An ode to March

March is the best month of the year. Why? Come on, now.

Oh tell me, when was the Dad of Dads, my pops, Stanley Garfield, born? March 26, thank you.

Oh tell me, when were my darling twin sisters, Tracy and Kathy, born? March 10, thank you.

Oh tell me, when was Shaq-Fu, the Big Aristotle, the Diesel, the most quotable athlete of all time, Shaquille O'Neal, born? March 6, of course.

Oh tell me, is March not the evaporation of winter into spring? Is March not the turnstile through which the chirping birds and blossoming flowers and golf season all bolt out of, racing speedily toward summer?

Oh tell me, is March not the inebriated horse that St. Patrick's Day rides in on, decked out in Celtic green, boasting arguably the greatest holiday of the year? (I'll take Thanksgiving, actually -- just because I prefer eating to drinking. But it's close.)

Oh tell me, is March not mad? Do thousands of basketball teams around the country not compete at the same time for city, district, state, conference, and national championships? Do you not recall skipping school on the first Thursday and Friday of the Big Dance to watch the most exciting basketball games to be played all year? Have you never gamecasted the No. 3 Syracuse versus No. 14 Manhattan matchup in its entirety, while at work, sitting on the edge of your seat, when you just as easily could have driven home and watched it on TV? Have you never been caught up in the madness? If your answer is no, you haven't lived.