The Indoorsman sells his Spartan soul

An open letter to the Michigan State University men's basketball team:

Dear Spartans,

I apologize. I realize I let you down, and I apologize.

I assume you all know that I pick Michigan State to win the NCAA tournament every year. I do this when you guys are a No. 1 seed, and I do it when you're a No. 10 seed, as you were this year. The other bettors in my office pool generally laugh at me, but I know it means a lot to you. Especially you, three-time All Big Ten guard Kalin Lucas. (Not to take all the credit, but I suspect my loyalty has had something to do with your six Final Fours in the past 13 years.)

That's why this is so painful to say.

Embarrassed as I am to admit it, I hedged my bets this year and filled out two brackets. One had you, the mighty Spartans of Michigan State, reclaiming your rightful place as basketball champions and overall masters of the universe. The other followed conventional wisdom and had you losing in the second round.

Rationally, I recognize it's impossible for you to have known about this betrayal. But I nevertheless believe -- nay, I feel certain deep within the core of my being -- that this act of disloyalty upset some sort of player-fan balance. When Draymond Green turned the ball over on your first possession against UCLA last Thursday, I saw the briefest expression of confusion cross his face. And I knew that he knew: "Somebody in Washington state gave up on us this year."

Then Mike Kebler missed a jumper. Then Durrell Summers missed a jumper. All of a sudden, you were down 7-0. At halftime it was 42-24. You looked confused, disoriented. You looked like something was missing, something you hadn't even consciously known was there before. I knew what that something was; it was your Indoorsman's unwavering faith.

What will haunt me always is the knowledge that I, drunk on self-centered rationalization (and cheap beer), thought picking you in one of my two office-pool
brackets would be enough. I realize now, in the (relatively) sober light of day, that doing so was an even greater betrayal. It was an insult, a way to pay lip service to an ideal while actively shredding it for my own personal gain.

It's appropriate, poetic even in a karmic sense, that my other bracket -- the one that was intended to give me a more realistic shot at winning money -- is also a complete mess. Turning my back on my principles didn't even pay off. I sold my Spartan soul for a handful of magic beans. And those magic beans turned out to be stale jelly beans. Not the good kind. Those big purple ones that taste like food coloring and sawdust.

I know, Spartans, that your instinct upon reading this open letter will be to dismiss it, to insist that my actions thousands of miles from the game had no influence on your performance. And you believe that, too. But I know you're wrong. And I'm sorry.

Sincerely,
The Indoorsman