Advice for the broke: Don’t pull all your money on one tournament

Fact: In the first post-spring break week of the semester, my checking account had plummeted… Fact: In the first post-spring break week of the semester, my checking account had plummeted to new depths of pathetic — rivaling that of potato stock, now that the developed world has entered the era of the “low-carb” diet.

By “pathetic,” I mean that I needed to go check my balance before going to Wendy’s to buy a mandarin chicken salad, to make sure I wouldn’t overdraw my account and get charged $30. I’ll give ya two guesses as to how I’ve obtained such extensive knowledge about the ol’ penalty fine.

Ever the optimist — actually more like a completely out-of-touch-with-reality stooge — I developed a sure-fire plan to bail myself out of the bowels of financial despair. No, I didn’t go out and get a job. I’ve yet to reach such a stage of complete and utter desperation.

Donating my body to science isn’t really my thing, and besides, all those research studies always want smokers, or the “sibling of a schizophrenic in their mid-20s with brown hair.” And answering one of those “Female wanted for non-sexual massage, must be 18” ads is just a little beyond sketchy in my book.

My get-rich-quick scheme comes in the form of entering myself in two of my friends’ March Madness pools. After winning, I’d be the recipient of a glorious $250 — nearly 62 mandarin chicken salads!

I immediately signed on to espn.com, printed out my brackets and began filling out my version of the NCAA’s tourney fate. With every stroke of my pen, I felt a twinge of pain for all those poor suckers out there from whom I would ultimately be snatching cold, hard cash.

To reinforce my decisions, I decided to bring out the big guns and call for backup. After 20 minutes on the phone with my dad, I knew that I had in my possession the two most ingeniously derived brackets anyone other than the big guy upstairs could possibly have conceived of.

Still living in a utopian bubble universe created by my extremely overconfident — and false — sense of collegiate basketball knowledge, I handed in my brackets along with my requisite $5 addition to the pool.

All I had to do now was sit back, let the games begin and wait for dough to start rolling in. The only person who’d have an easier time than me cashing in would be Donald Trump’s heirs — and they’ll have to wait for their old man to kick the bucket.

When game day finally rolled around, I had to survive a full day of classes before I could check my progression into the world of hundred-aires. To my horror, the cosmos must have been misaligned on that particular Thursday, because the winners of the first round of games were not the same teams that I had foreseen to be victorious the day before.

Providence, you killed me! BYU, I didn’t care who you lost to, as long as it wasn’t Syracuse — anybody but them. The only upset I’d successfully predicted was Manhattan.

At this point, any sane individual would have faced the facts, pulled out the classified section and began job hunting. But I’m much more delusional than that, and clung to some artificial light at the end of the tunnel where the pool’s fortune was mine for the taking. Like a kid sitting at the fireplace on Christmas Eve waiting for Santa to arrive, I stupidly sat waiting for Dayton to pull out a win over DePaul.

At the close of Friday’s games, even I couldn’t continue to lie to myself about my source of next month’s income. To make sure I got the point, the basketball gods threw in the whole Gonzaga fiasco on Saturday to really drive the nail into the coffin.

Even though I’m not going to be instantly $250 richer anytime soon — because both my brackets had succumbed to the same fate as the Titanic — all is not lost. I had an entire weekend filled with free entertainment, compliments of some nail-biting, top-notch basketball. Pitt is still in the hunt, and that itself is worth the $5 I dropped entering the stupid pool, as far as I’m concerned.

Plus, my best friend seems to be in pretty good shape to win the challenge, and I bet after a few celebratory Natty Lights, I could talk him into treating me to a mandarin chicken salad.

Forget Christmas. With the NCAA tourney and Shamrock Shakes, March is the most wonderful time of the year. Let Colleen Bayus hear tales of your bracket blues at cab2357@pitt.edu.