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March Madness can be a cruel mistress. Your boy is on the struggle bus right now currently down a G and banking on the Dayton moneyline tonight to turn this whole ride of failure around. As you can imagine, it’s been a dark two days that’s left me calculating and budgeting out how much more money I can put into my offshore accounts before I’m ride share driving to make rent or Bank of America just locks my account altogether.
However, there was a brief moment when I wasn’t totally miserable during the Arkansas-Seton Hall game (clearly not the result) when announcers gave the backstory of Razorback’s guard Dusty Hannahs and his father being the ultimate hardass sports dad.
Not child abuse, great parenting. It reminds me a lot of my own grandfather attending my basketball games growing up. If I missed from the charity strip or passed up a wide open look, Big Ed Regester would yell “Find your own way home, I’m not wasting the few precious minutes I have left on this earth watching this trash” from the stands before removing himself from the gymnasium. 8-year-old Dan would always walk back to his house in the snow dejected that he let his pop-pop down and this tradition of disappointment went on for about another decade. Those long, cold strolls were valuable teaching moments. Not only did I learn to always box out or be aggressive in the paint, but I began to understand the importance of packing a change of clothes or that living in the Northeast was a woeful existence for ten months out of the year.
To this day, an alive and well Big Ed will sit on his recliner uttering that “he did everything he could” to get me to play high level ball and out of suburban Philadelphia — which he 100 percent succeeded at doing. I mean I didn’t get any offers and ended up playing frat league ball for four years, but I moved as far south of the Mason-Dixon line as I reasonably could. And I owe it all to my old-school, hardass sports grandfather..