|
And if, by some fluke, Carolina is knocked out of tournament action early on, then my diehard husband -- like most North Carolina residents
-- cheerfully urges on Duke or N.C. State and roots for them with as much enthusiasm and vigor as he does Carolina. Well, almost. As Carolina goes, so goes he. When they have a good season, he's happy camper, a cheerful
weekend handy man who works off his honey-do list knowing that at some point he will be rewarded by being left alone during the Carolina game. When Carolina has a bad year, there's a lot of under-the-breath muttering. He has long,
rambling discourses with the television, often resulting in serious remote control abuse. Often the playing so enrages him he can barely choke down that bag of chocolate chips cookies he's hiding behind his recliner. It's a sport
he takes seriously, my friends But he doesn't just sit and watch. No, like all true Carolina fans he's helpful. He carries on a running dialogue with the team throughout the game, although they don't pay much attention.
"Shoot! Shoot the blankety-blank ball! Arughhhhh!" I'll hear echoing from the den. In addition to telling them when to shoot, how to shoot, what defense/offense they should use and the team's current status in his official "
List of Sports Dunderheads", he also demonstrates good basketball technique, like the modified remote control dunk, the channel switching defense and, my all-time favorite, the disgusted I might as well go ahead and go to bed
because they're down by 20 points finish. Carolina fans know the Tarheels are a surprising team and one should never give them up for dead. It's a lesson he should have mastered by now because every once in a while when he
resorts to his early to bed tactic, vowing never to watch another Carolina game as long as he lives, he awakens to a bright new morning, picks up the newspaper and discovers they came back in the second half and won it. His faith
restored, he restocks his games supplies (chips, cookies, remote) and settles down for the next one. Life, he'll tell you, is good as long as the Tarheels are on the court. Back on the home court, I've come to terms with
his obsession with things Tarheel. There are no Tarheel deprogrammers, support groups or counselors I can go to for help. No books, no clinics, no hypnotists advertising special rates for Tarheel addicts. It's a preference
I've had to learn to accept. There's simply no arguing with the cold, powder blue facts: I'm married to a man with a Carolina Basketball Jones. |
