The child is father of the man. How else can I explain it? Why else should it mean so much? Why else should I approach each college basketball season, particularly that part of it known to much of America as March Madness, with such a mixture of delight and terror, euphoria and dread? Why should a particular game, played with a round ball by twentyyear- olds in short pants often hundreds of miles away, mean so much to me, since I seem to have so little to gain or lose by its outcome?
