Happy and Mad In March

It's a miracle the NCAA Tournament is enjoyable at all. Like its cynical corporate cousin the Super Bowl, it is a great competition that's nearly completely overwhelmed by everything that surrounds it. There are talking heads spouting meaningless maxims about Heart and Commitment that practically have little trademark symbols hovering above them. This all unfolds within a veritable brandpocalypse—let's throw it over to the Hardy's Meat Pylon Sideline Interview!—that's dotted with a lot of very real little trademark symbols.

There are coaches—both country clubish and alternate universe Roseanne cast members—just fucking screaming at put upon 19-year-olds for playing nervously in the biggest games of their young lives. There are Reggie Miller and Doug Gottlieb, turd-in-the-punchbowl-ing up a storm. There is the level of play, which can get kidney stone painful. There is the obvious and by now exhausting-to-ask question of how everyone is getting rich off this thing except for the athletes. There is—this year only, one hopes—the fact the Final Four is being held in a state that recently passed a Gay People Want To Purchase Goods And Services? Not On My Watch! law.

And yet despite all this, March Madness really is fun. The basketball part, at least. It's fitting that the two teams who meet in the title game this season are uncharacteristically lively iterations of two of the sport's dourest institutions. In one corner are Coach K's respectable assholes, who are mostly normal college basketball types dressed up with Leadership and Legacy; in the other, Bo Ryan's squad of fundamentally sound ur-midwesterners who never shoot the basketball with more than seven seconds remaining on the shot clock. That is the shorthand, anyway. But, in 2015, Duke and Wisconsin have transcended their respective Dukeness and Wisconsinosity. They're both—and let's keep this between you and I—fun to watch and quite likable.

To be fair, Wisconsin was ebullient last year, too. Ryan hasn't rejiggered his Shooting Is A Sign Of Weakness offense by much, but with the talent at his disposal, it looks prettier than it ever has. For the past two seasons, the Badgers have been to college basketball what the Spurs are to the NBA, scoring through passing and movement so fluid that, when they're in a groove, they're collectively impossible to defend. They beat the impermeable mass of limbs and athleticism that is Kentucky, both on the block and from beyond the arc, which is only surprising to those who haven't watched the Badgers play down the stretch.

It was still something of a shock, given how implacably great Kentucky had been and also given how un-shocking it felt as it went down. Kentucky played very well, but Wisconsin played better. "We had six turnovers for the game. We shot 90 percent from the free throw line, 60 percent from the three, and 48 percent from the field, and we lost?" said a disbelieving John Calipari after the Wildcats' 71-64 defeat on Saturday. Frank Kaminsky and Sam Dekker, when plugged into this system, have that kind of power.

The Blue Devils are, for once, a little bit raw. Not in the freshmen-still-figuring-stuff out way, but in the spirit of the late Ol' Dirty Bastard. Coach K has gone title-hunting in old age and ditched his unofficial Extra-Large Young Republicans recruiting policy some time ago, but he's never taken on a player quite so gleefully violent as Justise Winslow. Jahlil Okafor is a polished, balletic big man, and Tyus Jones is a chirping deep threat—on the surface, both Dukeish enough. Winslow, though, is a firework. He's full of exuberance, not just in his expressions, but his physical movements. He jumps like someone who is thrilled to be jumping so high, runs seemingly for the feeling of running fast. He gets so excited about draining a three that he neglects to get back on defense. He feels himself so hard he high-fives non-Duke fans. There's oodles of charisma there, and not of the traditionally Duke sneering dick/J.J. Redickian variety. It's more inclusive. It's carnivalesque. Winslow by himself is pleasing enough to make Duke worth rooting for. Finally, out of the dark, walnut-paneled honor cave in Durham: a burst of light.

We will clench our teeth at times during the national championship on Monday night. There is just too much blech! out there, swimming around the game for it to be utterly unspoiled. But the truly heartwarming aspect of March Madness is that, try as the suits who run it might, it cannot be ruined. Watching alternately trepidatious and so-scared-they're-fearless college athletes play basketball in the wild way they do is too beautifully batshit not to drown out everything else. There will be Coach K glowering at referees and stupid commercials, but there will also be moments of jagged, crushed-out-heavenly bedlam. These will come to us, improbably, via Wisconsin and Duke, but we know what we're here for, and we will not complain about who gives it to us. The game should be delightful.