Bubblicious: Anticipating the NCAA Tourney

"In all our quest of greatness, like wanton boys

whose pastime is their care, we follow after bubbles,

blown in the air. "

-John Webster-

It was 75 degrees today.  Trees were still leave-less and bare, flaunting their winter nudity, but it was 75 degrees just the same.

The clean sun burned holes in the coldest season, burrowing tunnels of warmth to welcome in SPRING.

College-aged kids are playing Frisbee football on a campus near my house.  Their legs are shockingly white from the winter hibernation and their shorts are a bit snug due to the seasonal layer of fat.

The sun is trying to awaken ALL of this.  It is quite a burden.

An adorable co-ed has her hair pulled back in a sloppy ponytail as she runs with a slightly clumsy gait and her leaden (and strangely HUGE) feet, wrapped with black cross-trainers, make a CLOP! with each step.

She stumbles and sort of tackles a gawky tall fellow with a bushy reddish Afro, like Will Ferrell wore as "Jackie Moon."

Somebody's little brother—who looks like he might be "kinda touched" or perhaps the product of cousins getting too familiar—hangs upside down in a nearby tree, swinging in a steady rhythm with his knees locked around a thick branch.

His movements and expressions bring to mind a three-toed sloth, and I think of a Wild Kingdom episode in which a lion chased a sloth in a pathetic race up a tree.  

I always thought of that lion as a sad schoolyard bully.  I wonder if this kid is little more than a tasty morsel for the Big Cats of this world.

The male students are playing without shirts, except for the chubby guy that looks like the kid in Superbad.  He appears to be taking a stand regarding the public unveiling of his man-breasts. 

They all seem disgustingly pleased with their youth and this makes me despise them just a little.  A group of three scrawny guys stand at the periphery, laughing at nothing.  Every kid out there has a tattoo of some sort.  Every single one.

The girl who tackled "Jackie Moon" is pretending she didn't mean to and the guy is soaking up the attention as everyone else gets sick of their flirting.

People standing still in the shade get suddenly cold, bolting for the superficial warmth of the sunlight.

I am recollecting a lifetime of "first days of spring" and getting depressed and just a bit wistful.  My brother sends me a series of texts from Seattle and they say:

"I think the homeless dudes outside my office are trippin'. 

"They have a huge bubble maker and they are running around popping bubbles with their grimy fingers.

"They're eating ice cream with little plastic spoons and it's dripping all over their facial hair.  It's SPRING baby.

"You know it's spring when the bums start eating dairy products."

I text my brother back.  "It's spring here too.  Semi-attractive people are running around partially clothed and retarded kids are swinging in the trees."

"Sweet," my brother answers.  "You know what this means."

I smile to myself and and watch a stocky fellow dive, just missing a spectacular catch.  He gashes his elbow on a rock and it bleeds a surprising amount, dripping onto his socks as he stands up.

The stocky guy just stares at his elbow as it oozes, as if he is shocked that his body contains this strange liquid. 

All of the kids stop at the same time and stare.  The strange kid in the tree even stops swinging.  The whole scene becomes a frozen tableau—a perfect silent moment held a couple of extra beats.

"Spring means hoops," I text to my brother.  "Morning, noon, and night.  It means HOOPS baby."