I've never been a die-hard sports fan. I've played sports, but left fandom to others.
Then I moved to Carolina. I think basketball is in the water here, and certainly a proper amount of basketball chit-chat is a prerequisite for doing business. I became a fan, a Tar Heel, part of a tradition. The first year was rough. We lost, and lost more. The second year was worse: we would blow 10 or 20 point leads and lose by one point, including a heartbreaker to Duke that I witnessed from the floor of the Dean Dome. (Editor's Note: fucking Chris Duhon!) Last night: vindication.
Franklin Street was something else. We all swore we wouldn't go back to Franklin. We went after the Duke game, and things were set on fire. We went and froze our asses off after the semi-finals, and things were set on fire. Enough is enough, we thought, until we found ourselves circling for parking, yet again, trying along with 10,000 other people to dial our friends and leave riotous messages. Although the social scientist in me recognized the thin and illusory nature of our tribal identification, there was still something about being in the presence of people who felt as if they belonged to a whole. There was still something about being aware that this was an active process of memory creation, the creation of commonality, and I was swept up by it.
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