Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: SUNDAY, March 28, 1993 TAG: 9303260326
SECTION: EXTRA PAGE: 1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: CODY LOWE
DATELINE: LENGTH: Medium
We had our own songs, our special chants. Almost 10,000 of us would gather together in one big room and create enough heat to make it feel like a sauna.
We worshiped at two bright orange rings set about 94 feet apart and 10 feet off the floor.
"I'm a Tar Hell born,
I'm a Tar Heel bred,
And when I die
I'm a Tar Heel dead.
So, rah-rah, Carolina-lina,
rah-rah Carolina-lina,
rah-rah Carolina-lina.
Go to hell Duke!"
Actually, we were a magnanimous lot willing to consign N.C. State or Wake Forest or Virginia or whomever to perdition when they challenged our Heels on the hardwood.
At the University of North Carolina we had intercollegiate teams in all kinds of sports. But then, as now, basketball was king.
Football was nice, but it was just an excuse to get out on a fall afternoon. Baseball, lacrosse, swimming, fencing and the others all drew at least a few spectators, but basketball was a faith.
At a university with 20,000 students and fewer than 10,000 seats available at home basketball games, competition for tickets was hot.
The religious analogy is close to true.
An office dispensing free tickets for heaven couldn't have competed with the athletic office on the days game tickets were released.
The faithful would stand in line for hours to get little slips of paper they wouldn't have given up for anything on heaven or earth.
Once inside on game day, it was almost like worship. Bishop Dean Smith and the Carolina Five could do no wrong. Even when they lost a game, the fans never lost their faith.
We sang the fight song. We chanted the cheers. We cursed the villains who would try to defeat our heroes. We lived and died with wins and losses.
In those days, some of the chief villains went to the University of South Carolina. Unlike the "gentlemanly" rivalry with next-door neighbor Duke University, the competition with South Carolina was vicious and unforgiving.
They dragged their religion right onto the court with them. Their coach - the traitor Frank McGuire - had recruited a bunch of street scrapping New Jersey players. They not only played hard and dirty on the court, but had the audacity to beard the great Coach Smith himself - calling him names or making obscene gestures at him.
Then they had the gall to make the sign of the cross over themselves whenever they were standing at the foul line ready to take a free throw.
It seemed at least vaguely sacrilegious; and there was the concern that it might work - that somehow God might confer favor on this bunch of ill-mannered Yankee loudmouths just because they remembered to make the cross.
For four winters and springs, I faithfully attended every home game. For years after that, I had to listen or watch every game I could catch - particularly come March.
Every year I hoped for the coronation. In 1982, a friend gave me tickets to the East Regionals of the NCAA tournament, where I got to see the team that went on to win the championship.
It was a feeling pretty close to heaven.
I'm better now.
I don't jump off the couch screaming at a great basket, scattering dogs and children as I soar over the coffee table toward the TV screen.
My blood pressure doesn't shoot off the scale when the team inexplicably cannot buy a basket in the last five minutes and blows a 15-point lead.
I don't have to remind myself that this is just a game being played by college students.
But for a month every spring, I'm drawn back into the cult. The fight song comes back of its volition. I can't help talking to the television during games. My wife and children give up trying to carry on a conversation.
And I can just pray that the Heels will be giving the benediction when the tournament ends.
Cody Lowe reports on issues of religion and ethics for this newspaper.\
by CNB