As I walked into the University of New Mexico’s basketball area, The Pit, I noticed something was deeply, cosmically wrong.

The Pit has a unique sunken design that makes you walk down to each seat. Stepping down one step, I found Row 1—at the top of the arena. The very top.

I stared at my “nose bleed” ticket. I stared at the court 40 rows below.

When I bought Row 1 tickets, I was thrilled. This was going to be an amazing seat, right behind the basket—prime “look at me in my South Dakota State Jackrabbits gear” TV exposure. Every time there was a free throw, I’d be there, looking energetic, possibly waving something ridiculous, like a corndog.

Surely, the rows were mislabeled.

I had expected Albuquerque to be a little weird—based on their green chili obsession. At first, this seems reasonable. Green chili on enchiladas? Delicious. Green chili on burgers? Amazing. Green chili on pizza? A little weird, but okay, I’ll go with it. But then things start to spiral out of control. In milkshakes?  In religious rituals?

(Father Thomas: “Now, Mr. and Mrs. O’Malley, at the conclusion of the baptism would you like me to anoint young Timothy’s head with red or green chili?”)

Wondering if the seats were backward, I asked the usher.

Me: “Uh… is this really Row 1?”

Usher: “This is Row 1.”

As if every other arena in America numbered their seats using M.C. Escher logic.

Then the usher, sensing my frustration, added by way of explanation, “This is Row 1.”

He spoke with the calm certainty of a DMV worker explaining that, yes, you do need seven forms of ID to renew your license.

This was the start of my 2013 experience watching March Madness—the time of year when productivity plummets, everyone suddenly pretends to be a college basketball expert, and we all confidently pick a 12-seed to win it all based on mascot cuteness.

(As if a scrappy cartoon anteater is the secret to upending a team with four future NBA players.)

This whole sports tradition starts with the revealing of the 68-team bracket by the Selection Committee—a group of sleep-deprived athletic directors buried under mountains of statistics, strength of schedule data, and other advanced metrics like ‘Postgame Handshake Tension Strength’—which they carefully analyze before saying, ‘Eh, just put Duke as a 1-seed, throw (insert your alma mater) into a bubble discussion and let’s go get margaritas.’”

Anyway, I settled into my seat to root for my newly adopted team, by which I mean, the underdog—-the Jackrabbits.

I quickly discovered that sitting in the farthest row had its perks because whenever a close first-round game elsewhere had the slightest whiff of a buzzer-beater, the crowd would abandon their seats, stampede up the stairs to the concourse, and huddle around a tiny TV by the nacho stand—which, of course, had green chili.