As with many Nutmeggers (and others, I suppose ;)), I have been watching a lot of college basketball in the last week. Much of what I’ve seen has been inspiring — who can argue with the Vermont win on Friday, particularly given that their coach is retiring at the end of this season? — but one thing has not been: the NCAA ads.

We’re into the round of 32 now and I have seen 3 NCAA ads featuring current or former college athletes talking about how the majority of college athletes do not go into pro ball. Most of us watching realize that (even those of us who hail from Connecticut, where it’s been years since we had a year without a player going pro). My problem with the ad campaign, then? All of the ads I’ve seen so far have featured women.

Somehow I don’t think there’s that big of a perception problem amongst men’s tournament viewers that huge numbers of women athletes are neglecting their studies with hopes that they’ll be able to coast on their WNBA salaries instead.

So what is it the NCAA is trying to convey? There is a possibility they’d like us to understand that collegiate athletes — even those at the top of their game — are going to leave the world of sports behind after their four years are up and will go on to become average joes like the rest of us.

Or there is the possibility they’d like you to appreciate their lip service to the term “scholar-athlete” all the while refusing to believe that the young men and women (but especially men) you’re watching will not be the sports stars of tomorrow. And some of them may be. But if we’re going to put up signs that the men’s collegiate players are potential heroes of tomorrow’s professional game, then let’s not give lip service to the idea that only women leave the game behind and only men go on to stardom and glory.

So let’s see the Sue Birds and Diana Taurasis and the Lisa Leslies of the world get their opportunity to be heroes. And let’s see those male players who go on to honorable careers as scientists, teachers, businessmen, and fathers in the commercials lauding the student-athlete, as well.

The countdown to spring has begun. Admit it: if you live anywhere in the Northeast, you’ve had Sunday’s date circled on your calendar since that rotten little rodent decided to hunker down for another six weeks back in February.

Here in D.C., snowdrops poked their heads out in mid-February. And then were promptly covered with snow.

Growing up in southern New England, you expect winter to last until mid-March, when the calendar says it will. In fact, you’re generally prepared for winter to leave kicking and screaming, dumping a foot or so of snow on you during the first week of April just out of spite.

D.C. is a mere six hours south of where i grew up in Connecticut, but it might as well be worlds away. South of the Mason-Dixon line, it embraces its role as a national city by taking on the worst traits of the South and the North. It combines the rudeness of New York with the sluggishness of Mississippi. (I should go into writing tourism slogans — “Visit Washington, D.C., the rudest, slowest place in America!”)

Weather tolerance definitely sides on the southern end of things. You start seeing people in full-length wool coats — complete with hats, gloves, and scarves — at the beginning of October, when the daytime highs begin to dip into the upper 60s. So when it actually gets cold, as it invariably does in January or February (or, this year, March), these people just have no place else to go in their wardrobes.

And February was so long that it lasted into March
And found us walking a path alone together.
You stopped and pointed and you said, “That’s a crocus,”
And I said, “What’s a crocus?” and you said, “It’s a flower,”
I tried to remember, but I said, “What’s a flower?”
You said, “I still love you.”

(From Dar Williams’ “February”)

This year, i’m tired of waiting. I want spring to come and i want it now. I’m ready for buds and leaves and flowers. (I remember what a crocus is — but just barely.) I’m ready to leave behind my snow clogs and my wool coat and my hand-knitted scarf. I’m ready for March to go out like a lamb, for April showers, and for May flowers. I’m ready.

The countdown has begun…

Currently reading: Summerland, written by Michael Chabon and bought at Jay’s Bookstall in Pittsburgh