I Hate Duke

The Tar Heels just lost to Duke. All evening I've been muttering to myself about how much I hate Duke.

I hate them.

I hate them with a simple, honest hatred which, unfortunately, they don't teach children anymore. I'm determined that my child, should I produce one, will know this hatred - it gives a man purpose and focus.

For those who claim that rivalry is all in fun, that you shouldn't really hate Duke, I have news for you - you're doing it wrong. Tell that to the Cameron Crazies who throw Twinkies at players they perceive as overweight.

Why, you ask, do I hate a team? A school? How could a game involving a ball and men in shorts inspire such disgust? Am I not an enlightened, educated man? All of it is so silly - it would seem on the surface - that this bookish fellow would hate a sports team as if it were some ancient enemy.

But that's what Duke is to me. I was raised to be a Tarheel fan, which you might consider a mere accident of birth. But I don't believe in accidents of birth; God made me a Carolina fan. I thank God I wasn't raised by a Duke fan, bred up to be one of the sickening Cameron Crazies. Thank God I was taught to reverence names like Smith, Jordan, Wallace, Stackhouse, Worthy, Reid, Montross and (Woody) Durham.

Growing up, Tar Heel basketball was a very serious matter. Carolina basketball was the only thing that could shake the foundations of our house - I have innumerable memories of breathless moments spent in front of the TV watching Carolina basketball, my father always sitting on the floor on his knees, hitting the floor and yelling at the top of his lungs. He's like a man possessed when Carolina plays, as if his being is wrapped up in the fate of the team; as if by screaming he can somehow will them through some kind of Druidic alchemy.

He throws things at the TV, usually soft objects like pillows, but on occasion will strike the screen with his bare hands whenever the face of Mike Krzysdfkasdfoimiuiyoeski, or any other rat-faced Dook player presents itself. I'm convinced this has an effect.

He spews venom against referees as if they were a race of corrupt men - every referee in the history of sports is to him a suspect personage, but particularly referees who officiate at Carolina basketball games. Referees have all been bought out by Duke or some shadowy conspiracy. A still more likely possibility is that all referees just hate Carolina, so they must be called out and exposed for the charlatans they are.

Yes, my father is a madman when it comes to Carolina basketball. It's the most beautiful mania.

Recently I learned that dad had stopped listening to Woody Durham because he believes that when he listens to Woody Durham, Carolina loses. This is insane superstition, but it's beautiful.

This kind of insanity has rubbed off on me. I actually have trouble watching Carolina play Duke because I think it will jinx them. Tonight I didn't watch because I don't have a TV, and despite that they still lost (even though they led by something like 16 at half time). This doesn't shake my belief that not watching will somehow enable them to win - when you don't have a TV the rules don't apply.

But all of this hatred and mania is perfectly justifiable because Duke sucks. Duke is a bastion of elitism built on tobacco blood money; a resort for New Jerseyites who drive Saabs and cling fiercely to an imagined sense of superiority and entitlement.

I could never give voice to my disgust at Duke as eloquently as Ian Williams' Daily Tar Heel column written over 20 years ago. But as he makes clear, this is not just a negative hate (and it is oh so negative), but a hate that is born out of love for a place - both the state of North Carolina and the school which has represented it for over 200 years.

Duke are the bad guys - and I'm grateful for the bad guys.

And that's as close as I'll ever come to appreciating Duke.