f'blasticball! f'blasticball! allez, dooook-uh! allez, dooook-uh!

Calling all Cameron Crazies! Tonight, 9 pm, watch Boston College go down in flames as the inexorable march toward the Final Four continues...

Unbelievable. The College of Charleston evicted Davidson, then was routed by Chattanooga -- and so neither is likely to see NCAA tourney play. I was hoping to see more of Stephen Curry and the rest of the giant-topplers.

But that is what March Madness is all about.

There's always Tyler Hansbrough.

Yes, I am a rabid fan of the teams of Tobacco Road. Hmm. Do people still say "Tobacco Road" to reference the ACC's Duke, UNC-CH, Wake Forest, and NCSU b'ball teams (using the strictest of north-carolinian definitions/if not, people can be so lax as to include GA Tech or FSU and then that would lead to the inevitable conversation about Massachusetts and the North Atlantic coast and how the HELL BC got into the ACC... You wouldn't want that, now wouldya? Huh? Wouldya? I thought not.)?

It's improbable, but not impossible, that folks are speaking of Erskine Caldwell.

How rabid? Are there degrees of rabid? Do you believe that Dean Smith's car, unwisely parked in front of Duke Chapel, was dismantled and rebuilt inside that Holy Place? Do you remember the energy that Jim Valvano brought to the game? Defensive players fairly stomping their feet in frustration at the Four Corners offense? The East Regional Final in 1992, Christian Laettner's jump shot? That hustler Danny Hurley? Oh... and what's his name? Jordan, Michael Jordan.

And I guess the tale must be retold, the story of the 1998 Michael Jordan Jersey Caper, as explained in The Chronicle, the Duke student newspaper:

Balancing atop the rafters at nearly
140 feet above the Dean Dome’s center
court in the early morning hours
of Feb. 2, 1998, four Duke students
had one thing in mind—stealing Michael
Jordan’s jersey.
One student used belaying equipment,
which he borrowed from members
of Project WILD, to pull himself
up to the scoreboard and open the
door to the arena’s rafters. Another
student walked across the rafters with
just the support of a climbing rope.
Armed with a wrench, he unscrewed
Jordan’s jersey from its honorary loft.
“There were several close calls.
The cops were looking for people out
there, but they never had any sightings,”
said one of the students, who referred
to himself as “The Sixth Man”
in a 1998 letter to The Chronicle. “A
security guard came in to show his
girlfriend the Dean Dome while we
were ducking behind seats.”
The Blue Devil fans finally left the
Dean E. Smith Center at 4 a.m. and
hid the jersey in a gap between the
rafters and the wall. They returned
to the stadium the following night to
pick up the jersey, which they then hid
in a Central Campus apartment for almost
three weeks.
“Everyone had assumed the jersey
had disappeared at a Yanni concert
that had happened that weekend,”
The Sixth Man said.

March, March! I love March!

As soon as my brother-unit, Grader Boob, checks in with his predictions, I'll regale you with mine. I know, you're all aflutter at the thought.


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With five seconds left in the second half, UNC is up by a point over Virginia Tech, and has drawn a foul. (Do you remember the days when the seconds weren't micromanaged?) Okay, now we're at 4.6 seconds, UNC made both foul shots and is up by three. Now 3.5... and, merciful God, the buzzer. Carolina takes Va Tech 79-76.

Yes, we have a channel completely dedicated to American college basketball here at Marlinspike Hall, deep deep in the Tête de Hergé. La Belle et Bonne Bianca Castafiore has a huge Carolina blue foam finger that she keeps waving around as she yodels something about "f'blasticball! f'blasticball! allez, dooook-uh! allez, dooook-uh!" I got tired of trying to explain that Duke was not one of the teams on the court but she keeps giving me that look of condescending pity so dear to gallic schnobs. Fred? As hard as it is to believe, he doesn't care much for basketball -- he's more of a track and field fanatic. Still, he's gracious when March rolls around and has learned to expect the screaming and inevitable tears. So it's me and The Castafiore, courtside.

Despite the fact that oceans and ponds separate us, the Brother-Unit Grader Boob still maintains a firm hold on my psyche during a good many sporting events, from the Tour de France to the Australian Open, as explained in Blather. May Malted Milk Balls melt all over his students' ungraded final drafts! (je plaisante, mon frère, mon cher!)