March Madness, Beverly, and 'Slim' Pat Donnelly
Beverly, Massachusetts, a historic coastal town on Boston's North Shore, blends New England charm with a vibrant seaside culture. Known for its scenic beaches, rich maritime history, and thriving arts scene, it offers a quieter alternative to its spooky neighbour, Salem.
One of my gravest regrets happened in Beverly. Cabot Street is one of two main thoroughfares; on it stands a popular theatre, wait for it, The Cabot. I'm unsure of the year, but Michael McDonald played a Saturday night and I missed it; not sure why, but what an unforgivable mistake.
Why Beverly? I visited last weekend; my son lives and works there after graduating from a local college, Endicott, in 2019—my first visit was in 2015. I see it now as a town in transition, or metamorphosing from a resilient working-class shell to a more liberal, children-focused town. The two seem at odds with each other, but co-habitation morphs naturally, as is often the case in these partnerships. Rustic taverns serving filling fayre sit quietly alongside coffee shops where parents now engage in discussions with their children. Like all things, though, Beverly is still a work in progress, but the fucking roads and pavements, please, come on, Medley!
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It reads like a tall tale, but it's not. It might have been April 2016 when I was visiting to watch the end of the lacrosse season and, hopefully, some NCAA finals action. It was a pleasant afternoon; I had spent the morning and early afternoon in Boston, a 35-minute train ride from Beverly. After getting off the train and somewhat jaded from the city walking, I figured it was time to stock the fridge back at HQ. Bottle shop—off licence—package store—whatever your preference, they sell beer, wine, and spirits. It was called "One-Stop"; it looked like it would have everything I needed—beer and peanuts.
Having made it to the counter, three males of South Asian persuasion welcomed me. We entered into some meaningless back and forth until I mentioned cricket—why I did, who knows, but I did. That was it. They guessed I was Australian—which went through to the keeper—therefore, I must be an expert. The line behind me was growing. Somehow, we moved on to Wasim Akram, so they were likely Pakistani, not Indian. I held tight on the Lancashire connection, hoping the check-out line would end the conversation—I still hadn't paid. Two of the three moved to an adjacent till, leaving the boss and myself. He asked why I was in Beverly. I went through the son at Endicott, who was recruited from Australia to play lacrosse. The boss man was quiet, and then he grinned. "Sir, we have an excellent client; he is also from Australia and looks like you!" I could see where this was going! "He comes in most Saturday evenings and leaves with a trolley full of beer, and he is such a good client we give him big discounts on his selection." "Do you know Kenny?"
I have told this story a million times, and Kenny is OK with it, but this is the first time in print. He was 21, unlike his classmates. School lasted longer in Australia; then, it was a post-grad year at a prep school in New Hampshire before going to Endicott in 2015. He was legit 21—no fake licenses. I laughed and laughed. Also, I'm pretty sure the boss man gifted me the beer and peanuts; needless to say, I became a regular, just not on Saturday evenings!
500 words, and I haven't got to March Madness yet! In short, it's a basketball tournament.
Last weekend, 64 teams entered the 2025 Men's NCAA Tournament; now, only 16 remain.
It seems March Madness represents college basketball at its most dramatic—a single-elimination tournament where one loss ends a team's season. It begins with Selection Sunday, which quickly transforms into a nationwide bracket-filling frenzy, with millions predicting outcomes of games that span three frantic weekends. I nearly fell off my chair when someone we know explained her bracket in such detail that would have put Stephen A. Smith to shame. I mean, everyone gets into this stuff!
The structure is brilliantly simple: four regional brackets feed into the Final Four, where the last teams standing battle for a national championship. Historically, unknown programs can topple traditional powerhouses, and unpredictability permeates, capturing even the most casual sports fans.
It has always intrigued me how the sporting calendar serves as a cultural timekeeper, with certain months indelibly linked to specific seasons or tournaments. April belongs to the Masters, October claims baseball's World Series, and January delivers the college football championship and NFL playoffs, building toward February's Super Bowl spectacle. But March—March belongs entirely to college basketball's chaotic tournament, so much so that the month itself has become synonymous with the madness it hosts.
What does the collective obsession with March Madness reveal about American values? I ask vaguely.
The tournament embodies meritocratic ideals—where small schools can triumph through teamwork, determination, and a pinch of good fortune—and commercial excess, with billions generated through television rights and corporate sponsorships. This duality mirrors broader tensions in American society between grassroots authenticity and corporate influence. Does the celebration of college athletes, who until recently received no direct compensation while generating massive revenues, reflect the complicated relationship with capitalism?
March Madness offers a rare unifying spectacle that transcends divisions in today's political polarisation and global instability climate. The brackets become a shared national language. Yet the competition also reflects our uncertain times—upsets remind us that established orders can collapse, predictions often fail, and underdogs sometimes prevail against overwhelming odds.
Perhaps there's wisdom in embracing the tournament's central lesson: preparation matters, but adaptability decides who ultimately cuts down the nets and lifts the championship.
I didn't intend this to be a monologue, so I apologise if it came across that way. I will share a transcript of a conversation with an old mate, Pat Donnelly, on the subject over the weekend.
Happy watching, wherever you are. For the record, I do not have a bracket, but I favour Florida to prevail.
