The Whole World's On Steroids

"If you can take advantage of a situation in some way, it's your duty as an American to do it. Why should the race always be to the swift or the jumble to the quick-witted? Should they be allowed to win merely because of the gifts God gave them? Well, I say cheating is the gift man gives himself!" -- Mr. Burns, shortly before he and Homer used a hidden snowmobile to win the Springfield nuclear plant's team-building exercise, a race to the top of a snow-covered mountain.

While the proliferation of performance enhancing drugs in sports has been long-rumored, what with track and field records falling faster than Ben Affleck's Q-Rating and the average second baseman sporting the puffy physique made popular by former British Bulldog Davey Boy Smith, jaded skeptics like this author have been forced to rely on the overwhelming visual evidence for lack of any tangible confirmation.

With no concrete proof to support our claims, we've been forced to watch and wait as the specter of steroids dangled above the sports world like the Sword of Damocles, threatening to demean and diminish so many athletes and so many accomplishments at any moment.

That moment arrived last Thursday, when the weight of all the accusations, insinuations and innuendo finally grew to be too much, and the sword came crashing down square in the middle of a San Francisco courtroom. That's where a grand jury returned a 42-count federal indictment alleging four men -- two executives of the Bay-area supplement company BALCO, a personal trainer, and a track coach -- provided anabolic steroids, human growth hormone, EPO and other drugs to major league baseball and NFL players, as well as track and field stars. While the four have pleaded innocent, Greg Andersen, the personal trainer, has already confessed to federal agents that he has given steroids to several baseball players, but gave no specific names. At this point, it's only a matter of time.

Soon, many supposed superstars will be exposed as being no better than Mr. Burns. Tired of losing out to those more genetically blessed. Willing to break the rules in order to achieve their goals. Fully aware that in our quick-fix, instant-oatmeal, eight-minute abs society, there is always a much faster way to the top of the mountain than hard work and perseverance.

Cheating -- my friends -- is in, and an ever-expanding menu of performance enhancing drugs is the free ride of choice.

So why are they doing it? Why are so many athletes, from the rookie-league right fielder to the leading-man linebacker, lining up for the opportunity to experiment with unproven, untested concoctions that could cost them their careers, their legacy, and most importantly, their physical health?

Simple -- because they work.

Boy, do they work. Shoot, if BALCO wanted to start advertising, they could produce the most convincing testimony-based infomercial since the George Foreman Fat-Free Grilling Machine made the hamburger live again. Don't believe me? Then just listen to these responses from this collection of celebrity endorsers.

Ben Johnson, Sprinter, Canadian Olympic Team: When I arrived at the 1988 Games in Seoul, Carl Lewis' world record in the 100-meters was a leisurely 9.92 seconds. Thanks to a healthy diet, strict training regimen, and twice-weekly injections of the anabolic steroid Stanozolol, I shocked the racing community by running an unheard of 9.79, or roughly the speed of sound! I smoked Carl Lewis by eight meters! Sure I may have been stripped of my gold medal, banned from competition for two years, and had my record wiped from the books, but nobody could take away the satisfaction I felt as I watched the best sprinters in the world take 14 years to beat my time. Fourteen years! That's why I chose Stanozolol, the steroid that Stanz' the test of time!

Ken Caminiti, Third Baseman, San Diego Padres: Are you suffering from financial difficulty? Do you dread the arrival of the mailman due to mounting bills and credit card debt? Well, I was once like you. Heading into the 1996 season, I was a light-hitting nobody who had never hit more than 26 home runs during any of my first 9 years in the league, and as a result, was getting paid just over the league minimum. The league minimum! I could barely pay my three mortgages! Lucky for me, that's when I discovered Testosterone, available at your nearest Mexican pharmacy. Within a year, I was transformed into a muscle-bound slugger, launching 40 homers on my way to the N.L. MVP award and the new $40 million contract that came with it! And I did it all at the age of 33! Sure my testosterone levels dropped to 20% of normal, my nuts retracted, and 5 years later my broken-down body forced me out of baseball -- but at least I don't have to fear my creditors anymore!

Michelle Smith, Swimmer, Irish Olympic Team: Early in my career, despite logging mile after mile in the water, I felt like I was going nowhere. I was ranked 90th in the world in the 400-meter IM, and in two Olympics had never finished higher than 17th in the 100-meter backstroke. Seventeenth! I could have sat on my ass and smoked Newports and finished 17th! That's when my husband, a Dutch discus thrower serving a steroid suspension, suggested I try a little Vitamin S. By 1996, I had cut an unthinkable 17 seconds off two personal bests and won three Golds and one bronze in the Atlanta Games! And Ireland doesn't even have an Olympic-sized swimming pool! I never got caught either. The best they could do was suspend me for four years because I had a "lethal amount" of alcohol in one of my drug tests and they claimed it was a masking agent. Lethal amount of alcohol? I took so many roids I sprouted a penis, and they think some booze can kill me?

Mr. X, Superstar, Major League Baseball:(face blurred out and voice digitally altered) I became a BALCO client right before the 2001 season, and that year I went on to shatter the all-time single-season home run record. I could check my swing and still go yard 400 feet to the opposite field! Even though human growth hormone has slowly expanded my cranium and left me resembling a PEZ dispenser, I still give this product and this company my full endorsement.

I know what you're thinking -- this isn't funny, it's criminal. Steroids, EPO, HGH...these drugs have no place in sports. President Bush was right -- they need to be regulated and eliminated, immediately.

You couldn't be more wrong.

Didn't you see Jurassic Park? If not, here's the gist of it -- you can't stand in the way of evolution. You can't charge to the brink of discovery only to slowly back away from the ledge. It's irresponsible and short sighted.

I, for one, say turn the "juice" loose. I want to know just where the absolute limits of human athletic potential lie. If we shot enough testosterone into Maurice Green, could he outrace a cheetah? If we turned a Turkish weightlifter into a walking Petrie dish, could he clean and jerk a pick-up? Could we drop enough EPO into some barefoot Kenyan to produce the first 1-hour marathon? These questions need to be answered!

What we need to do is provide a stage on which ambitious athletes and freelancing pharmacists can redefine the impossible without fear of reprisal. I'm picturing a modern spin on that outdated concept, the Olympic Games. Only in my version, not only will the use of performance enhancing drugs be permitted, it'll be mandatory. Every athlete involved will owe it to themselves and their country to chemically engineer their body to the point where a 60-foot long jump will only be good enough for the bronze. It'll be like the Island of Dr. Moreau, only with a lot more spandex. Heck, it'll be the greatest spectacle in the history of sports! Are you honestly telling me that you wouldn't pay for the chance to see some freak chuck a javelin two miles? We'll throw it on pay-per view, charge $49.95 a pop, and clean up in the Deep South.

O.K. Moving on...in honor of the BALCO trial, here's a very bloated, jaundiced version of 12 Things You Oughtta' Know about the week that was.

12. Interesting note about the A-Rod trade. Do you realize Ichiro (Seattle, 2001) is now the only A.L. MVP winner since Frank Thomas in 1994 that still plays for the team with which he won the award?

11. Here's one I don't understand. After declaring war on terrorism, President Bush invaded Iraq, turned Baghdad into a landing strip, and overthrew an entire government based on very limited evidence of weapons of mass destruction. Now, Bush has declared war on steroids in sports. Based on the policy exhibited in the Middle East, shouldn't John Ashcroft be tearing apart Barry Bonds' bedroom right about now?

10. Overwhelming evidence that everyone is on 'roids No. 5: Brady Anderson's 50-homer year of 1996.

9. I have too many teeth to be a true NASCAR fan, but that didn't keep me from appreciating what Dale Earnhardt Jr. accomplished at the Daytona 500 on Sunday. What a surreal moment, watching him win the biggest race of his life on the same track that claimed his father. Movie material.

8. Classic Syndicated Simpsons Moment of the Week: Homer, trying to free himself from the Springfield tar pits, but instead making matters much worse -- "I'm pretty sure I can struggle my way out! First, I'll just reach in and pull my legs out. Now, I'll pull my arms out, with my face." Too funny.

7. Overwhelming evidence that everyone is on 'roids No. 4: Bret Boone's traps. In case no one else noticed, he's starting to look a lot like Latimer from "The Program."

6. I can still remember when Gary Barnett was hired to clean up Rick Neuheisel's mess, and he vowed to "bring the CU program back to national prominence." Did he ever.

5. I'm trying to decide which team has quit more -- the Magic or the Celtics?

4. Ready to hand the Yankees and their new $180 million line-up the World Series? Slow down... Last year's Red Sox team has the best offense statistically since the '27 Yankees, and we all know what happened to them. Bottom line -- hot pitching wins in October, and NY hasn't had enough of it since 2000.

3. Overwhelming evidence that everyone is on 'roids No. 3, NO. 2, and No. 1: David Boston, David Boston and David Boston.

2. About those Yankees -- in the 100-plus year history of Major League Baseball, only eight players have had contracts with a total value of over $100 million. FOUR of them are on the 2004 Yankees. Seems fair.

And the grand finale...

1. The "Did He Just Say That?" Quote of the Week: While I miss my brother Dave dearly, his living in Florida has provided a never-ending supply of too-good-to-be-true redneck quotes. He passed this nugget on last week -- Jimmy Spencer, when asked about NASCAR opening its doors for the first time to a foreign manufacturer and allowing Toyota to compete in the Craftsman Truck Series, actually responded to reporters that the Japanese "bombed Pearl Harbor, don't forget." I'm not making this up. Meanwhile, last year, Spencer, true patriot that he is, drove for Dodge... which is owned by Chrysler... which merged with Daimler... which, as you can probably tell, is a German manufacturer. Now, I never really paid attention in history class so correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't the Germans play a small role in WWII as well?

Mormon Cheerleaders...Sweet

"I've learned my lesson. A mountain of sugar is too much for one man. It's clear now why God portions it out in those tiny packets." -- Homer, accepting that you can have too much of a good thing.

October 1991: A series of freak weather phenomenon come together under ideal conditions over the Atlantic Ocean to form a meteorological anomaly so unprecedented, it earns the name, "The Perfect Storm."

March 2004: A similar series of rare occurrences come together under optimal circumstances over Denver, Colorado, resulting in what this author can only describe as, "The Perfect Weekend."

Much like those poor souls on the Andrea Gail, I didn't fully grasp the magnitude of the unfolding events until they were virtually upon me. Unlike that ill-fated boat, however, my moment of clarity came not amidst 100-foot seas and hurricane winds, but rather in the soothing warmth of a Thursday morning shower:

The NCAA tournament starts today. That means 48 games over the next four days. Thanks to DirecTV, I can watch every last one of them. I've got tickets to the first two rounds at the Pepsi Center. I've got no school -- spring break. I've got no job -- lazy. My girlfriend is 2,000 miles away. My roommate left town for the week. To top it off, for the second time in two years my buddy Regan has rendered my cell phone inoperable with a toppled Newcastle.

That was four days ago. Now it's Sunday night, and after nearly 100 hours of college basketball, I've come to this sobering realization: March Madness is no different than booze, betting, or Bryan Adams -- in moderation, it's a wonderful thing; abuse it, and you wind up a broken, broken man.

I had originally intended to chronicle the events of "The Perfect Weekend" for the benefit of future generations, but by Friday afternoon the hours of isolation, sleep-deprivation and over-stimulation had reduced my notes to the type of incoherent ramblings you would normally associate with an Allen Iverson press conference. While those items shall remain in my possession in case I should ever need to prove my insanity in a court of law, I was able to salvage Thursday's diary:

9:57 a.m. (all times are Mountain Standard): I'm on my bike (think Lemond, not Harley), cruising towards the Pepsi Center for Maryland-UTEP and Syracuse-BYU. It's only five miles away, a straight shot down the Cheery Creek Canal Path. Set below street level and running for over 40 miles, the Path provides a convenient training ground for Denver's abundant population of outdoor enthusiasts, while at the same time providing its equally abundant population of extroverted homeless a place to bathe, solicit donations, and inform others of the impending apocalypse without fear of reprisal.

10:21 a.m.: As the out-of-town scoreboard informs me that Florida-Manhattan has just kicked off the tournament, I take my seat. I am, without a hint of hyperbole, as far from the court as possible. I have but one thought: This is better than satellite, why?

10:42 a.m.: Maryland-UTEP gets underway. True story: Since my entire row is empty, I decided to slide down a few chairs to get a better angle. Just now, two guys walked up to me, glanced at their tickets, then at me, then back at their tickets, before informing me, "You're in our seats." EVERY SINGLE SEAT in this God-forsaken row is open, and these two are getting their panties in a bunch because I've stolen their TicketMaster-designated spot. I'd wager my next student loan check these two are accountants.

11:01 a.m.: Speaking of wagers, it just dawned on my that I have inexplicably taken both Manhattan +5 against Florida AND Florida at 15-1 to be the highest scoring team of the day. Wonderful. (If I may digress, this isn't nearly the biggest gambling gaffe I've been privy to. My college roommate "Fats" McDermott once bet on a President's Day NBA game that had already finished. And lost.)

11:19 a.m.: No. 10 for UTEP, Chris Craig, reminds me of former Iowa State Cyclone Fred "The Mayor" Hoiberg. Like Hoiberg, you grow enamored with Craig's lightning-quick release and willingness to pull from everywhere, until you realize he's 2-11 from behind the arc and killing his team.

11:33 a.m.: At halftime, its Maryland 47-UTEP 42. I've seen better defense on the "And 1 Mixed Tape" tour -- UTEP hasn't had to shoot from outside of three feet in the last 12 minutes. Elsewhere, it's Manhattan by 11 over Florida. I am both a genius and an idiot, sort of like Mike Shanahan. Texas Tech is smacking Charlotte.

Unrelated Halftime Musing #1: America's sports venues are truly the last bastion for food providers looking to cater to the "fat and happy." No Atkins menu, no low-carb, low-fat alternatives -- just cheese-steaks, nachos and burgers. It's refreshing, in a repulsive sort of way. 12:28 p.m.: The second half starts. Perceptive as I am, I just noticed that there is only one white guy in the game. This being Denver, that means there are roughly three times as many black people on the court as there are in the rest of the arena combined. We are a veritable melting pot. 12:29 p.m.: In an entirely unrelated matter, the lone white guy, Nik Caner-Medley of Maryland, is single-handedly keeping UTEP in the game. Maryland 75-UTEP 72.

12:43 p.m.: Two finals are in: Manhattan smoked Florida, so I broke even, and Texas Tech hung on for a three-point win. Here, UTEP just tied the game on a Craig three pointer with 1:43 left, which, in terms of likelihood, is the equivalent of Ollie hitting those foul shots to send Hickory to the state finals in "Hoosiers."

12:48 p.m.: With 13 ticks left and a chance to tie, the aforementioned Craig just quick-released two air-balls. Maryland survives, 86-83. Harmony is restored to the universe.

1:23 p.m.: One seated power nap later, it's time for the start of Syracuse-BYU. You've got to admire the inherent advantage provided by the mandatory two-year Mormon mission -- the average age of the BYU starting five is slightly older than that of the Indiana Pacers, including Reggie Miller. Other games: St. Joes- Liberty, Wake Forest-VCU, and Alabama-Southern Illinois. 1:24 p.m.: Hakim Warrick just baptized BYU center Rafael Araujo on 'Cuse's first possession. This does not bode well for the Cougars. Something tells me the 900 pounds of glorified parking cones they call a front-court may not be able to handle the Orangemen's athleticism. Side note: You may very well never hear this again as long as you live, but the author of the best dunk of they year resides in Provo, Utah. Mike Hall, BYU's 6'3" guard, rose up in traffic and threw down on half of the Air Force squad back in February. Trust me.

1:53 p.m.: BYU leads 29-21 in a game where both teams are allergic to the paint. BYU's 29 points have come on only 10 possessions -- eight three's, one three-point play by Araujo, and a lay-in. Meanwhile, Syracuse guard Gerry McNamara has nailed HIS first three from behind the arc.

2:00 p.m.: I feel like I'm watching NBA "All-Star Weekend" circa 1988. Mike Hall is doing his best Dominique, unleashing one highlight dunk after another. McNamara is Bird without the finger wagging -- six for six from three-point land, each one deeper than the last. Oh, by the way, it's 40-33 BYU.

2:11 p.m.: This is surreal. The crowd has caught on to McNamara, chanting "GERRY, GERRY" each time he touches the ball. It's like being at a "Springer" taping, only without the gratuitous nudity. With the entire arena urging him to shoot, McNamara obliges more often than not, finishing the half with 28 of 'Cuse's 42 points and tying the game in the process. Elsewhere, St. Joe's is up big, while Wake Forest and Alabama are locked up in tight ones.

Unrelated Halftime Musing #2: I was fairly confident "student-athlete" was the biggest oxymoron I would encounter on this day, but as usual, I was wrong. Meet your new champion -- "Mormon cheerleaders."

2:38 p.m.: Second half tip. BYU is in a box-and-one. The box is covering McNamara. Good move. 2:50 p.m.: Scrap the box-and-one. No defense ever devised could stop this kid right now. He's Sidney Dean, Jimmy Chitwood, and Teen Wolf all wrapped up into one. You know how in the old "NBA Live" video game, once you hit three bombs in a row you were "on fire," and could hoist from anywhere and it would drop? That's McNamara. Each time he pulls up, the collective inhalation of the 19,000 in attendance sucks the air out of the place, only to be replaced by a raucous ovation seconds later when the shot inevitably bottoms out. He's got 36 with NINE threes -- 'Cuse up six.

2:55 p.m.: Who the hell is working the out-of-town scoreboard? For twenty minutes, I've seen "VCU 63-Wake Forest 57." Suddenly, I get "WF 79-VCU 78, FINAL. That's 37 points unaccounted for. I don't get it. If you're the scoreboard guy, what other part of your job can possibly distract you from updating the games? Did you have a big meeting? A conference call? Give me something. In other news, Alabama and St. Joes also won. Somewhere, my girlfriend is smiling.

2:59 p.m.: With eight minutes left and Syracuse up five, McNamara takes a seat on the bench to rest for crunch time. The crowd goes into the "GERRY" chant...

2:59:30 p.m.: He's back.

3:08 p.m.: BYU's Araujo, who at 6'11", 340 is only slightly quicker than Arvidas Sabonis, just got someone to bite on a head fake at the three-point line and took it to the rack. Jim Boeheim is pulling his hair out. BYU is within three. 3:17p.m.: It's all over but the shouting. McNamara just iced it with three foul shots in the final minute to finish with a career high 43. It was easily one of the 10 best individual performances I've ever witnessed. As much as I claim to detest live sports, I've got to admit, I wouldn't have enjoyed this nearly as much via satellite.

3:37 p.m.: In the highlight of the day to this point, I just scalped my first ticket, $55 seats to tonight's Texas-Princeton and N.C.-Air Force games. Having been raised under the shelter of suburbia, this was my first foray into the seamy underbelly of society. It was all so exciting -- the hushed tones, the guarded negotiations, the shifty eyes searching for Federales -- hell, I even had an escape route planned. When it was all said and done, I had cleared enough to subsidize the cost of my DirecTV package. If you boil it down, I exchanged my right to join others in chanting "DEFENSE" and making the "traveling" motion for TWO games for the right to have 63 games beamed into my living room. It was, without question, the most one-sided deal since the Louisiana Purchase.

3:55 p.m.: I settle onto my couch just in time for the second half of the lone 3:30 p.m. match-up, or as the CBS programming department likes to call it, the "Who gives a s--t' game. This year, it's Stanford-Texas San Antonio, and even the familiar embrace of my remote control can't wake me up enough to care about the action. 4:43 p.m.: Stanford wins by 26. The line was 25, and Texas-San Antonio missed two lay-ups in the final seconds. This further supports my theory that Vegas odds-makers are the smartest men on the planet, and if only more philanthropic, could fix many of society's ills. There is now a 27-minute break until the next game, providing just enough time for a shower, some beef jerky, and phone calls to loved ones, in no particular order.

5:11 p.m.: Four new games: Duke-Alabama St., Michigan St.-Nevada, Connecticut-Vermont, and Princeton-Texas. With three of the last five national champions tipping off simultaneously, you would think choosing what to watch would prove difficult, but you would be wrong. The only reason to EVER watch Duke is to root for them to lose, and since that just isn't going to happen today, why bother? Michigan St. was impossible to watch when they were good, so now that they're awful, that game is out. On the other hand, Princeton-Texas intrigues me as the latest installment in the age-old battle of intellect versus athleticism, and I've got some loot on Connecticut to score 20.5 points before Vermont gets to 14.5. Using that indisputable logic, the GO BACK button on my remote is all set. 5:22 p.m.: It's 15-12 Vermont. I would have been better off spending my money on magic beans.

5:35 p.m.: Connecticut just went on a 9-0 run to take a 21-15 lead, meaning I lost my wager by half a point. I've said it before and I'll say it again -- odds-makers... kings among men.

5:50 p.m.: For some unknown reason, the overwhelmingly pedestrian Vermont players continue to challenge Connecticut All-American center and athletic marvel Emeka Okafor, even though he's already got four blocks. The last rejection prompted my brother Mike to call and ask, "Don't they get Cable TV in Vermont?"

6:04 p.m.: At the half, Connecticut, Duke and Michigan are all up big. Meanwhile, Princeton is shocking Texas 25-22, and to add insult to injury, the Ivy Leaguers have Jedi-mind tricked their Longhorn counterparts out of much of their meal money.

Unrelated Halftime Musings #3 Some soon-to-be-cancelled show called "Century City," which is apparently set in the year 2030, just ran a promo for an episode that poses this ethical conundrum: Should an athlete be allowed to play in the major leagues if he has a bionic eye? Let me get this straight... in 2004, guys are taking so much HGH (which is said to improve eyesight) they can see through bank vaults, and they're concerned that a bionic eye 25 years from now might provide an advantage?

6:45 p.m.: Duke and Connecticut are rolling, so I'm focused on Princeton-Texas. (Did I mention that I was supposed to go to Princeton? Yup. I just didn't get in.) Texas has run up a 13-point lead, reminding us of one of the immutable laws of sports: While brains and hard work can take you to the brink of success, once you're there, you will inevitably be pummeled by those more genetically gifted. 7:08 p.m.: Man, Matt Daughterty was right -- Duke DOES have the ugliest cheerleaders in college basketball.

7:27 p.m.: With Duke, Connecticut and Texas advancing easily, I feel obligated to check out Michigan St.- Nevada. I say obligated because, to be honest, after nine straight hours of basketball, I fear I'm starting to show the effects of overexposure. I just spent 15 minutes trying to download the NCAA jingle to my broken cell-phone. Steve Lappas' hair cut, once an object of ridicule, has become strangely appealing. Inane marketing strategies are starting to appear frighteningly plausible. (The McNuggets switched to white meat?? Then I can change for the better too!) I think I need a hug.

7:44 p.m.: After temporarily clearing my head with five minutes of "Booty Call" on FX, I flip back just in time to see Nevada finish off the upset of Michigan St., 72-66. Like a PEZ candy replaces its consumed brethren, the moment one game ends, a new one slides into its place. In this case it's North Carolina-Air Force, another fascinating match-up of style versus system.

8:10 p.m.: Finally! After 13 games, the one I've been waiting for has finally arrived -- Arizona-Seton Hall. Despite having never stepped foot inside Arizona state lines, my basketball allegiance shifted to 'Zona during the Sean Elliott/Steve Kerr years, and has remained there ever since. I am already dreaming of a second round upset of hated Duke. Other games: Dayton-DePaul and Gonzaga-Valpairso.

8:25 p.m.: The thing about Arizona is, they clearly have the highest talent/IQ ratio in the country. That's not a good thing. Imagine an entire team comprised only of Ricky Davis clones -- freakishly athletic, yet incapable of rational thought. They've managed to parlay the former into an eight-point lead, but I imagine the latter will play a role before it's all said and done. 8:50 p.m.: After a look-in at the Air Force game, I'm left with this thought: If they played Princeton, would anyone score, or would there just be an uninterrupted string of shot-clock violations?

9:06 p.m.: Arizona's still up six at the half, so my roommate's possessions are safe for the time being. Elsewhere, Air Force is surprising Carolina, Gonzaga is pounding Valpo, and Dayton leads DePaul. Unrelated Halftime Musing #4: This might be the drowsiness talking, but this new PowerAde commercial with Lebron shooting 80-foot fade-away jumper is a new addition to my Top 5 All-Time Sports Commercials. But that's another column all together.

9:37 p.m.: Arizona just went up 14. This can't last... 9:40 p.m.: It didn't last. The lead is down to six. 9:50 p.m.: Never underestimate the predictability of stupidity. Arizona is down four points.

10:00 p.m.: Arizona's out. Done. Gone the way of Michigan St. The only consolation is now I don't have to suffer the indignity of watching Duke pound them by 30. In other games, Gonzaga won big, and North Carolina came back to beat Air Force. This result is particularly unsettling. Many of these same Air Force players will go on to fight for our freedom in battle. Many of these same North Carolina players will go on to fight for THEIR freedom in paternity suits. There is no justice in this world.

10:28 p.m.: Have you ever read Joseph Conrad's "Heart of Darkness?" I should have guessed. What about the Cliff's Notes? Fine. How about this -- have you ever seen "Apocalypse Now?" Good, now we're getting somewhere. Well let me tell you this -- while 12 hours of watching basketball in my basement may not the traumatic equivalent of a journey up the Nung River, either way, you wind up in the darkest recesses of the human psyche. I can now fully understand how the seclusion and sense of irrefutable power drove Colonel Kurtz mad. Heck, if I thought visitors were even a remote possibility, I'd have the heads of natives adorning sticks lining the top of the stairs. Oh, by the way, DePaul and Dayton just went to overtime -- I've got at LEAST 20 minutes left.

10:34 p.m.: Andre Brown of DePaul just missed two more foul shots -- he's now 0-10 from the line. The game is going into a second overtime. "The horror! The horror!" (Read the book.) 10:51 p.m.: DePaul wins in double OT. It's over. It's finally over. All I want to do is go to bed, but I can't shake the sound of Billy Packer's voice. When I close my eyes, I see Bonnie Bernstein. While I was on the phone with my girlfriend, I grew weary and asked for a "TV Timeout." Despite my complaints, and to much my surprise, I am comforted by one thought: I get to do this all over again in less than 12 hours.