Greetings, loyal denizens of the Simple Justice hotel! It’s your ol’ pal Seaton, back from the wilderness of Knoxville with a confession that’s been gnawing at me like a raccoon on a trash can lid. I don’t give a damn about basketball. Never have. Never will. The sound of sneakers squeaking on hardwood makes my teeth itch, and the only thing I hate more than a jump shot is the guy who thinks “dribbling” is a personality trait.

But here I am, parked on my couch with a Diet Dr. Pepper in one hand and a remote in the other, forcing myself to watch March Madness like some masochistic penance for sins I didn’t commit. Why? Because the Tennessee Vols and Lady Vols are doing well, and apparently, I’m contractually obligated as a Volunteer State resident to care.

Let’s get one thing straight: I’m a football guy. Give me a Saturday in Neyland Stadium with 100,000 orange-clad lunatics screaming “Sweet Caroline” off-key, and I’m happier than a pig in slop. Basketball? That’s just football’s awkward cousin who shows up to the family reunion with a vegan casserole nobody asked for. But the Vols men’s team is Sweet 16-bound for the third straight year, and the Lady Vols—under that new coach Kim Caldwell, who’s got them playing like they’re possessed by the ghost of Pat Summitt—are torching their way through the bracket. So, I figured, fine. I’ll watch. I’ll grit my teeth and pretend I know what a “pick and roll” is, because if Tennessee’s winning, I’m not about to be the guy who misses the party.

The men’s team, coached by Rick Barnes, who’s got a face like he’s perpetually disappointed in your life choices, is out there grinding. They’ve got this kid, Zakai Zeigler, who shoots like he’s auditioning for a sniper movie, and I’ll admit, it’s mildly entertaining to watch him drain threes while I’m draining my soda. Then there’s the Lady Vols, who’ve got me half-convinced Caldwell’s slipped some kind of Knoxville moonshine into their Gatorade. They’re pressing teams into turnovers like it’s a full-contact sport, and I caught myself yelling at the TV when they smoked South Florida 101-66 in the first round. Me. Yelling. At basketball. What’s next, I start caring about free throw percentages?

I’m not saying I’m converted. I still think basketball games take too long to say too little—40 minutes of back-and-forth just to decide who gets to lose next week? Pass. But I’ll give credit where it’s due: these Vols and Lady Vols are making it hard to look away. The men are set to face Kentucky in the Sweet 16 today, and the women are squaring off against Texas on Saturday. I’ll be there, slumped in my recliner, muttering about how I’d rather be watching a rerun of the Georgia game where Nico Iamaleava threw that touchdown pass. Yet, I’ll watch. Because Tennessee’s in it, and if they keep winning, I might just have to admit this sport isn’t the worst thing since unsliced bread.

So here’s to March Madness, I guess. May the Vols keep dunking, the Lady Vols keep pressing, and may I survive this self-inflicted torture without throwing my remote through the screen. Go Big Orange, or whatever the hell they say in basketball land. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a date with a replay of the 1998 Florida game to remind myself what real sports look like.

See y’all next week!