Appropriate that this year's NCAA men's basketball tournament should begin on March 15th, that date Shakespeare so famously warned his audience of in Julius Caesar, and more humorously referred to as the "Yikes of March" by more than one good friend of mine.

Julius Caesar, of course, was assassinated on the Yikes of March, over 2000 years ago: 2050 years ago, to be precise. As I said, appropriate…. Every year, or, more precisely, every March, I, along with several million people the nation over, suddenly begin to feel a stirring deep within myself, a stirring not unlike what Mother Earth must surely feel every spring when bulbs begin to force their way skyward, a slightly more pleasant, but still remarkably similar, sensation to those that Kane must have felt in Alien when he started to retch at the dinner table that fateful night aboard the Nostromo.

For every March I feel within me growing that most awful of realizations: the realization that somehow, usually in a 24 to 48 hour span, I, for absolutely no good reason, certainly lacking anything remotely approaching precedent, have become a bonafide, no-bones-about-it, take-it-to-the-bank-and-keep-the-engine-running expert, prognosticator and modern-day-soothsayer on all things college basketball. And hidden just behind that growing certainty, lurking, playfully mind you, behind my swelling and ripening hubris, I can just begin to make out the wretched, cold and spiteful heartbreak that calls itself reality. No matter. Friends (ha!), no doubt seeking to take advantage of my newly emboldened inner Dick Vitale, call and email inviting me to join in their "friendly" Tournament pools. And I, like every sucker throughout time, lunge at the bait proffered to me and shout heavenward, "Yes! YES! Yesyesyesyesyes!!!!"

In years past I've used complicated strategies fill in my brackets. I've flipped coins. I've tried to read bones. I've thrown darts. Heck, I even remember a year when I did actual, honest-to-goodness research; granted, it was internet research, and it took me all of 15 minutes, but still! Whatever magical method I chose, the process was inevitably a time-consuming one, beginning shortly after the selection committee read its own tealeaves and continuing until shortly before the pools closed. But not this year. And certainly not with the Tournament kicking off 2050 years to the day of Julius Caesar's assassination.

No, this year I boldly and quickly tore through my brackets. Filling them out took me all 5 minutes. When I submitted them a warm glow of confidence settled over me, a blanket of calm dropped over my shoulders, and the certainty in my hard-earned knowledge fattened and bulged. At first my confidence seemed well earned. I sprinted to an early lead in the standings in our pool, happily gloating in my predictions of upsets by the likes of Montana, NC State, and Wisconsin-Milwaukee. I hadn't gone too crazy, as I had in years passed, picking nutty upsets hither and yon. I hadn't picked Duke to lose (yet) and I hadn't picked any particularly dumpy teams to make the Final Four.

But then, I began to feel the first splinterings. All of the local Georges (Washington, Mason and 'town) advanced; in a cleverly ill-fated move, I had picked all three of them to lose. Kansas lost to Bradley. (I'll admit, I don't even know where Bradley IS.) Michigan State, a battle hardened team under Coach Tom Izzo, a team that somehow seems to always save its best (or at least a COUPLE of wins) for the tournament, flamed out against, you got it, George Mason. Sadly, I had them going on to the Elite Eight. And I didn't see Iowa losing to Northwestern State (WHAT Northwestern State?!).

My Final Four is still intact, which I know not everyone can say, but suddenly my confidence, the cornerstones of my surety, is starting to tremble just a bit. Do two 2-seeds, a 4-seed and only one 1-seed a Final Four really make? Beats the heck out of me, but here're a couple of things you CAN take to the bank:

• Gonzaga's not making it to the Elite Eight (I doubt they'll even make the Sweet Sixteen)
• Tennessee is about the worst 2-seed EVER
• and Duke's not making it out of Atlanta.

Take it to the bank. And, oh yeah, keep the engine running.