I’ll admit it. I have no clue what a double-double is.
I don’t know how many steps without dribbling it takes to travel, and I have no interest in learning.
Basketball isn’t about three-pointers or buckets (well, maybe a little). For me — and what I hope is the rest of the Tar Heel fanbase — basketball is about one thing and one thing only: beating Duke.
My senior year of attending Mooresville High School – whose mascot was, admittedly, a Blue Devil, I chose a blue prom dress that too closely resembled that of Duke University. Knowing I was Chapel Hill bound, I made a promise to make that night the last time I ever wore that shade of blue.
I avoid kids whose parents are the CEO of some multinational conglomerate responsible for global warming, and I certainly don’t have to live in a tent in the middle of winter to go to a basketball game. I walk through my brick-covered campus, cast with Carolina Blue skies, while my Triangle counterparts trek across a bleakly gray stone landscape with literal gargoyles.
Seriously.
Instead, I rush Franklin St. when the Tar Heels inevitably crush Duke in basketball games, eat hot dogs at Suttons and drink from the Old Well on FDOC. I embrace traditions that are as fun and lively as the University I get to call home.
I could go on for days about the ways in which Duke is inferior to UNC – ridiculously high tuition, disappointing basketball team, pretentious and privileged student body – but I’ll spare you the time. At the end of the day, showing up to the Dean Dome is about cheering for my favorite shade of blue, surrounded by an immensely spirited student body I am proud to call my UNC family.
I don’t have to know what a double-double is to know that the Tar Heels just do it better.
