March. It comes in like a lion. So far, we haven’t been disappointed.

There are a plethora of March-related sayings (“beware the ides of March”) and traditions (March Madness).

Saturday afternoon and evening, as I was photographing the Ellsworth boys’ and girls’ teams play for the substate titles, I reflected a bit on March and its basketball ties.

While not a lifelong sports enthusiast, my husband certainly is.

If spectators or fans wondered why I was smiling or giggling to myself Saturday, it was because I was remembering a particularly rocky March Madness in our house.

I believe we were four years into our married life, and I decided it was time to complete a home remodeling project. There was an unfinished room in the basement, and our son was on the

brink of walking. It was time to get a playroom together, as well as create a dedicated office space (with a door!) for me to work.

The plan was innocent and well-intended. It began sometime in February with a friend of mine. We began, but as almost all construction projects go, it ran both over on time and budget.

I wasn’t bothered. These things happen.

But when they happen during March Madness directly adjacent to your husband’s “man cave” ... well, it’s kinda a problem.

Fortunately for me, I believe four years is still in the relatively “newlywed” category, so my husband didn’t say a word.

Instead, he donned his bathrobe, Tony Soprano style, and hunkered down in his recliner.

Did I mention his recliner was surrounded by boxes? And that the TV often had a drop cloth covering it to keep the drywall dust out?

He looked about as happy as a wet cat, but didn’t say a word. He simply glared.

Clearly, I lived to tell this tale, but his silent stare screamed his message: “Thou shalt not interfere with March Madness.”

Lesson learned. That’s not to say we haven’t had some good times in terms of March Madness.

Out of courtesy, I was always invited to participate in his office’s bracket challenge. Often, I would come in dead last.

Evidently, my selection method of choosing the most interesting-sounding mascots wasn’t a sound selection strategy. Nor was the year I selected Sister Jean and her team to win it all. Shrug. Oh well.

Did my lack of prowess or knowledge embarrass my sports-savvy husband? Probably. He’s a good sport about it, though.

And as the saying goes, even a blind squirrel finds a nut every once in awhile.

One memorable year, I entered the pool with one of my hair-brained selection methods and actually won. Well, I tied with a friend’s 4-year-old daughter. Still, I’m counting it as a win, and won’t make any comments about how a 4-year-old almost beat me in the bracket.

I hope your March Madness efforts are more successful than mine.

Now, please pass the buzz saw.

Bonar is the editor/publisher of the I-R and can be reached via email: kbonar@indyrepnews.com.