June 21, 2011
Oh that wicked and elusive Mademoiselle Championship!
At first she seems fictional; an exotic date destined for some Brad Pitt out there in la-la land. She’d never fall for common folk like us. Or would she?
Wasn’t that her whispering from the shadows during the season? Someone said they saw a glimpse of her a time or two around Hawkins Field, once for a fleeting moment during the Stanford series and then again at the Alabama sweep. Another claimed she must have hung around during those Tennessee blow-outs. They said they smelled her cheap perfume.
It’s very difficult to believe Madame Championship would choose us. She never has in a men’s sport and only once since the NCAA gave her birth in 1906. Naw, that couldn’t have been her. In the spring as legend has it, Madame Championship frequents haunts such as Austin or, better yet, Baton Rouge, which is probably a convenient hop from her alleged residence in New Orleans.
You are minding your own business in Hoover, Alabama when suddenly you are sure you saw her, just for an instant. She slipped into Regions Field about the time the Commodores were perfectly executing squeeze bunts against South Carolina. Must have been her, there was that cigarette butt with the ruby red lipstick left near our dugout.
Some among us whispered about her while the more prudent, or possibly timid, pleaded with us to never mention her name aloud. It was a curse to do so. After Florida doused our SEC Tournament hopes, many of us returned to our old, more common girlfriends, who felt safe and reliable. What were we thinking, anyway?
Then came the Regionals and a bunch of folks were sure Madame Championship had reappeared by the Green Monster. Oh, what a fickle damsel! Don’t tease us, please. But Madame doesn’t accept no for an answer. She was back there in Hawkins Field during the Super Regional and hundreds of people saw her dancing in the aisle to Cotton Eyed Joe and Sweet Caroline. She wasn’t trying to hide, not one bit.
We try to keep our minds clear and humble, traveling to Omaha where we realize that there have been Madame Championship sightings in multiple places: Berkeley, Austin, Gainesville, Columbia, Charlottesville, Chapel Hill, College Station. This sultry lady gets around.
The Game One draw is third-seeded North Carolina. Without warning, the crystal clear siren song of Madame Championship is heard throughout the enthusiastic Black and Gold section. It WAS her! We saw her with all that jewelry and long hair fluttering in the Midwest breeze. She has chosen us but wait… there’s yet another catch.
She wants us to prove our affection by running a gauntlet of powerhouse teams just to be certain. Madame Championship has revealed herself to be the type of woman who is never satisfied; you buy her a flat in Rio and she demands an estate in the south of France.
We try to oblige. We ignore severe storm warnings, double-check the mirror before leaving the room and walk to TD Ameritrade Park with a cautious but expectant bounce in our step. We will soon be one step closer to Madame Championship. We quietly consider how we will tell our old girlfriend goodbye.
Oh no! In an instant an orange and blue clean-up hitter named Preston Tucker sends the ball sailing into the right field bullpen. We watch stunned as Madame Championship gathers her purse and saunters over to the Florida section.
She seems so at home there, snuggling up at the bar with some Bull Gator equipped with Mitt Romney hair and South Beach cologne. His gaudy title rings are the harvest from a program whose $100 million annual budget produces a supremely confident swagger that only comes from achieving victory at the highest levels in football and men’s basketball.
Our heads – and our spirits – sag and we once again consider our customary, common law association. But something tells us to look up; it’s the Mademoiselle with all her charm, reminding us that its double-elimination.
She will see us again tomorrow and still might choose us. Our hearts flutter. Maybe one year. Perhaps even now?
