Through a Glass, Darkly

Women Watching Basketball by Marisa de los Santos

For us, five writers, it’s partly
to do with the language, little spells,
hyphenated, elegant lingo,

words swirling like whiskey in the mouth:
pump-fake, post-up, two-guard,
pick-and-roll. We are casual.

Like Whitman–who’d have been a fan
for sure, adoring and bearded,
tossing his hat in the air

for the Knicks–we speak passwords
primeval, we enter this world
and belong. With adamant hands,

we argue calls, how best
to beat the double-team, the beauty
of an inside-outside game.

And, too, it’s the players themselves
that attract us, their lives, loose-
linked fragments of story

each of us seeks and collects:
the guard’s murdered father, the tranquil
center’s Muslim faith,

ten-thousand winter coats
the rookie gave to children.
But, still, it’s more than all

that. Oh, how to explain
why you love what you love?
Picture time-lapse photography,

the certain outward opening
of flowers, one circle of petals
at a time, a smooth unfisting

called to life by notes sounded
somewhere in the clenched heart,
the thirsty root-tips, the body

of the moist earth. Exhalation
of a long-held breath. Green
stem, delicate tendon,

twisting toward the sun.
Because it’s like that,
a little, the turn-around fade-away

jumper. Though we know the ethereal
nicknames: Magic, Dream, Air,
what we want most is pure

corpus, sharp tug of tricep
and hamstring, five fingers’ grip
on the ball–hard, perfect star–

back muscles singing, glorious
climb through the air. We imagine
it this way: to dunk would be life

from the bones out, would be
to declare, Divine is the flesh!
and for once to believe it, believe it.

April is National Poetry Month. Marisa de los Santo’s new novel came out this week. And Go Tarheels!

Yesterday was Bright Sunday at my church. It was the first time we had ever celebrated Bright Sunday, which is the day (usually celebrated in Eastern Orthodox churches) when we dress in bright colors and celebrate with holy laughter the miracle of Christ rising from the dead. This website says that, “The custom was rooted in the musings of early church theologians (like Augustine, Gregory of Nyssa, and John Chrysostom) that God played a practical joke on the devil by raising Jesus from the dead. ‘Risus paschalis - the Easter laugh,’ the early theologians called it.” Our pastor explained it in a similar way. It reminded me of the party that Lauren Winner talked about in Girl Meets God, where everyone met on the Monday after Easter and brought whatever it was that they gave up for Lent so that they could all celebrate together.

In our case, we just wore Hawaiian shirts and other bright colors. It was one of those things where I wanted to tell visitors, “We don’t always dress quite so silly.”

After church, we went out to eat to celebrate a friend’s birthday. Because it was cold and I didn’t want to be dressed like an idiot all day, I had brought along a change of clothes. And by “change of clothes” I mean “my Davidson sweatshirt.” That’s right! I own a Davidson sweatshirt. Because my brother went there. I am totally legit. For the record, Mike put on his UNCG sweatshirt. SoCon represent! (First Mike and I were eerily matchy with our Hawaiian shirts. Then we were eerily matchy with our sweatshirts. We were having one of those adorable couple days. I am not all that comfortable with the matchy matchy.)

While we were on our way to the restaurant, I called my brother to tell him that I was wearing the sweatshirt he bought me in honor of his alma mater’s big game. He said that, in fact, he had worn his own Davidson sweatshirt to church. (I would have worn mine to church if it hadn’t been Bright Sunday. Too bad the sweatshirt is gray. Later on in the day, I saw that my mom’s Facebook status was that she was wearing her Davidson sweatshirt. We were a whole family of matchy matchy!)

But that is not the point of this post. The point of this post is that Davidson (and, you know, Stephen Curry) managed something that I thought was impossible. They got my brother to care about college basketball. Now, I love me some college basketball. March is a wonderful, wonderful time of year. Joseph, however, isn’t all that big on organized sports and that kind of athletic competition. Not that he’s not athletic - he did tae kwon do, he ran track and cross country. He just doesn’t care for the way that sports stars are idolized and overpayed. And he especially doesn’t like how people tie their importance and mood to a team they have nothing to do with. We have had a lot of discussions about this, and while I see his point, I do truly love the game of basketball. I love competition and rivalry. It’s one of those things where we mostly just agree to disagree. So when Davidson kept winning those games, I didn’t call him, because I thought he’d be like, “Well, okay, thanks for letting me know, but you know I don’t really care.” I called my mom instead, and we squealed excitedly about the games, just like we always do.

But then on Sunday, my brother and I were talking about a game! Of basketball! He even knew that, if his team won, they would be playing my team! This is some serious progress, people. You need to root for Davidson in the future so that he and I can continue this emotional closeness.

In all honesty, I was kind of heartbroken at the end of the game. I know that my brother wasn’t deeply invested in the outcome, but it was fun to watch him have something like that to be excited about. I know that people all across the country were rooting for Davidson, but at the same time, it felt very personal, to know, as Mike and I were standing in the middle of the living room watching the last play, that my brother was watching the game at a bar with other Davidson grads, that my mom was watching at her house. All of us in our matching sweatshirts.

I didn’t call him, because I knew he’d say, “Oh, well, no big deal.” But I would have called if they had won. Because I knew he was watching.

Like most of the country, I had no idea what was going on in the Men’s Division II Tournament, but my mom mentioned tonight that Barton (from Wilson, NC) won, and that the ending was kind of incredible. I pretty much had no idea what she was talking about (because, you know, I don’t have ESPN), but then I found the clip online, and . . . she was right. (Here is a slightly shorter and therefore slightly less impressive clip if you are pressed for time. But you get the replay afterwards, so there is that.) (Have I mentioned today that YouTube is the greatest invention of our generation?) Be sure and watch the part where they all run around chasing the guy who made the game-winning shot behind the basket and they can’t catch him. That’s my mom’s favorite part. (Hi, mom!)

You guys, that is awesome. They had one player who scored 10 points in 45 seconds. Now people are cheering them in airports and they got to be on ESPN. Their on-campus celebration was attended by 5000 people. Their coach hopes this will help them get donations for a gym renovation. This isn’t on the grand scale that Division I is, but . . . it’s pretty exciting for them just the same.

-Is it just us, or was CBS airing and commentating these games like no one was watching them? Could they have BEEN any more low key?

-At this point, it’s a cliche to hate Billy Packer. But, you guys. I really really hate him. And he hates everyone. Everyone is wrong, he could do everything better himself. I would like to watch someone who enjoys the game. Is that so much to ask? Mike refuses to mute Billy, so I usually have to leave the room. He seems worse this year.

-Who has a more thankless commentating job than Jim Nantz? He doesn’t even bother to try to disagree with Billy anymore. I used to get mad at Nantz, too, but lately I think he just sounds defeated. He needs a hug. (But not from Billy Packer, who has never touched him while commentating.)

-I miss Dan Bonner. I didn’t really get to hear him very much this year. He’s my favorite. I’m sure I’ve mentioned that before, but I just wanted to say it again. He smiles a lot.

-A lot of people have been talking about Gus Johnson this week, and how he won’t be commentating any more games this year since he got bumped for James Brown. Dan Bonner + Gus Johnson = my favorite commentating team. *sigh*

-I am not a fan of Roy Williams doing commercials. Don’t do that, Roy. (But if he was going to do a commercial, shouldn’t it be MasterCard? Are Mike and I the only ones who think Roy Williams doing a MasterCard commercial would be hilarious?)

-Mike woke me up to tell me that (good news) Carolina had won and (bad news) he was now beating me in the brackets. He was only a LITTLE gloaty. Ladies and gentlemen, that’s love in the time of basketball.

Just as the final minute of the ACC Championship game was ticking down, the delivery man rang the doorbell with our luggage. So Mike and I celebrated the victory by jumping around with our bag - the three of us are very happy to be reunited and to see Carolina win. Mike, who only started watching college basketball in the fall of ‘98, had never seen Carolina win an ACC tournament.

I don’t want to harp on this US Air thing, but last night on TV, they were saying that US Air is asking customers to arrive at least two hours before their flights and, if possible, not to check any luggage. Yeah. That’s totally a reasonable request when you’re going on vacation for a week. I’ll just pretend I’m on The Amazing Race and plan to wear the same clothes all week long. Thanks, US Air. How about you GET YOUR COMPUTERS FIXED INSTEAD?

Not only did we get to dance around - we also got to celebrate the Carolina win by brushing our teeth. It’s the little things in life. Clean teeth. Good times.

(Lest you think I’m playing the martyr, sure, we could have gone to buy toothbrushes, but last night I was told that our bag would be delivered by midnight. This morning I was told that it would be . . . sometime this morning. I had no idea that it wouldn’t be until almost 3:00 this afternoon. So Listerine it was.)

Yesterday we went to the N.C. State/Georgia Tech football game with Jeff and Adriene, Adriene’s parents, and my mom. We knew it was going to be cold - reports were saying scary numbers like “29.” (That’s a scary number to me, so I don’t want to hear anything about how it’s already snowed up north. That’s why I don’t live up north where crazy things like that happen.) And so, we bundled up with longjohns and layers (I personally wore a tank top, a long-sleeved shirt, a wool sweater, a fleece, and my winter coat . . . I also had on longjohns and two pairs of socks. Really the only thing that got cold was my toes. And my nose, I guess. But I’m getting ahead of myself) and bravely tailgated.

At the game, Mike, my mom, and I were seated behind a Tech fan who explained to us that number 21 is, in fact, a god, and that Reggie Ball is an idiot. Apparently this is all we really needed to know about Georgia Tech (we later had it confirmed by Jeff and Adriene, so we had the authentic Tech fan experience). Also, he kept telling Mike all this stuff about how N.C. State could be good if only . . . well, I don’t really know what he said, because I wasn’t listening. We’re not big college football people, and we’re not actually N.C. State fans (at least not primarily), but we didn’t really have the heart to tell him that. So we just pretended to represent N.C. State fans everywhere. I did this by ignoring him, Mike did it by smiling and nodding. At least now he thinks State fans are polite. If he remembers anything at all, that is.

My personal favorite thing that this guy said was when he pointed out two female Tech students who were yelling about something Reggie Ball had done and said, “See? Even the girls know Reggie Ball is an idiot!” Later on, they were cheering something Calvin Johnson did and he said, again, “Even the girls know! Twenty-one!” I turned to Mike and asked whether the guy really just said, “Even the girls know,” because, you know, girls can know about football, too, believe it or not. (I don’t speak from much personal experience here, but I’m getting better. And I was defending the honor of Adriene and Carla Jean. I care, ladies.) Mike said, “A guy who calls a player on his own team named Mohammed ‘a terrorist’ isn’t really focused on . . . equality.” Point taken.

So, back to the temperature. I didn’t have a good hat to wear (my toboggan being light blue and all), so I borrowed a hat from my brother. It was navy blue. Mike borrowed one from my brother that was . . . well, basically, it was awesome. It was fur lined and had ear flaps and was generally very warm. While we were tailgating, I convinced Mike that I should wear it instead, and let me tell you, my head did not get cold. Like I said, really only my toes (and my nose) were cold. I need warmer wool socks. The hat, though, did its job and it did it with an exotic flair. Unfortunately, crazy Russian hats are not exactly a common sight around North Carolina, the land of humidity and mild winters. I got a lot of strange looks and people pointing. Even laughing (those were mostly the drunk people). Let them laugh, I said. I was secure in the knowledge that my hat, though crazy, was secretly awesome. And warm.

And so, I post this picture so that you, too, can enjoy what Jeff called “Comrade Kari.” hee.

And Mike and I were there.

I’m wearing red and black again today!

Dear North Carolinians,

This is a dire situation. We’ve only got one more chance to win the Stanley Cup, and we’ve blown two chances in a row. I am begging you, begging you to change whatever it is you’ve been doing. Have you been wearing a “lucky” shirt or hat? Please wear something else. Have you been watching the game with certain friends? Ditch them tonight. Is there music you’ve been listening to? Change the CD or the station. Is there a couch you’ve been sitting on? Sit on the floor. Better yet, move the couch out of the room. Throw it away, even! Buy a new couch! The Hurricanes are clearly not getting the right vibe from us, the fans, and we need to change things up as much as possible. This means you. North Carolina has never won a professional sports championship, and how will you feel if you keep it from happening tonight? I’ll go ahead and answer that - you’ll feel terrible. Worse than you did the day after the Panthers lost the Super Bowl. Because you’ll know it was your fault. You thought, “The lucky hat has to work this time.” The lucky hat is not going to work. If you’re planning on wearing the lucky hat, you might as well go to sleep.

Today I am wearing red and black. I am ready to cheer my heart out tonight, even though hockey is a sport I don’t completely understand. Please, Hurricanes fans (and North Carolinians in general). Please do what you’ve got to do. Help me make this happen.

Rallying the troops,
Kari

Every day on my way to work, I turn right at a stoplight. At this light, for whatever reason, I have a yield sign, so I am supposed to yield to the drivers approaching me who are turning left onto that same road. And, nearly every morning, I try to yield and am honked at impatiently by either the drivers behind me or the drivers who are wanting to turn left and are waiting for me. Even though, according to the law, I am supposed to be waiting for them.

This is a very frustrating situation. Every once in a while, I’m like, “Screw it, I’m not yielding!” And then I get honked at by the person turning left, who thinks I should have yielded. There is no way to win. This is not the kind of stress I need on my way to work. I was complaining about this to Mike last night, and he reminded me that the point is just to keep the flow of traffic, and if I’m holding up traffic, I should just go. In response, I told him that the yield sign is my new metaphor for life: I try to do the right thing, and it never works out. He did not approve.

Last night we were talking about baseball and somehow we got on the subject of Johnny Damon. I said that there are things I wouldn’t do even if lots and lots of money was offered to me, and playing for the Yankees is one of them (I would be so unhappy living up north, for one thing). Mike asked me if I’d cheer for the Yankees if I was offered money, and after a certain amount, I agreed that I would. I mean, I hate the Yankees, and I wouldn’t want to play for them, but . . . I’m not really eligible. So, if my daily life could be improved by cheering for the Yankees once, then, I think I could do that. For the right price. And then, Mike got evil. He said, “What if Duke and Carolina were playing in the national championship game and someone offered you a billion dollars if Duke won. Would you cheer for Duke?”

I told him no.

He went kind of ballistic.

Seriously, though. It’s the national championship. For a lesser game, say, the ACC tournament, then, eh, probably. Give me the billion. That’s just a game, and a billion is a lot of money. I’d get over it in a year or so. But to see Carolina beat Duke in the national championship, that’s worth a billion dollars in my heart.

He did not understand. And accused me of not caring about providing for our family. In this hypothetical situation. Which would never happen, because I hope people have better things to do with a billion dollars than offer me money to pull for Duke. He thinks that if I saw the hypothetical billion dollars, I’d change my mind. But my hypothetical conscience is clear.

Now I have to figure out what to do with the information that my husband would sell his soul to Satan for a billion dollars. It’s a sad sad day in our house.

(Y’all. It’s the NATIONAL CHAMPIONSHIP. I cannot be expected to cheer against my team for a NATIONAL CHAMPIONSHIP. Not for any amount of money.)

Before the UNC/George Mason game, they showed the clip of George Mason’s coach saying, “Their fans think they’re Supermen. Our fans KNOW that we’re kryptonite.” I was like, “Haha, shut up.” And then, as Carolina played like crap, the announcers kept repeating it. Deliberately, I believe, to enrage me.

However, while watching George Mason play yesterday, I have decided that I’m a believer. They are kryptonite. But, of course, the coach had to come up with something different to say. The kryptonite thing is so last week. Here are our ideas for what it could have been.

MIKE: Their fans think they’re Wonder Woman. Our fans know we’re the Invisible Jet.

KARI: Or the lasso of truth.

MIKE: Neither of those make any sense.

KARI: Do they have to make sense?

MIKE: It would help.

KARI: I don’t think they need help getting fired up. I think it just needs to be catchy.

MIKE: True.

KARI: Their fans think they are the internet. Our fans know we are a virus!

MIKE: Do they want to be a virus?

KARI: If viruses win basketball games.

MIKE: Their fans think they are Hummers. Our fans know that we are . . .

KARI: Nails on the road!

MIKE: Their fans think they are gods.

KARI: Our fans know we are their Achilles heel?

MIKE: Their fans think they are Al Capone.

KARI: Our fans know we are the IRS.

MIKE: hehehe.

KARI: Their fans think they are Brokeback Mountain, but our fans know we are Crash.

MIKE: The underdog prevails.

KARI: Although their fans probably don’t think they are the gay cowboy movie.

MIKE: Details.

KARI: Their fans think they are Russell Crowe. Our fans know we are Joaquim Phoenix. And we have a knife.

MIKE: Their fans think they’re Russell Crowe. Our fans know that we are the fiesty concierge.

KARI: I guess being Joaquim Phoenix in that instance implies that we are dirty cheaters, which we wouldn’t want.

MIKE: Their fans think they are Tyler Durden. But our fans know that we are Tyler Durden.

KARI: Their fans think they are Tom Cruise. Our fans know we are Oprah’s couch.

MIKE: Their fans think they are the Fighting Irish. Our fans know we are the potato famine.

KARI: Their fans think they are weapons of mass destruction. Our fans know no such weapons were ever found.

MIKE: Their fans think they are Royales with Cheese. But our fans know we are the Hamburglar.

KARI: Their fans think they’re Bill Clinton. Our fans know we are Monica Lewinsky.

MIKE: Their fans think they’re The Usual Suspects. Our fans know we’re Keyser Soze.

KARI: Their fans think they are a really great ship, like the Titanic, but not the Titanic since it is a symbol of failure. And our fans know that we are an iceburg.

MIKE: Their fans think that they are Star Wars. Our fans know that we are George Lucas.

KARI: Their fans think they are the Beatles. Our fans know that we are Yoko Ono.

MIKE: Their fans think they are Apollo Creed. Our fans know we are Ivan Drago.

KARI: Their fans think they are the Berlin Wall. Our fans know that we are David Hasselhoff

MIKE: Their fans think they are Snakes on a Plane. But our fans know we are Samuel L. Jackson.

KARI: You win.

Yesterday I realized I’m not really a bracket kind of girl. Last year Mike and I filled out brackets, just so we could talk smack to one another. We had a good time, but it didn’t mean a whole lot. This year I printed off brackets and we dutifully filled them out. But then, yesterday, I realized, I don’t like rooting for a team just because I picked them on my brackets. I’d rather just root for the underdog, regardless of what it might mean. (I don’t have any money on this, just competitiveness. Which undoubtedly makes it easier. Though I am a very competitive person.) So I cheered for Winthrop (didn’t pick them, was SICK when that game was over) and UNCW (picked them, was SICK when that game was over) and Xavier (that would have really screwed up my brackets, but I would have been happy to see Gonzaga lose). I can’t get over cheering for the underdog. I’ve decided that’s okay, that it’s more a part of me than the brackets are. And I’m still hoping a #15 will beat a #2. Go Davidson! Go Pennsylvania! hehe.

Overall, I’ve really enjoyed this season more than I have in a long time. Maybe it was my lowered expectations (maybe you haven’t heard, but Carolina lost its top seven scorers. And if you haven’t heard, you haven’t watched a Carolina basketball game, because they say it eighteen times per game), maybe it was because we won last year, but every win this year felt like a gift, and the losses weren’t as many as we expected them to be. Plus, we beat Duke in Cameron. On JJ’s senior night. Good times.

So, last weekend, it didn’t bother me so much that we lost to Boston College. I feel so good about the season already, happy that we’re going to the big dance, that those feelings overshadowed the loss. In fact, it was probably really good for me that BC went on to the final game. A few years ago, Boston College knocked Carolina out of the NCAA Tournament in the second round. Since that time, whenever their name was mentioned, I would get a little bit angry. When they were mentioned as possible additions to the ACC, I refused to accept that it could happen. All season, I have been in denial about the fact that they are actually in our conference. And yet, as we watched Carolina play them on Saturday afternoon, I turned to Mike and said, “I would love for Carolina to win, but I’m rooting for the winner of this game regardless.” And I did. So, to sum up, I hated Boston College, I refused to admit they are even in our conference, and yet I cheered for them against Duke without even the slightest hesitation. Truly, To Hate Like This Is to Be Happy Forever. (I can’t wait to read that book.) And now I don’t have any problem accepting them fully into the ACC. I had no problems cheering for them yesterday (and not just because of the bracket, but because I cheer ACC sans Duke). I needed to have to cheer for them in order to get over my past dislike. It has all worked out for the good.

On Sunday, on the way to church, Mike pointed out that before he was with me, he didn’t even know who Dean Smith was. And that he thought that he was supposed to cheer for all North Carolina teams, so he would have cheered for both Carolina and Duke. Clearly, I have brought him into the light, so much so that he stayed up last night to watch the last few games without me.

Today is my day off, so I’ll be watching basketball until I head over to Susan’s this afternoon. Have I mentioned that I love this time of year? Breathe in the sweet smells of spring and basketball. It’ll be over before you know it.

The first Olympics that Mike and I experienced together were the 2000 Summer Olympics in Sydney. I heard that they didn’t have very good ratings, but Mike and I watched them faithfully all the same. While I will watch any Olympic event, the Summer Olympics don’t capture my heart like the Winter Games do. I like the swimming and the running and the gymnastics, but I don’t love them like I do the figure skating.

Some of my earliest Olympic memories are of watching figure skating - Katarina Witt, especially. I guess the 1988 Olympics are the first ones I remember very well, because I remember the battle between Witt and Debi Thomas. I remember everyone talking about Brian Boitano and the Battle of the Brians. I remember watching the competition with my mom, and the exhibition later on. That was probably when I started getting into figure skating.

A few years later, in the midst of the Nancy/Tonya showdown, a new skater caught my eye - Michelle Kwan. She was about my age, and I always enjoyed watching her. My mom and I both became avid fans, watching her skate on TV at every opportunity (much to my dad’s dismay). In 1998, my roommate and I watched in horror (at least, I watched in horror - I think I remember my roommate taking the opposite position just to bug me) as Tara Lipinski won the gold. A huge disappointment, I thought, but there’s still Salt Lake City. And I watched as Kwan continued to skate well at Nationals and at Worlds, hoping that Salt Lake City would be her chance.

As we all know, it wasn’t to be. Mike, though he knew I was a fan, didn’t know the extent of my fandom until I sat crying on the couch after the medal ceremony, after it had all fallen apart. He didn’t know what to do as I cried through the exhibition, when she skated to “Fields of Gold.” I cried at other things, too (the Olympics always make me cry), but that exhibition really stands out as a strong memory from those Olympics - the announcers were crying, Michelle Kwan was crying, and I sat in the second bedroom watching TV and grading papers and bawling my eyes out as Mike played XBox in the living room.

For Mother’s Day that year, I took my mom to see the Olympic Champions on Ice when they came to Greensboro. I got to see many of the skaters who are still competing - Irina Slutskaya, Yevgeny Plushenko, and, of course, Michelle Kwan. I cried then, too, when she did her signature spiral. I (cried as I) watched her get her spark back and skate incredibly at Nationals. I thought maybe there would be a hope for the 2006 Olympics. As they approached, though, I knew I didn’t really want to see her skate at another Olympics, because I knew that the sport had changed, and that her injuries meant that she couldn’t skate her best. When she won the spot on the team, Mike sent me an email link to the article, and I sent him back a message that simply said: .

We watched the opening ceremony on Friday night, and before they got to the ceremony, NBC showed this thing about Turin and its history and the history of Olympic competition that reduced me, yet again, to a blubbering mess. I tried to play it off, but I love the thrill of the Olympics, the tension of the competition. Mike knows that, has learned so much about me since 2002, knows me so well, that on Sunday morning he approached me cautiously and said, “I have some good news and some bad news, and they’re the same thing.” He watched my face carefully as he said, “Michelle Kwan dropped out of the Olympics.” I felt a sense of relief, that I wouldn’t have to be on pins and needles as I watched the program, and for most of the day it was stronger than my sense of regret. But that night, as I watched the Olympic coverage, they did a tribute to Michelle Kwan’s career, and I saw so many of the moments I remembered - her first Nationals, different routines I saw her skate so many times, costumes I remembered, the two Olympics that she skated in. And I was sad. It was time to move on, but the changing of the guard is always hard to watch.

I know all of this sounds silly, but, like I said, the Olympics - especially figure skating - really capture my heart. For over a decade, I’ve been a Michelle Kwan fan. I’m both disappointed for her and ready to move on. And so, when I watch figure skating this year, I will be cheering for Sasha Cohen, who is always exciting to watch (I was going to cheer for her anyway, to win the gold, and just hope for Michelle Kwan to do her best, but now I can watch with an undivided heart). I didn’t like her much before the 2002 Olympics, but she seems to have grown up a lot (I think coming in fourth did her some good), and she’s so strong and graceful. No matter what happens, I’ll probably get a little teary that night, thinking about what might have been. But that’s okay. In the end, that’s why I love the Olympics.

The other day, my mom and I were talking about how things changed around these parts after 1991. Before 1991, it was rare to see a Duke fan. People cared about State and Carolina, and there was some support for Wake, but the Duke fans were very outnumbered. And then came 1991, when Duke won the national championship. Suddenly, there were Duke fans everywhere. Duke sweatshirts, Duke bumper stickers. Where did they all come from? Why were these people suddenly so interested in being Duke fans? It couldn’t possibly be because they were trying to associate themselves with a winning team, could it? Could it?

Yeah, it could.

So, there’s a very simple test. If you were a Duke fan before 1991, you get a pass. You’re legit. My dad falls under this exemption. He switched allegiances, but he did it before 1991, so I can’t fault him. I don’t agree, but I can’t fault him. But if you were born before 1991 and became a Duke fan after 1991, you are a bandwagon fan. Period. The worst possible kind of fan. A fan who feels the need to associate him or herself with a team just to elevate his or her own importance. And so, after 1991, you saw Duke fans popping up all across the country after 1991. I have no use for bandwagon fans of any team. But of all the ones I’ve met, the Duke bandwagon fans are the worst.

The game on Tuesday night was a pretty good one. I enjoyed watching it, actually. I wasn’t counting on Carolina winning - I was just proud that they hung in. But it sure is interesting to see how many bandwagon fans (they’re easy to spot) feel the need to taunt me about it. I’m way past pinning my happiness on a bunch of 20-year olds. I got over that in high school. I am happy when they do well, but it doesn’t get me down if they lose. But you bandwagon fans, you go ahead and taunt as much as you want. I’m not all that impressed with your opinions to begin with.

One.

The only time we watch commercials these days is when we’re watching sports (thank you, TiVo). And with NFL and post-season baseball both getting a fair amount of airtime in our house, we’ve seen more commercials than usual. There’s a weird commercial . . . I’m not sure what it’s for, maybe wireless internet or something? In the middle of it, there’s a desk lamp coming up an escalator. And it seriously creeps me out. I call it, “When office furniture attacks.” I don’t know why I am so frightened of it, but it really does scare me.

Two.

When I was growing up, I’d always get holes in my shoes from where my big toenail pokes up. It was the worst in Keds. I realized last week that it still happens and I’m gonna have to be careful or my Mary Janes are going to have a hole in them. And that would seriously suck.

Three.

Over the weekend, while one game or another was on, we found that Dirty Dancing was on another channel, and we kept flipping between baseball and Patrick Swayze. I think that it’s best to see Dirty Dancing every few years, because I truly enjoy reveling in its awfulness. But I wouldn’t want to overdo it. The last time I saw it was before Mike and I got married, so it was time to see it again. Of course, we only saw the last 45 minutes or so, but that’s the good stuff anyway, right?

Mike is taking a class on the history of film, and one of his projects is to take a movie that’s not currently considered a “masterpiece of cinema” and make a case (including a 3-minute clip) for its inclusion on one of those “great movies” lists. I told him that I would give him millions of cool points if he could make a serious case for Dirty Dancing and then present it. The problem is that neither of us could come up with any reasons besides, “Nobody puts Baby in a corner.” (By the way, Mike didn’t realize that Kelly Bishop is Baby’s mom. hehe.) “I always do the last dance of the season. This year somebody told me not to.” I’m going to keep working on it, but obviously the clip he should show is from the end. What better scene is there to prove that this movie deserves a place among the best?

Four.

On Gilmore Girls, this has been the season of adult conversations. I complained all last season that I just wanted Luke and Lorelai to talk about the things they were thinking, and they’ve done that several times already this season. I have to say that I really enjoyed last night’s episode. It felt old-school to me in a lot of ways - Rory seemed likeable, Emily was the same old “love-to-hate-her” person that I remember, and Richard’s realization at the end made him seem less hateful than he has been. Luke and Lorelai’s story didn’t get as much screentime, but I enjoyed their scenes. Their relationship seems miles better than it was last season. I was surprised this morning to get on some websites and see people bashing it. The main complaint seems to be the lack of Luke/Lorelai affection, but it doesn’t bug me. They were cooking dinner and spending time with friends, mostly, and making out isn’t really appropriate for those times. They seem normal, which I appreciate. It’s also been great not to watch any promos, because I am just enjoying the story as it unfolds.

The only thing that bugged me was when Lorelai fed Paul Anka off a plastic spoon and then put the spoon on the counter. Gross.

At one of the more stressful points last night, I turned to Mike and said, “I’m sorry. This is all my fault. You wouldn’t care about this game if not for me.” Later on, when things were looking better, I said, “But, you know, I wouldn’t have cared so much when the Panthers lost the Superbowl if not for you. So I guess we’re even.”

Except that Carolina won last night, and we’re still waiting for that Panthers Superbowl victory.

After the game was over, when the teams were cutting down the nets and we were waiting for “One Shining Moment,” we stretched out on the floor, content in the feelings of watching your favorite team win a national championship. “How do you feel?” I asked. “You have never experienced this before.” Mike said he felt good. When I called him to ask him something earlier this morning, he said with wonder in his voice, “My team won the national championship.” It takes a while to sink in.

One thing I realized yesterday is that I always feel like I have to apologize for being a Carolina fan. Not for the team - even when they were 8-20, I was still a fan, and I figured it was probably good for most of the Carolina fans to experience a bad year or two. And I may not like all the punks on the team at any given time, but every team has players like that. No, pulling for Carolina reminds me of middle school, when all the popular kids were NC State fans or bandwagon Duke fans. I stuck by Carolina, even though the only other Carolina fan was one of the least popular girls in the class, and the Carolina shirt that she would wear after the team won had holes in it. I didn’t want to be like her, but I had been raised as a Carolina fan, and I just couldn’t change that. I remember watching my mom and dad cheer for Carolina (this was before my dad defected to Duke) from a very young age. “We are a Carolina family,” my mom told me, despite the fact that three of her four brothers went to NC State. And she told me all about Dean Smith and the Carolina Way of praising the seniors and keeping the freshmen in their place. The way that we never take timeouts but always wait for the TV timeout. Four Corners and Michael Jordan and 1982 (which I am too young to remember). (My dad’s only contribution to my basketball education was this: “Clemson is the armpit of the world.” You can see why I stuck with mom when Dad switched over.)

(Completely off-topic, but you should hear my mom tell the story of how, when she played for her high school basketball team, she made the game-winning free throws in one game. My dad claims that she still makes him kiss the newspaper article that featured the story. I got his sense of humor but none of her athletic ability.)

I guess some people see my team as being like the Yankees, an evil empire. Since we don’t have tons of national championships, I don’t see it in that same way, although I can’t deny that we consistently perform well. (In fact, to channel Mr. Darcy a bit, I have no wish to deny it. hee.) To me, Duke is more of an evil empire, and being a Duke fan is more akin to being a Yankees fan. Because of those middle school experiences, being a Carolina fan was always more of an underdog thing for me, as crazy as that sounds. I don’t get the hate because I was the one who was ostracized for being a fan, made fun of, instead of the other way around. I don’t say this to rile anyone up, but because these are honestly my experiences, and I think they explain a bit about why I respond to things the way I do.

I have been thinking a lot about my opinions and my preferences the past few days, and the reasons why I often feel like I have to apologize for them. Geof and Trey don’t apologize for being Duke fans. The Hollands don’t apologize for loving Georgia Tech. Scott doesn’t apologize for his Clemson love. And none of those people apologize for hating my team. I admire people who can state their preferences so clearly and without fear of recriminations.

I had a conversation this morning about how I often feel that my thoughts, my opinions, are invalid. I have talked about that here more than once, but I don’t know that I have made a lot of progress until recently. A few things this year, including the studies I did during Lent, are helping me grow a bit in that area, helping me come to value what I believe as well. This morning, the friend said, “You listen to others and make sure their opinons are represented and valued, but you often disrespect your own opinions or seem to consider them less worthy.” I must admit, I do that. So, in the spirit of growth and progress, let me just say: My team won last night. And I am proud to be a fan. I’m never going to be much of a trash talker (except with my dad), but I am not going to apologize anymore.

(That was kind of hard. But I am trying.)

I have discovered the secret to overcoming Daylight Savings Time. If you sleep like crap the week beforehand (as I did), you won’t be on any kind of schedule and your body won’t have such a problem adjusting. This morning it didn’t feel like 5:30 when my alarm went off. It felt like 6:30, because that’s what my clock said. I am glad to share this secret with you so that next year you too will be able to make an easy transition.

One of my favorite times of the year will be drawing to a close tonight. Sure, you might say, it’s easy for you to be a fan, because your team is in the final game. True, but I love watching the tournament regardless. Ask my friend Theresa. We met for a couple of years on Friday afternoons to do Bible study. There was one Friday in March, though, where I insisted that we watch the tournament instead. She was horrified to find out that there were games all afternoon and complained bitterly to all who would listen about my poor treatment of her. (Imagine my surprise and pride when she emailed me to ask me if I’d watched her beloved NC State beat UConn in the tournament, because she was pretty anxious there for a while. My response: “Is this actually Theresa? Because I don’t remember Theresa watching basketball except under extreme duress.” I haven’t heard back yet.) Ask my friends who still think I’m a Maryland fan because I wore red to their 2001 Final Four party (Maryland was playing Duke, what can I say?) and their 2002 Final Four party (I had a hard time deciding which Coach Williams I was rooting for in that game, but ultimately my ACC loyalties won out over my affection for Roy). Ask my dad, who always says, “You’re taking this a little too seriously.” My response? “Put mom on the phone.” hehe.

I am known among my friends for following basketball pretty closely. There was that time early this season when I was in Greensboro and couldn’t find a score for the Carolina/Kentucky game so I called Brian and made him check it on ESPN.com (much to his dismay). He says I have a problem. There’s the frantic call we made from the Atlanta airport a few weeks ago when we were trying to find out whether NC State had been able to pull it out against Duke. There are the grudges I hold against Boston College and Weber State. There’s the funk I was in after the Wake/West Virginia game a few weeks ago. There’s the fact that I get so excited before the tournament that you’d think it was Christmas for me. There’s also that little detail about how I told Mike that if he wanted us to be together, he’d have to learn to like basketball (hey, I learned football for him!) and he would have to be a Carolina fan.

Apparently I am getting to be known that way at work, as well. On Friday afternoon, some of the circulation staff was discussing the Carolina/Michigan State game, and they couldn’t remember what time it was going to be. “Go ask Kari,” they said. “She’ll know.” (I did.) Two of the guys here and I have been discussing our brackets ad nauseum. On Saturdays during basketball season, my coworker and I always set our computers to update with the scores. I’m the one who was updating everyone on the first two days of the NCAA tournament. I’ve already exchanged high fives and cautiously optimistic statements about the game tonight with a couple of coworkers, and everyone is asking me if I’m excited. (Yes.)

On Saturday, just before the second game tipped off, one of my friends and I were talking, and I said, “You know, I consider myself pretty lucky. I’ve calmed down a lot, so it’s not like Carolina losing a game ruins my day like it used to. But at the height of my crazed fandom, when I knew every player’s stats and watched or listened to every game, my team won a national championship. That’s not a bad deal. A lot of people can’t say that.” She said it was much the same for her.

Win or lose tonight, this has been a great season. One that I’ll remember for a long time. And no matter what happens tonight, I’ll be a little sad tomorrow that the season of buzzer-beaters and ACC loyalties, crazed overtime games and basketball from noon until midnight will be over. I like baseball, to be sure, but it’s nothing like basketball for me. On the first day of the tournament, I had the day off, and Mike and I were watching the games all afternoon. I fell asleep on the floor during one game, and woke up to a completely different game. I turned to Mike and grinned, saying, “This is the life. You fall asleep, and basketball is on. You wake up, and it’s still on. This is the best time of the year.”

“I think Billy Packer wants to marry Sean May’s hands. He keeps talking about how great his hands are.”

During the myriad of basketball we watched last week, we kept seeing ads for the new special edition of Hoosiers. The ads quoted ESPN, which named Hoosiers the best sports movie of the past 25 years. Mike kept asking me, “Is it really the best sports movie? Better than Rudy?” I don’t like to make claims like “better” and “best,” but I assured him that I could completely understand why they would say that. Since we actually own a copy of it, we watched it last night. Ultimately, I think he wasn’t convinced that it’s better than Rudy, but he did seem to enjoy it. (If he hadn’t, I would know that he has a heart of stone!)

Speaking of lists, a few weeks ago Entertainment Weekly put out a list of the 50 greatest love songs of all time. Per Mike’s request, I made a copy of the list and brought it home to him. His response? “I have never even heard “God Only Knows [which came in first].”

“But it’s the Beach Boys. How can you not have heard it?”

Last week, as you might imagine, we heard quite a lot of the Beach Boys. Every time we’d hear a song, I’d say, “Have you heard this one before?” and Mike would roll his eyes and usually say that he had. It got to be quite a fun game - fun for me, at least. I just couldn’t understand how he’d never heard “God Only Knows.” I’m not saying that I agree it should be the number one song . . . just that I’ve heard it.

On Tuesday night, we went to the Philharmonic to see The Ten Tenors. I will go ahead and admit that we weren’t thrilled about it, but we were given the tickets and they were box seats and it would have been rude not to go. As it turned out, we were the only ones in our box, which meant we could crack little jokes. Like when the Tenors were singing “Funiculi, Funicula,” I quietly told Mike of the Slim Goodbody song to that same tune. The words were, “From tiny holes called follicles, hair grows on your head!” Then we had to keep from looking at each other so that we didn’t get the giggles.

During the intermission, we acquired a pair of binoculars, which made the second half much more interesting. We played games like, “How many of the Ten Tenors are gay?” and, “Which of the Ten Tenors is the cutest?” and, “Which Ten Tenor looks the most like Art Garfunkel?”

The highlight of the evening was when they did a Beach Boys medley, which did in fact include “God Only Knows.” Much like my final acceptance of Fun Dip, Mike could no longer deny the existence of the song. (In fact, we heard it again on Saturday just before we left Florida, so it was quite an exciting week for him!) (And, if we’re discussing the 50 greatest love songs, I am quite partial to EW’s choice for number two: “Can’t Help Falling in Love with You.”)

Overall, The Ten Tenors really won the crowd over, and by the end we enjoyed ourselves a little more than we’d expected to. Whether that’s because of the game or the music, I’m really not prepared to say. hehe.

This morning I’m back to work, and I did think off and on this week about the things I’d have to do when I got back. Not in a bad way, mind you, but I knew my office would be overflowing with gift books and requests and lease books that came in while I was gone. I didn’t sleep well last night, but when I got out of bed this morning, Mike said, “I hope you have a good day at work,” and I responded, “I am sure I will.” I am glad I like my job.

*beep*

“Hey, Kari, it’s your dad. I just wanted you to know, your team is GOING DOWN!!!”

*beep*

“Hey, Dad, it’s me. I got your message, and I just wanted to let you know that I am not going to say anything about how my team is going to beat your team, because, when my team wins, the victory will be that much sweeter, because I will know I rose above it. So I’m not going to threaten you that my team will win by 38 million points. I’m just going to say . . . have a good evening.”

Rats. I thought it might work. (My dad is the only person I talk trash with before the game. hehe.)

Yesterday afternoon, my friend Kelly and I baked some sugar cookies from scratch and then watched the Panthers game. That reminded her of a conversation she’d had with a friend of hers about contradictions. Her friend, Anna, eats sausage biscuits with her pinkies sticking out, but she also loves The Simpsons. Kelly decided that her contradiction was that she loves baking, but she also likes playing video games and smack talk (just ask Brian).

We decided fairly easily that my contradiction is that I’m a fairly girly girl, or high maintenance or whatever - I do my hair every day, and I always wear a little makeup - and yet I love sports. Not playing them, but during parties where the girls are hanging out with the babies and the guys are watching the game, I’d much rather be with the guys.

On the way home last night, Mike said, “Well, it makes sense that you would like sports so much, since you grew up with a brother, and you would have had to play things on his terms.” The problem with that theory is that, while Joseph and I did play sporty things together, he also played with me when I wanted to play Barbies (sometimes). And, of the two of us, although he is definitely more athletic, I am the sports-watcher. When I talked to him last week, I asked if he was watching any of the World Series, and he kind of snorted. I think the real reason I like sports is because my mom likes sports. She was a tomboy growing up, and I wish I was as athletic as she is. There’s even a story about the time she made the game-winning free throws for her high school basketball team. She and I would be the ones watching every Carolina basketball game, while my dad often fell asleep on the couch. (Sometimes we’d wake him up with our yelling.) I only remember staying up to watch a game with my dad one time - the 1992 NLCS with the Braves vs. the Pirates. And I didn’t get into football until I married Mike, because my dad doesn’t watch it very much. So, in my house, sports were more of a female thing, oddly enough.

Last week I ran across this book called The Meaning of Sports. It’s about why Americans watch sports and what sports mean to people in this country. It’s been slow going, but I have enjoyed it so far. Since my brother and I grew up in the same house and are so different when it comes to sports, it’s been interesting to run some of the different things in the book past him to see what his opinion is.

Since Mike and I are both into sports, it will be interesting to see if we raise sports-crazed children, or if they will be more like my brother - interested in more creative pursuits.

It seems like a good time for sports-related memories. Here are two of mine.

Softball practice, circa 1992.

I’m not sure why I was catching at that practice. Rosemary was our catcher that season, but she must have been out or unavailable or something. I think that season I was playing right field (more on that in a minute), but I must have been filling in for some reason or other. It was a batting practice, and Coach Swaney was pitching, while the Assistant Coach was behind me calling the pitches. Whoever was batting (maybe it was Rosemary; maybe that’s why I was catching) knocked the ball almost to the fence (and we played on a baseball field, so our field was deeper than a lot of our competitors’ fields). I moved up and got ready to catch it if I needed to, but for some reason, the Assistant Coach didn’t think I was paying attention. She kept yelling, “Kari, pay attention, Kari pay attention!” I didn’t want to turn around and tell her I was paying attention, so I didn’t say anything. And she kept yelling. The batter rounded second, and then third, and somehow Coach Swaney had the ball and threw it to me, hard. And I caught it, and I tagged her out. She looked surprised, and I looked at Coach Swaney, who looked shocked. And the Assistant Coach looked at me and said, “I guess you were paying attention.”

I’m no athlete, but I can catch. And I have class: I resisted giving her a dirty look. But I felt really good (and still feel good about it) because I greatly exceeded everyone’s expectations.

PE class, circa 1992.

We always played softball in the fall, boys against girls, and Coach Swaney made the girls play our regular positions for the team. So I was in right field. The boys had one left handed batter - Matthew. He was known for being pretty deadly about hitting it deep in right field. As we got later and later into the season, I got better and better about knowing where he’d hit it. And I remember catching his hits. A lot. One morning in particular, he kept hitting it to the same spot, and I kept catching it. I must have caught it three or four times before PE was over.

I can’t throw worth crap, but it didn’t matter, because I kept getting him out. Later that same morning, he was talking a lot of smack about me, and how crappy I throw. That’s the only time I have ever been the recipient of sports trash-talking. And I knew it didn’t matter, because I kept getting him out. I did what no one else was doing - I stood in right field and caught the ball over and over and over. And I was proud of myself.

(When I really followed the Braves, David Justice was my favorite player. Because he played right field, too. hee hee.)

I was only on the softball team because they didn’t cut anyone. And I don’t have the coordination or the power to play sports. But I worked hard. I am sure plenty of my friends have memories that are more glorious than mine - hitting free throws in a clinch situation, catching a game-winning pass, getting an important out. But these are the two things I remember about playing softball - I worked hard, and I did what no one thought I could do.

Unfortunately, in actual game situations, I can’t remember the ball ever being hit to right field. But I did bat well, and I backed up the first basewoman like I was supposed to. My fond catching memories, however, come from practice.

I took an atlas home on Friday night so Mike and I could look up the countries we hadn’t heard of while we were watching the opening ceremonies. Every country we hadn’t heard of was an island country in the Pacific Ocean. One of my friends said, “You took an atlas home? Only geeks would do that.” Although she admitted that there were a lot of countries she’d never heard of, so she could see how an atlas would be useful. Ha! That’s what I thought!

I tend to get caught up in the Olympics. I cried when I heard about Jimmy Shea’s grandfather dying just a few days before the 2002 opening ceremonies. I am still disappointed about Michelle Kwan’s losses - she has been my favorite skater for years and years. It’s so unfair that she can consistently be the best skater in the world . . . except on that one night. But, you know, that’s how the Olympics are. We watched Miracle a few weeks ago, and the coach said something about that: “If we played them ten times, they might win nine, but not this game. Not tonight. Tonight, we skate. Tonight, we stay with them, and we shut them down, because we can!”

That “this is the only moment that counts” idea means we can get some pretty humorous moments, too. This article recalls one of my favorites:

One of the most memorable stories of the event occurred at the short-track speed skating. Australian skater Steven Bradbury, an honest competitor who had previously won a bronze as part of a relay team but well off the pace of the medal favourites, cruised off the pace in his semifinal only to see his competitors crash into each other, allowing him through to the final. Bradbury was again well off the pace, but lightning struck again and all four other competitors crashed out in the final, leaving a jubilant Bradbury to take the most unlikely of gold medals, Australia’s first in a Olympic Winter Games event.

I remember watching that with some of my friends and laughing for about 20 minutes. That Australian guy skated across the line as if saying, “This was my plan all along! I’ll wait for everyone else to fall down and then zip across the finish line!” Hee!

Another story that I love (and have searched InfoTrac and EBSCO for an article about . . . bonus points to any reader who can find me a link to an article about this guy) was from Sydney. There was a guy who came to participate in one of the swimming events who had very little swimming experience. He practiced in the hotel swimming pool. When he participated in qualifying events, it took him twice as long as everyone else to finish, but finish he did, to a standing ovation from the crowd. Watching the parade of nations on Friday, I thought they said he was from Ecuador (but I could be wrong ETA: In fact I was wrong), and that he’d been working on his time, but that he had some passport problems and he might not be able to make it to Athens in time.

[See the comments: Geof found him for me. His name is Eric Moussambani.]

I could probably keep telling stories like this for days (but don’t fear, I won’t). There’s just something about the idea of the entire world coming together to compete that I find really compelling. I love sports anyway, and I love to see the world’s best athletes for competing for two weeks, to hear about how hard they’ve worked and what they’ve had to overcome to get there. I wasn’t blessed with a single speck of athletic ability, but I sure admire those who have it.

So, tell me what your favorite Olympic moments are. And I’ll leave you with one final one of mine: Derek Redmond’s father helping him across the finish line.

Stories like this are why I love this time of year.

ETA: If you’re not registered and don’t want to register, the story is about Mount St. Mary’s, whose basketball team gets to go to the NEC tournament because of a game they won last night, placing them eighth in their conference.

The students stormed the court, chanting, “We’re number eight!”

Good times.

Have you met my theory that God Doesn’t Do Free Throws, Awards Shows, Or Reality Television? It’s one of my favorites. God is busy, Danielle. It’s like the way you don’t bother your mom to break up fights between you and your sister when she’s relaxing in the tub. Come to think of it, that will work. Think of God as in the tub, Danielle.

When I read the above, I knew it was an instant classic. Mike and I watch a lot of reality television (actually, now that I think about it, the only shows we watch are reality television), and as far as I am concerned, there are far too many reality show contestants who petition “God” to help them with those silly challenges. I take great pleasure in saying, “IN THE TUB!” when I hear contestants praying.

But where it really resonated with me is the free throw issue. I would like to propose that it extends to sports in general. I don’t pray about sports anymore - every sporting event I ever prayed about, my team lost. Every single one. I can’t decide if I think that God doesn’t care about sports or what. As a Christian, I think that God cares about everything. But I have seen some evil teams emerge victorious over my teams (which, of course, are the pinnacle of all that is good and right on the earth). I think God watches quite a lot of sports while in the tub.

I was really challenged a few weeks ago when a friend of mine (who is not a sports fan) asked me why I like sports so much. I didn’t really have a good answer. I am a pretty competitive person, and I appreciate athleticism even though I’m not athletic myself. I also enjoy feeling like I’m involved in a community of other people who are rooting and hoping for the same thing. After the Panthers lost the Superbowl, I was actually pretty sad for a day or two. I really enjoyed the frenzy that the entire state was in - being connected to other people just because of our Panthers sweatshirts. In the height of my crazy UNC basketball fandom days, I would be absolutely devastated when my team lost. It would ruin my entire week. I have gotten a lot better, but it’s not actually been me moderating how I feel. I just don’t follow Carolina as closely as I used to. I really would love to get to the point where I can watch and enjoy sports without being so emotionally invested in them. Since there’s no rhyme or reason to which teams win and which teams lose, after all.

Maybe I should get this shirt to wear during March Madness. And during October. And the Olympics. And the Superbowl. I better get more than one.