For whatever reason, I’ve followed sports for most of my life, and have seen Mickey Mantle, Jim Brown and Michael Jordan. I saw Mookie’s grounder go through Buckner’s legs and Warrick’s block on that final shot.
So I felt I was capable of filling out an NCAA Tournament bracket without embarrassing myself, and lo and behold, even with their starting center bounced from the team, I had Syracuse going all the way, to be crowned the national champions. I had my reasons.
For all I know, by the time you read this, the entire SU team could be bounced from the tournament, which would render my reasons groundless in retrospect, but that’s just the way reasons are, sometimes universal truths, sometimes twisted balloon hats.
Invariably, the experts put together the schedule for the big dance in the order that they do for a reason, but it never works out exactly that way. Two years ago, my mother-in-law, not knowing the difference between a Hoya and a Hoosier, filled out a family bracket and won.
Tim Hardin wrote, “If I listened long enough to you, I’d find a way to believe that it’s all true, knowing that you lied straight faced while I cried. Still I look to find a reason to believe.”
My mother’s mother wrote out recipes that she had collected for years, on index cards or scraps of paper. She wrote them in pen or pencil, in her cursive scrawl, and declared one day, it was her reason for being.
When she died, they were handed down to me, thousands of them, from Aunt Joan’s Johnny cakes to Flora’s zucchini relish. While cleaning out my attic, I decided I couldn’t just throw them out, so I use them as bookmarks and things. Maybe I’ll laminate them or apply them to furniture as decoupage.