Where I live, April really is the cruelest month—because it means the end of the Kentucky basketball season.
So even though it is officially April, we Kentuckians are extending March a few more days with hopes that it results in the first-ever wire-to-wire, 40-win championship season. You know, Secretariat-style.
A local grocery has started selling poundcakes that resemble burning couches. A local brewery just concocted team-color beer: a blueberry-and-white Belgian ale. In the neighborhoods around campus, men and women with advanced degrees and positions of tenure stand on their front porches after tournament games and issue primal expressions of triumph right alongside the undergrads. We’re all in our full March form down here.
“It’s like your Mardi Gras,” transplanted New Orleans poet Julia Johnson told me the other day, “and it’s contagious.” Then she jumped up from her desk and did an impromptu fist-pumping dance.