INDIANAPOLIS, Crowne Plaza Indianapolis Airport, March 25 -- One of my favorite books of the past 15 years is Into The Wild. It was a national New York Times bestseller that was made into a major motion picture (Emile Hirsch was great in it). It's the non-fictional story of a young student-athlete named Chris McCandless whom, after graduation from college in 1990, renamed himself Alexander Supertramp, gave his savings to charity and hitchhiked around North America. He ended up dead in a remote region of Alaska, where his decomposed body was discovered by hunters.

The book is so powerful, and contains such immediate language, that it's pretty much made Catcher in the Rye obsolete as a meditation on young American male restlessness and wanderlust. And it hits quite close to home, too: that was same era during which I was thumbing my way around the United States, separated from my family with a new name, aloof to the dangers of the road. In the summer of 1989, between my junior and senior years of prep school, I hitchhiked from New Hampshire to California and back, looking for something pure that I never found. In Indiana, on my way west, the driver of an El Dorado stabbed me with a hunting knife while trying to take my backpack. I still have the scar, a two-inch permanent sunburn above my right hip.

But perceived simpatico is not why I love Into The Wild. Two-thirds of the way through the book, author Jon Krakauer slides into the narrative all Kilgore Trout-like, and tells his own adventure story in two cutaway chapters. In 1979, a young Krakauer made a solo 20-day expedition to Alaska and successfully reached the summit of the Devils Thumb -- a 9,000-foot unclimbable peak in the state's Boundary Range. It was a difficult ascent up a diorite wall covered in feathery ice, a climb that repeatedly came close to costing him his life.

Upon his return to civilization, however, Krakauer learned a sobering lesson: it didn't matter.

The euphoria, the overwhelming sense of relief, that had initially accompanied my return to Petersburg faded, and an unexpected melancholy took its place. The people I chatted with in Kito's didn't seem to doubt that I'd been to the top of the Thumb; they just didn't much care.

...Less than a month after sitting on the summit of the Thumb, I was back in Boulder, nailing up siding on the Spruce Street Townhouses, the same condos I'd been framing when I left for Alaska. I got a raise, to four bucks an hour, and at the end of the summer moved out of the job-site trailer to a cheap studio apartment west of the downtown mall.

It is easy, when you are young, to believe that what you desire is no less than what you deserve, to assume that if you want something badly enough, it is your God-given right to have it. When I decided to go to Alaska that April, like Chris McCandless, I was a raw youth who mistook passion for insight and acted according to a obscure, gap-ridden logic. I thought climbing the Devils Thumb would fix all that was wrong with my life. In the end, it changed almost nothing. But I came to appreciate that mountains make poor receptacles for dreams.

This was not a popular section of the book with most readers, and I've heard it described as grandstanding, unnecessary filler, narcissistic even. Hollywood had little use for Krakauer's tale -- the film version edited him out altogether, and opted to make Chris' sister the primary narrator instead. But for me, this threw the entire book into a five-dimensional perspective, give the work ballast and true weight. Without the inclusion of the two chapters on the Stikine Ice Cap, Into The Wild is a third-hand, third-rate version of Catcher -- a point proven, perhaps, by the massive story exaggerations contained in the movie script.

The author never had to announce it in so many words, but he was detailing exactly why he felt so compelled to give this particular ghost a new life and a new voice, why he cared enough to spend three years and hundreds of pages writing this biography. Without a chronicler, nobody would give a crap about Chris McCandless. Without Jon Krakauer to tell the story, this great adventure of Alexander Supertramp is worthless -- like so many million other great adventures. Without Jon Krakauer, Chris McCandless is a human dead end, an uncelebrated thrill-seeker who brought back no lessons for anyone else.

A dead end, just like I would have been if I hadn't twisted out of the way awkwardly that day on the flat blue leather seat, if that knife had found its intended mark. My life might have ended meaninglessly, with no curious biographer to document it. Roads, after all, make poor receptacles for dreams too.

But you don't need poetry to illustrate this. For instance, put two basketball teams on a court in an elimination game, one side with eight or ten times the available resources than the other. One measures itself against perfection, while the other has to fight for the opportunity to even show up on the same court. If the score is close near the end of the game, and the fight falls away, that's a graphical depiction of the border between hope and heart-collapse that any spectator can understand.

Now repeat this 20 times, until the heart can't fill up and collapse any more, and that's what these past four days have been like.

In the remaining pool of 16 aspirants to the National Championship, there are two programs that come from schools that should be too small to compete with the power-conference Goliaths and their unlimited funds. Of all the teams that we've talked about this year, only one remains. Among the institutions that don't refuse to be labelled as "mid-majors," none remain at all.

MINNEAPOLIS -- You work in an office. It's a big office with hundreds of people. You all have hard jobs: everyone toils at their stations every day, struggling to put in efforts that will be recognized. When you get a pat on the back and a "good job," it always seems so fleeting... nobody remembers your name the next day. You just can't seem to get ahead in the world.

But there's that one guy, let's call him Mr. G. He's a real junior achiever, he's got big dreams and plans. He's handsome, he's from a mysterious place far off the grid, and the mere mention of his name is a conversation starter (how do you pronounce that?). The ladies love him. He's like the most interesting guy in the world from that beer commercial. And the bosses have taken notice: because of some dazzling numbers he put up a while back, he's getting perks and benefits that you just can't get access to. Executive washroom keys, a spot at the big-boy lunch table in the caf, invites to private parties with valet parking -- considering his humble beginnings, Mr. G's a great story.

Such a great story that he survived a stretch when he wasn't bringing in the big numbers like he used to. Mr. G was coasting for a while. It didn't matter, though: he was so dashing, so in with the in crowd, he was given the benefit of the doubt... something you can't seem to get no matter what you do. Mr. G, you look tired, I believe you'll be alright.

Gonzaga beat the MAC champions from Akron by 13 points, but it's a DVD that I plan on giving to anybody who thinks that scoring margin, adjusted or otherwise, matters for anything. There was a late Zag run, whoopee. We prefer the metric that measure average scoring margin within the game (used extensively in Basketball State's rating system) and that was Akron +2.6. The twin lessons from that game are that a.) Gonzaga doesn't look good against teams that play hard and scrappy, and b.) don't blink when you're playing this team because it has ass-torching capability when the court is open.

Western Kentucky has plenty of big bodies that they can throw at the Zags (like Jeremy Evans and D.J. Magley), and it's crucial that they create mass chaos down low. The Hilltoppers are also well-positioned to exploit Gonzaga's Achilles' heel, which just so happens to be shaped just like a heel! The arc is the place to get them -- Akron hit 10 3's, if you'll recall. This will give Orlando Mendez-Valdez, a man who had little input into the 2008 Sweet 16 run (11 points in three games, a total he matched against Illinois on Thursday a chance to become a national name (yes, a very long and hyphenated one too). The Sun Belt POY has hit 94 3's in 230 attempts for 40.9 percent. And do not give up an extended run to this hot-shooting team -- if Akron hadn't yielded that 13-0 late spurt, this would be a Zip-Top affair instead of a Zag-Top one.

Upsetability: Medium-high.

It's the NCAA Tournament, and Bally's got a front row seat! Our little orange friend got so close to the first round action that the refs almost snatched him off the press row table and put him into the game! Not that he'd complain about that!

MINNEAPOLIS -- Just so we're clear, we don't care about your brackets. We know you want to talk about who you "have," about how three of your eight website entries are totally and thoroughly busted, and how you'll never win that $84.50 in the office pool now. We don't want to hear about how you knew that Illinois was overrated, about how much you know about a sport you were ignoring six weeks ago. (We also don't care that UNC's mission is not to let you down this time.)

This must be a lot of fun for you, this March Madness. It must be pleasant to rally behind something until you have no use for it anymore, to adopt and dispose the efforts of a team, to judge its efforts without any real consequence. But the idea that your gambling stories are somehow as thrilling as the on-court action is misguided at best. The delusion, however great or small, that any of the participants care who you've picked in your brackets is the luxury of narcissism. It's the same Princess of the Universe mentality that turned a lot of our country into soulless suburbs, each two-bedroom ranch an island unto itself.

Our respect is reserved for those who have invested much more than lunch money or barroom bragging rights. First and foremost, our admiration is for the players, coaches and staff members who fought for five long months to win the championship of a lesser-known league and earn a toehold on this Big Bracket. They didn't do it for the sympathies of strangers, or for the opportunity to stand in front of a Vitamin Water tank on national television.

There's no margin for error for teams on this side on the line, none at all. The shot has to go in. One series of mistakes, three bad minutes within 40, and it's the end of the line. It can come early on, like the 9-0 deficit that Butler found itself in before any other games had started, or the four quick turnovers by Northern Iowa that began its contest. It can come late, as happened to undaunted American or brave little Cal State Northridge or tough overachievers Akron. In all cases, a single stretch was the difference between historical footnote and national headliner, why each season epitaph is the standard "These coaches, players, fans and community should be proud of this team. These guys played their hearts out today, they have nothing to be ashamed of." They were not perfect. And that is why these days are so very cruel indeed.

At least it was better than last year. The fat lady didn't sing (we chose the right Buffalo Wild Wings this time), but both of us were very difficult to be around. We had to wait until the very end -- well past 1 a.m. Eastern time -- for a team that showed just enough perfection, as Western Kentucky held the line and eliminated Illinois in Portland. So there's one team through to the weekend, and we hope that Friday is as bountiful as last time. In fact, we're counting on it: our season ends when none of our teams are left.

I dunno, internet bracket previews and predictions are sort of like that. Four years ago, the few available had something of a rare authority, but now pretty much everybody with a computer has posted their upset picks and are competing for attention as so-called experts. We're not in the prediction game, but from logical and scarcity standpoints it seems a little silly to pile on. Instead, here are some ways that our boys can overcome the odds and win today.

And of course, if you are one of those folks who believe that the past indicates the future, there's Basketball State's Tournament Wiz, which you can ask questions like 12 over 5 and No. 1's going down in the Round of 32. I made it for you.

Even though I keep posting these distant dispatches, some folks are still convinced that I'm lying about all these places I go to. I'm from "the internet," and everything on the internet is a lie. Some think I'm not even a real person, that I'm a "profile" created by a 14-year-old girl who just loves older men and meeting IRL for big fun. While all that would make things a lot less complicated, everything on this site is Real Actual Court-Quality Truth. This is my life.

For five months out of the year, my life fits in black bags. Not one, not two, but four. The number and the size has changed over time, but since 2005 I've gone through trial and error to settle on rock-solid technique that allows me to stay on the road, efficient, ready for anything and not stopping at Wal-Mart every few hours for something I've forgotten. I'd like to share my skillz with you.

Let's get this out of the way: it's not the Opening Round, because that implies there's a "round." It's one game. And it's the Play-In Game, a/k/a the Notorious P.I.G., because it's for true mid-major players. And Bally... well, he's the P.I.G. P.O.P.P.A.!

It was The Year Of The Mid-Major. At the NCAA Tournament, eight mid-major schools won their first-round games, and three broke through to the Sweet 16. And of course, there was George Mason, taking matters all the way to the Final Four. It was an exciting time for me as well, from a professional standpoint. For a brief moment, my chosen pursuit of documenting this world was intriguing, vibrant, relevant on a national level. There was plenty of irrational exuberance about the "little guy" back then, and plenty of idle chatter about the sudden "parity" that existed in college basketball.

I didn't see parity, I saw eight teams with inferior resources that found ways to defeat well-heeled units with superior game plans, coaching ingenuity, heroic performances, solid systems (and yes, ball control). In the week between the Elite Eight and the Final Four, I wrote this column about the importance of money in Our Game, about how nothing was going to change the fact that teams like George Mason spent 20 percent of what UConn laid out for men's basketball operations. I mentioned that things like that catch up over time. It wasn't really what people wanted to hear in the happiness of the moment.

The year 2009, at least so far, has not been The Year Of The Mid-Major. Not a single team south of the Red Line that won on the NCAA's Big Bracket three years ago made the 2009 Tournament -- Wichita State, George Washington, Bucknell, Northwestern State, Wisconsin-Milwaukee, Montana, Bradley or George Mason are all simply wishing this time around. Followers of this site, or college basketball in general, will recognize that most of those teams didn't even come close. Of those eight, only George Mason even made its league title game.

I don't see much difference between those poor slackers and the millions of college basketball fans who are just now tuning in. You and I have been here all along -- taking notes, doing the homework and paying close attention for the past four months. But here comes the crowd whose excuse was that they were focused on football all winter, the folks who didn't come to class in February because the material was too hard to follow. And it's kind of annoying, you know? But the bracket's out, and here they are again. And this is where the metaphor breaks down: in this classroom, they're likely not deferring to your superior attendance record. They know way more about basketball than you do.

I fully understand the importance of casual fans to this process. If it weren't for them, there would be no March Madness as we know it, the NCAA men's basketball championship would have all the cult snob appeal and limited national relevance of the Softball World Series. We need boorish Johnny-come-latelies to yell "That's a foul!" and "That's the worst call I've ever seen!" because it wouldn't be as loud without them, bless their hearts. We need their energy to power this thing forward as it moves into larger and larger stadiums; like any blockbuster movie, the crowd scenes require tens of thousands of extras.

Back when I was in college, there wasn't a day I loved more than Selection Sunday. I would sit in front of the television as the details were leaked out, tried to keep up by scratching excited team acronyms and codes on my blank bracket. I felt that euphoria of emotional overload that only comes when incoming information overwhelms the brain's ability to process it. It was a relevation of order from chaos, the bridge between darkness and light, every gift-giving holiday wrapped into one big and glorious package.

Then I went to the NCAA mock selection last month (Seth was there too), and I saw how brackets are made. I saw how 10 people are stuck in a room for five days and are forced to shoehorn today's basketball reality into the monstrous and unwieldy structure that yesterday's bureaucrats created. I saw how hundreds of votes and endless debate and a blur of team sheets turned the process into something as bland as third-quarter sales projections. It was the same kind of flawed groupthink that chased me out of the 9-to-5 world and compelled me towards mobile sportswriting. In short, it broke my heart.

The NCAA made me hate Christmas.

But the scenes of happiness captured in the images below serve as proof that underneath the chest of every low-seed loser is a true champion's heart. Never forget that these are all winners, and that they've come a long way to get past the gate of Selection Sunday. We certainly won't forget.

Akron (Mid-American)