01:00 AM EST on Wednesday, March 16, 2005

This business of bracketology is beginning to seem a lot like proctology.

It's becoming a real pain in the . . .

See, the NCAA Tournament hasn't even started and I'm already talking like Bob Knight after being called for a technical foul.

Blame it on bracketology. It's driving me crazy.

Bracketology is the real March Madness. This foolishness about who's going to get to the Final Four is enough to turn even the most apathetic fan into a raving lunatic. Or Dick Vitale, which is pretty much the same thing.

Bracketology is the looniness at the root of the national nuttiness that overwhelms not just sports fans, but cosmeticians and computer nerds, firemen and florists, sword swallowers and bearded ladies, blue states and red states.

It's getting so you can't walk into the men's room -- hey, office pools are illegal, you may remember -- without seeing two guys huddling in the corner, poring over a pairings sheet, then looking up and asking, "Who do you like in the Nevada-Texas game?"

I know, because it just happened to me.

You're not safe anywhere.

Not at the coffee shop, where, instead of "regular or decaf?" the guy behind the counter asks, "Creighton or West Virginia?"

Not at the grocery store, where, instead of "paper or plastic?" the kid bagging the corn curls and Twinkies you've bought to snack on while watching the games asks, "N.C. State or UNC-Charlotte?"

Not at the barber shop,where, instead of asking, "A little off the top?" your favorite tonsorial artiste inquires, "Should I take Washington or Wake Forest to get to the Final Four?"

My dentist's secretary called the other day.

"Did I forget an appointment?" I asked.

"Not this time, for a change," she said. "I have a question to ask you."

"Can I open wider?"

"This is serious. Do you know when the Syracuse game is on?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Getting information from you is like pulling teeth."

"You ought to know."

"If you must know, we've got, um, a little thing going on here. What time does Syracuse play?"

"At 7:10 on Friday. And tell the doctor I'll collect my co-pay next time I'm in the office. Umm, by the way, who does he like?"

"More dentists prefer the Orange to any other toothpaste, er, basketball team."

No sooner had I hung up the phone than my brother-in-law called.

"I need help filling out my brackets," he said.

"But you're a hockey fan," I replied. "You couldn't care less about basketball."

"Not that you, of all people, would have noticed, but the NHL isn't playing this winter."

"Really? And I was looking forward to the playoffs starting in June. Anyway, if that's the case, I'd be glad to give you a hand. Go ahead, shoot."

"If I had a gun, I would. But I don't want to talk to you."

"But you just said . . .

"I know what I said. I said I wanted help with my picks. I need an expert in bracketology. Hand the phone to one of your sons."

That's one pick he got right.

Sports writers don't know who's going to win. If they did, they wouldn't be lugging computers to the top of stadiums and writing on deadline. They'd be poolside at Las Vegas, occasionally lifting a finger ever so slightly to beckon a runner to toddle off to the nearest casino sports book and place a wager on yet another lucrative lock of the century.

But that doesn't stop people from asking.

LSU or UAB?

Initially, I liked LSU. Now, FYI, I think UAB's the smart pick.

Georgia Tech or George Washington? Louisville or Louisiana-Lafayette? Duke or Delaware State? Pitt or Pacific? Connecticut or Carolina?"

Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers. As for my pick, it's not the selection committee member who has a thing for alliteration. Then again, maybe the anxiety of trying to decide whether to take Notre Dame or Northern Iowa pushed him over the edge.

A bad case of bracketology will do that to you.