Bracketology. Let’s face it, the glimpses of basketball action we are watching these days are a respite, an island of enjoyment in a churning sea of hucksterism. An NCAA Tournament game lasts 40 minutes on the scoreboard, but takes up a solid two hours on the living room clock, beginning to end. The extra time is filled with foul shots, halftimes, and, most of all, commercials.
They are incessant, these commercials, an annual curse. They come at us in waves, pleas for our time, our attention, our hard-earned bucks. They plant the earworms and images that will stick. Is there any doubt we will remember the phrase “NAPA know-how” or the image of Craig Sager going through his closet far longer than we will remember the name of what’s-his-name from wherever-it-was who won the overtime thriller with a stepback jumper? None at all.