The Madness of Moms

How a group of mothers made sense of the NCAA Tournament

Robert Granader

Mar 21, 2026

After years of watching their sons root violently for college basketball teams with whom they had no affiliation, a group of local moms (my wife included) wanted a closer look. They marveled as the men in their lives sat forlorn over busted brackets and poor picks. So this band of boy-moms thought – knew- there had to be more.So they swapped their book club for brackets and joined the madness.​

A benevolent dad served as commissioner, sending weekly notes of encouragement to cushion the inevitable disappointment. But the moms held their own — in some cases outperforming the self-proclaimed experts at home. Their edge? They picked without emotion.

But somewhere between tip-offs and upsets, the moms discovered March Madness had less to do with basketball and more to do with life.

Your Bracket Doesn’t Actually Break - As the commissioner wisely reassured them early on, it’s almost never over after the first round. There are more games to be played, more points to be earned. Early losses don’t equal long-term failure — in brackets or in life. March is longer than you think.

Survive and Advance - That’s the enduring mantra of March. You don’t win the tournament in one game, and you rarely lose it in one either. Parenting works much the same way. So do careers, marriages, and personal goals. Success is less about dominating every matchup and more about staying in the game.

“Go Big or Go Home”(usually means going home) - Many of their sons loaded their brackets with bold, improbable upsets. The moms took a more measured approach. High risk can bring high reward — but it more often delivers early exits. Caution isn’t cowardice my son; sometimes it’s strategy.

Head Over Heart - Make your picks based on who you believe will win, even if it means going against a team you love. As one mom noted: “I suppose ignoring my kid’s schools paid off.” Tough love applies to brackets too.

Perfection Is a Myth – Don’t be so surprised by your mistakes. The odds of a perfect bracket are 1 in 9.2 quintillion. Warren Buffet offered $1 billion to anyone who achieved perfection. He’s still rich. Mistakes are not personal failures; they are statistical inevitabilities.

And perhaps most liberating of all is the randomness itself. As the commissioner conceded, deep knowledge of the game doesn’t guarantee success. Sometimes the winner is the person who picked based on mascots or school colors. There is a chaos that expertise cannot conquer.

Which leads to the final lesson: embrace the madness.

The tournament lurches between breathtaking buzzer-beaters and predictable wins. Life does the same. You celebrate what you can, absorb the losses, and fill out your bracket again next year.

In the end, these moms discovered that March Madness isn’t really about basketball. It mirrors life’s unpredictable journey – managing disappointment, calibrating risk, and staying steady when things don’t go your way.

If you can manage a busted bracket with grace, you are better prepared to handle the chaos to come.

Is Detroit OK?

There is a way my phone rapidly buzzes from incoming text messages on any given Michigan football Saturday. It’s a touchdown, it’s a fumble, it’s a sack. Everyone needs to chime in.

I learned yesterday my phone also buzzes like that when a terrorist attacks your hometown synagogue.

I was on a call when the phone started dancing. I flipped it over:

Do you know the synagogue?
Is that near your hometown?
Are you from Bloomfield Hills or West Bloomfield?

But the very first message read: “Is DETROIT OK?”

It was from my Israeli cousins texting from their Mamad — their safe room — in Tel Aviv.

“You’re worried about us?” I texted back. “We are targets here too, but I’m worried about you. Now you be safe.”

His response: An emoji of a dancing Rabbi.

The dancing Rabbi is who I want us to be.

I could have told him Detroit is not okay.

There may not be a place of worship where I’ve attended more weddings and B’nai Mitzvot than Temple Israel in West Bloomfield. And today it joins a growing list of cities that is not okay because Jews, this time four year-olds, were targeted.

But this is not the entirety of our Jewishness.

A slew of books and Jewish leaders have said “enough.”

• In Dara Horn’s book People Love Dead Jews, she calls for a celebration of Jewish life, not “Dead Jews Tourism.”

• Bret Stephens in his State of World Jewry argued for focusing on Jewish joy, calling some of the fight against antisemitism a well-meaning but wasted effort.

• In As a Jew Sarah Hurwitz argued that for many American Jews our entire existence comes through trauma: the Holocaust, antisemitism and holidays which focus on historical persecution.

In a few weeks we celebrate Passover, my favorite holiday focused on family, tradition and freedom.

Yes, the story begins with oppression. But that’s not where it ends.

So I would say: “No — Detroit is not okay.”

The war is here.

But so is Passover.

Affianced

 The text from my daughter’s boyfriend was oblique, yet clear.

“I heard you’re coming to New York, maybe we could grab a drink,” he wrote.

When your kids are in their late 20s and a boyfriend starts showing up to “family” events, you can feel the sands shifting. When he begins inching his way from the photo’s edges to your daughter’s arm on center stage, it raises questions:

“Do you like him?” my daughter asks.

“Is he what you expected?” my parents ask.

“Is this the one?” our friends ask.

My answers are all muted because I don’t know if he’s the one, or what I expected. But when I don’t answer with unbridled enthusiasm, they think I am disappointed.

“He makes you happy,” I tell my daughter.

“So you don’t like him,” she replies.

The truth is I never imagined who my daughter might marry.

Why would I?

It’s kind of icky from a dad’s perspective.

Son-in-laws have a tough time in life, in literature and in lore.

From the Bronte sisters to the Fockers, son-in-laws only win by not losing.

For example, every shot in golf has a name. There’s an elephant’s ass for a shot that’s high and shitty. A James Joyce is a green that’s impossible to read. But then there’s the son-in-law. It’s a shot that you’re not so sure about at first, but by the end, it turns out better than you expected.

Our first child’s engagement is the opening line in a new chapter for the family.

The first chapter was our marriage. Then there was the season of having children, schooling, Bar Mitzvah season, graduation season, kids in college season, all of the latter ones documented on social media.

Like all circles of life, they return to the beginning with a new wedding season.

But this marrying-off-the kids stage for me is more akin to sending the first off to college, than it is to wedding season. Like empty nesting, this is an event after which nothing will be the same. A party of five is now as dated as a flip phone.

So the blessed event happens, she is surprised, the ring goes on the finger, pictures are snapped, and snapped and snapped, and the race to find a date and venue begins. But for a moment we stand around a table with 3 sets of grandparents, 2 sets of parents and assorted relatives with more than 300 years of marriage experience and knowledge.

What could we tell them?

It’s like those Netflix show recommendations all our friends make. Some seasons are better than others, but stick with it, because the payoff is totally worth it.

A Moment Not a Rematch

In September 1982 I played Aaron Krickstein and lost quickly in the first round of a tennis tournament.

(If you don't know who Aaron Krickstein is, this story loses a lot of its juice.)

He went on to have many great successes, but his most famous match came in 1991 when he played in what has been called the most re-watched match in history. Connors v. Krickstein was the go-to clip for broadcasters when there was a rain delay at the US Open. Every time the heavens opened there was Aaron losing to a 39-year old rejuvenated Connors.

Granader v. Krickstein was seen by few and remembered by one, and it's been replayed many times - in my head.

I don't recall the exact date, but I know we were so young our moms had to drive us and they sat courtside chatting. Aaron was the number one seed. I was his first round victim. The match took 35 minutes.

We never saw each other again.

Why would we?

The following year Aaron upset 15th-seeded Vitas Gerulaitis, in the third round of the US Open, while I was cruising my Cutlas Supreme to High School. When he was losing to Connors, I was finishing up law school.

The years passed, I followed his career, his wins, his injuries, a car crash that set him back.

I was rooting for him, because he was a part of my history whether he knew it or not. The more famous he became, the better my story got.

So when I overheard a friend at a dinner party mention Aaron Krickstein, I jumped. He is a tennis pro near where we live in Florida. "I play with him twice a week, why don’t you come by,” she offered.

And so I did.

I know they say don't meet your heroes, because they disappoint. But he is not my hero, he is simply part of my hero's journey.

Walking up to meet him I was conscious not to jump into my stupid story about our unremarkable match. But my friend said, "this is kind of a rematch."

"Have we played?" he asked without looking up, he was putting a grip on a racquet.

Well, that was my cue and I told my tale. With a smile he asked, "who won?" But he knew, since he still owns the record for the longest winning streak in Michigan tennis history and probably remembers his few losses.

It was a moment, not a rematch. 

Our match 43 years ago was for me, a peak athletic achievement. To him it was less than meaningless, it was embarrassing, his mother had said. He was on a path to go pro but needed to play in these local tournaments to keep his eligibility. Why would he want to play 15 year-olds when he was already the 15 and 18-and-under Champ?

And so as these two 58-year old men batted a ball from opposite sides of the net I couldn't help but think how far apart we were. My mind was racing that I can't believe I'm hitting with this guy again. And he must have been thinking: "What's for lunch?"

I was another tennis lesson on another Tuesday morning, like a thousand Tuesdays he’s experienced in the last 30 years of teaching.

Why does this matter to me? Why would I tell people about a tennis match I lost 40 years ago? 

Is it simply a way of informing some unlucky listener that in the reflected glory of Aaron's run, I was once a player too?

And what did I want from this second meeting? 

His success gave me the greatest gift: A lifelong memory and a story to tell. And I wanted to give him something in return, but I had nothing he wanted. He did the hard work and I was the lucky beneficiary. Maybe I just wanted him to know that.

Looking at 60...From 58

Here comes Sixty...

No, I'm not sixty...yet, but I feel like Sally Albright.

In the movie "When Harry Met Sally" she breaks down in a long Kleenex-filled crying jag about not being married. And finally it peaks when she comes clean with the revelation that her problem is...she's going to be forty!

"When?" Harry asks.

"Someday"

"In eight years," Harry reminds her.

"But it's there! It's like a big dead end!

Milestone birthdays are mostly mental, but somehow my body seems to have gotten the memo before I did.

This past year was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of snowbirds, it was the age of morning back pain, it was the epoch of qualifying for the 55 and over tennis tournaments, it was the epoch of knee braces, it was the season of sunscreen, it was the season of statins, it was the spring of selling Marketresearch.com, it was the winter of Dry January.

Here is a fun sampling of the comments and questions I received in last 365 days:

    - After a an x-ray the doctor told me "You have normal deterioration for a man your age."

    - At a recent physical therapy session I was asked: "What color did your hair used to be?"

    - Upon learning my age one "youngish" person said: "I didn't think you were that old?" And they were being nice!

    - I used to think plaque was something on my teeth, not my heart valves. The doctor recommended statins. "How long should I take them?" "Forever," he replied with a straight face.

I should have seen this coming. After a haircut my smock looks like I was caught in a small snow squall. 

Isn't it always the pictures that tell us the story we don't tell ourselves. Those moments you get a glimpse into how the rest of the world sees you, physically. 

Forty was supposed to be the big one, but I barely noticed it. The kids were 9, 7 and 5 and it was less mid-life crisis-y than I'd been told.

But turning sixty is different. I've been to lots of 60th birthday parties, and one thing I've heard in the toasts and roasts is it does something to the system. It focuses the mind.

"Intentionality," one friend said. "It makes you think, What am I doing? How am I spending my time?"

Other observations from this year:

    Parts are past their warranty: More friends had pieces and parts removed and re-placed: ACL, shoulders, rotator cuffs, knees and hips. 

    Less drinking (some of you): When the cocktail menu comes, there's a lot more, "Oh, just a glass of wine," and a surprising amount of Michelob Ultra.

    Attire: Friends come outside with floppy hats and enough sunscreen to make them look like Jason from Halloween.

    Equipment: They prepare for golf and tennis like gladiators entering the arena—knee and elbow braces, ankle wraps, and an entire CVS worth of kinesiology tape.

I've been recommended or gifted no less than 10 times the book Outlive: the Science and Art of Longevity.

What else do I hear from my fellow Generation X'ers: We're no longer the kid in the room. That there was a time, only moments ago, when we were the youngest person in the board meeting and somehow that slipped out from under us.

While jolting, in many ways it's Clarifying.

In writing a short story an ending is supposed to be "surprising, but inevitable."

Sixty is no dead end, and fifty-eight is an opportunity.

These changes are surprising, but also inevitable.

Hometown Jersey

Friends called and said, “Well, you can’t lose…”

Really?

The team I grew up with, rooted for and watched go on an unprecedented losing streak, had a chance to make it to the Super Bowl. But in their way was the team of my adopted hometown. The team my children love and who are the best story of this NFL season.

I’ve lived in Washington for 35 years, I lived in Detroit for 20.

Which one means more?

Seinfeld does a bit about loyalty to a sports team, which he says is hard to justify these days because the players, coaches and owners keep changing. Teams leave town.

“You’re actually rooting for the clothes” he jokes. “You are standing and yelling and cheering for your clothes to beat the clothes from another city.”

It goes a bit deeper.

The schedule and the stars aligned for the Detroit Lions and the Washington Commanders to meet in the D (Detroit). And as the game approached my adult children shunned me when I said I would be wearing a Lions hat.

With the Premier League in the UK there is no question, you cheer based on lineage. Your family history is rooted in your father's favorite team and therefore you root for your father’s team…forever. Full stop! It’s generational and doesn’t matter where you live or how far you’ve moved, you follow that tradition like it’s religion. Because it is.

So I headed to Detroit, feeling like a traitor wearing my Commanders sweatshirt, getting dirty looks from everyone I passed. That’s one thing about Detroit you know where that plane is going because people are wearing hats and shirts with the state, city or school logo. And so I’d pull out my Lions hat on occasion, trying to cool the stench from the stink eyes that were laid on me.

Why this hometown hold on me?

Investment.

Not in dollars but in memories. Regardless of how many years I spent living someplace else, the amount of time I've spent thinking about the place where I grew up exceeds every other place by a factor. "Where are you from," is the most oft asked intro question and how you answer it says a lot about you.

Most people of my vintage can recall the starting lineup from their childhood teams more readily than the current roster. The ’84 Tigers, ’89 Pistons, no problem. Even some of the stinker Lions teams have carved a pathway in my brain where current names don’t stick.

And so when I come to Detroit and pass the world’s biggest tire, or the Joe Louis statue, the Ren Cen or I bite into a Lafayette Coney Island hotdog - which looks and smells just as it did when I was a kid - I am rooting for more than just a team. I am cheering for much more than the current roster of players who weren't alive when I last spent Thanksgiving at the Pontiac Silverdome. I am bleeding for more than a jersey.

I am rooting for a city that hasn’t had a football championship in 70 years (Read about the curse of Bobby Layne). A city that’s been through hell and back and a fan base that never stopped believing. Because unlike Washington we don’t have a history of championships, we are seeking our first Super Bowl appearance.

And so when I cheer for the Silver and Blue I am cheering for my childhood and all that it represented to me. When I see those colors and those helmets, even though they have changed over the years, I see myself wrapped in all the excitement of a child who wants to stay til the bitter end, no matter how bad traffic will be.

I remember what it was like to be a kid in love with my hometown team, and when I root for them, in that city, I am that kid again.