James?” she had once asked.

“He went to the NBA straight from high school,” I had mumbled.

Yes, the winners of NCAA Tournament brackets are notoriously uninformed, much to the chagrin of statistically-oriented fanatics who fall flat on their faces despite months of preparation.

Casual fans choose winners based on soft metrics—things like uniform color and simple geography. That said, even working by these measures requires research.

That’s where I sensed a problem.

Sure, the Duke Blue Devils and Marquette Golden Eagles were in it.

But the Syracuse Orange were not.

Nor were the St. John’s Red Storm.

The Georgia Tech Yellow Jackets? No such luck.

Between doctoring and parenting, was my wife really going to spend the time to look up colors where they weren’t obvious—like for Tigers, Wildcats, and Huskies?

As for geography, I had the same sinking feeling.

Stetson?

Duquesne?

Morehead St.?

Drake?

Wagner?

St. Mary’s?

Longwood?

McNeese?

Samford?

St. Peter’s?

Trouble loomed.

But I kept quiet.

As the first weekend of games tipped off, I looked forward to displaying my expertise as a sports fan—also known as sitting on the couch, overeating, and occasionally napping.

Given her freshly minted bracket, I expected my wife to join me for the proceedings.

But there was one issue.

My daughter’s dance competition?!

Whose idea was this? A competition during the first weekend of March Madness?

It turns out that my daughter’s dance studio had a very 1980s take on gender identity. That meant the responsibility for makeup, eyelashes, and moral support rested largely with the mothers.

Translation: I would still be mostly free to flaunt the aforementioned expertise.

Being the model father that I was, I made sure to coach my son in the nuances of sports fandom. In short order, he looked quite competent on the couch, snacking on high-fat products and occasionally yelling unintelligibly about his bracket.

Our bonding was interrupted on two occasions, both for trips to Kodak Center to watch the estrogen-centric festivities. Beer and a television were available, but most of the fathers seemed to be feigning disinterest. Who would want to have an adult beverage and watch college basketball instead of watching 12-year-old girls dance?

So I played along.

I appreciated the choreography, and I noted the understated athleticism.

I applauded the passion, and I smiled at the youthful joy.

But mostly, I marveled at the hard work of my wife, who assisted with costume changes, makeup concerns, and the hair situation.

My daughter was lucky.

So was my son. (Not because of my coaching.)

As I looked forward to another stint on the couch, I had nothing but respect for the woman of the household.

And perhaps—just perhaps—this was the year that despite everything on her plate, she had mastered the bracket anyway.

I cautiously opened the app, eager to check her/our position.

Twenty-third place!

Not bad—aside from one minor detail.

There were 23 entries.

How could this be? I wondered.

Then I spotted two of her Final Four picks. Texas Tech and Samford. Both eliminated in the first round.

It’s only $20, I told myself.

After all, it didn’t take a boygenius to understand that, long ago, I had already won.