EAST KEENE – March Madness Not Lost on Those Without College Education The dreaded post-Super Bowl “sports lull” comes to a close this week as the college basketball world sweeps America into the fevered pitch known as March Madness. This unbridled enthusiasm for amateur cagers echoes all the way to East Keene, despite a complete lack of college allegiances held by residents of the borough.

Unhindered by diplomas and mortarboards, part-time machinists to snow-encrusted hobos alike are scrambling for pencils to fill out their brackets in hopes of winning office pools with prizes ranging from hundreds of dollars to the warm doorway behind the Rec.

Now that most East Keeners know that the EKJTS Cleavers were never eligible, they still really don't care who wins as long as bookies pay up.

While experts would be quick to shout from cushy podiums that want of an alma mater in the NCAA tournament would detract interest from area sports fans, men in the trenches of spectatorship view it as an advantage.

“Hell, I’m glad I stopped my learnin’s at EKJTS,” proclaimed passerby Dan Burda. “If took night classes at East Keene U. and they made the tourney, I’d have to pick them to go all the way now wouldn’t I? Hell.”

When asked which school he picked to win it all, Burda responded: “I dunno, that team with the ten foot Asian? Let me leave, I’ve got an Arena Football game to bet Walt’s beer money on.”

East Keene is not without its share of degenerate gamblers, and area bookies welcome the surge in business, despite sacrificing valuable off-time.

“Nothing happens in February betting-wise,” Scully “The Scrod” O’Donald told the Herald. “Ever since Tyson got that tattoo, nobody’s touching boxing. That affords the prestigious members of the East Keene Bookies Guild time to catch up on the logistical side of the business, i.e. collections and maimings.”

When asked to pick a tournament winner, The Scrod retorted, “What do I look like, a college nerd?”

EAST KEENE – March enters like a lamb, and sucks like a hen. Not just the weathermen will tell you this, but any Joe 12-pack you ask on the street. The glory of winter has been fleeting for some time, and at this point all we have to look forward to is melting slush mixed with mud. Truly a soup that ruins any boot. This weather holds nothing for you, except one thing: whiffle spring training and autumn hope.

Well I guess that’s two things, really.

The bookies -- Just like any true fan -- can already smell whiffle; they have since November. About this time for the past 70 years the teams hold the big spring meeting, the players size one another up, and the boxcars once-filled with tired hobos empty. Christ, even the hobos. No mistake about it, this game is inviting as a fifth of Old Crow.

This is the year, no doubt about it; last year was rigged. Right. Take off your shirt and throw out your shoulder. All you really need is one long winter to heal anything torn or popping. Forget about last fall, this is the year. But some

The glorious Church Street Chargers, circa 1931. Known for truculency, both on and off the field, the franchise won 12 straight championships.

falls you just won’t forget about. 77’ when Sanchezz left; 53’ and the great herpes epidemic; and which ever year that fat guy dropped dead in the finals. Damn, what was his name?

The smart money is getting put down already, and the wizards are saying the Elm Street Sabers once again. Some say Beaver Street is looking strong, and there are still plenty that think Brook Street is due. No bets here, I’m just gonna watch.

I could waste your time further and write about my boyhood memories of this game. I could mention the time my father got arrested for spitting on old Coach Magee of the Great Church Street Chargers. I could do that, but that’s not what spring’s about. This damned season is for looking ahead and getting ready. Dig in, man, a whole new season is storming down upon us.

I also wouldn’t mind telling you how I finally gave into wicked temptation this past December and drank that anti-freeze. But not today, we’ve got time. It looks like the editors are giving me this column every week.

Yes sir, open up the shed and dig out that yellow plastic wand; give it a few swings and stuff it to the end with newspaper! A few innings of playing and you’d bet you’re sister to Bobby for one night this year the big trophy is yours. No need to call the boys over, they’re asleep on your porch. So go wake up those bastards and get ready to play.