W hen you tell a real American basketball fan the name George Mason, their face lights up and the year 2006 rolls off their lips. The Chicago Bulls of the 90s or the Lakers’ dynasties, the Splash Brothers from Oakland—fine and well. But the story of the university team from the eponymous small town in Virginia does not measure up to these NBA legends.
George Mason’s squad in 2006 hadn’t even reached the final of their own college conference and qualified for the national tournament only by the grace of the powers that be in college sports. But then the nobodies from the hinterland knocked out one favorite after another and sparked nationwide euphoria. They didn’t end up winning the tournament in the end, but the winner is hardly remembered today. Yet George Mason has gone down in history.
The George Mason story is one of the main reasons why the national college basketball tournament is also called “March Madness.” The final rounds in collegiate sports have always stirred passions; every college graduate identifies for life with the team of their alma mater. Yet George Mason became the embodiment of the “Cinderella Story,” the Cinderella tale that bestows upon college basketball the reputation of being so much crazier, ergo more lively, more honest and more beautiful than professional sports.
This coming weekend the knockout tournament enters the Sweet 16—the last 16 teams. Yet among them there isn’t a single Cinderella. The only surprise team, High Point from North Carolina, was eliminated in the second round by the favorite Arizona. All top-seeded teams are still in, and all teams come from the so-called “Power Conferences” – the college leagues with big budgets and a long basketball tradition.
Now the sports pages and portals, the moderator mics, the podcasts and the stands are buzzing with the discussion of whether March Madness has lost its soul. The tiny college, whose name you have to Google first, and which has marched past big names like Duke, Arizona or Michigan — this, purists say, is the salt in the soup of March Madness.
The culprit behind the death of the soul is quickly named – the sordid Mammon
The culprit behind the death of the soul is quickly named—the sordid Mammon. After decades of debate, the vast money that has always been earned with college sports has also reached the players. Since 2021 they are allowed to market themselves. Since 2024 they may switch to a larger university at will and at any time, where they receive more TV time and thus greater earning opportunities.
The outcome is predictable. A talented player will, as quickly as possible, move from a small university to a large, well-known one. The two-tiered society in college basketball becomes more pronounced. The tournament more and more predictable. March Madness less mad.
Now there are, however, voices arguing that the hackneyed tale of the soul killer capitalism does not apply to college sports. For one, it is almost socialist that the players who create the value are also involved in it. On the other hand, the fascination of March Madness remains unbroken: the small dingy arenas full of fanatic fans, the raw physicality of student play, the drama of the knockout format – all of it still exists. Even the insane game between Vanderbilt and Nebraska last Sunday, which sent fans of both teams into euphoria, is proof of that.
And what about the Cinderella turns? Well, that phenomenon has worn thin; since George Mason there has been a veritable inflation of Cinderella stories—VCU 2011, Wichita 2013, Loyola 2018, Florida Atlantic 2023. And there can still be upsets, even if they do not come from dwarf universities. If St. John’s of New York were to beat the favorite Duke next week, that would indeed be wild. And time simply cannot be rolled back even to 2006.
