The agony and the ecstasy

The Tarheels of North Carolina were simply out-performing the Duke Blue Devils, and I was sitting dejected on the floor as ELV slept soundly on the couch. The roomie had left, claiming exhaustion, but still I sat, eyes glued to the screen in a mixture of serene hopelessness and abject un-feeling. The team that I cheered for did not appear to want to be on that wood court, but rather anywhere else. Perhaps Coach K wanted a nice cold mint julep in his hand as he sinks ever deeper into his overstuffed armchair. Maybe Redick wanted to flip through a catalogue tailored to those who will be exceedingly wealthy from NBA money. For sure, Melchionni wanted an icy pack on his ankle held in place by a busty communications major.

The worst thing about this loss came from the notion that Duke should have won. They are the number one ranked team (until the next poll is published) and everyone touted that fact that this was Duke's game to win. Humbled by the Seminoles, there was no way that the hated rivals would win, especially surrounded by the heaving bosoms of the crazies. However, Duke is not that good this year. As Dickie V noted, coherently I might add, this team is an overacheiving bunch. The only way to beat North Carolina, more than any other team in any other game, is by willing a victory...and there was no will in Durham tonight.

While I pondered the lost opportunities of the game, I picked up a copy of "The Spoken Word Revolution," an excellent introduction to slam and hip hop poetry. In an article entitled "The Future of Language," Saul Williams wrote that the future of language would involve us getting closer and closer to being able to articulate the unspoken. In other words, there are words that don't exist, things in this world that is not encapsulated by a spoken utterance. Where is the word for that moment after exhilaration, that emptiness that pokes your heart as you sigh, fooling yourself that its contentment. What do you say when you hear the worst news about a happening to someone you know, but not in a close relationship? Surely, the most appropriate response isn't "Wow," or "I'm so sorry."

Take for instance the missed free throws by Darius Washington last year. Would you describe that soul crushing? Agonized? Defeated? Something else, a moment so heavy that crumpled the body of a young man and mesmerized a nation. How can you celebrate while one man's misery is so clearly broadcast for everyone's viewing enjoyment? The eternal om could have been the only sound appropriate to drown out the screams shielded behind his jersey.

Why am I writing so dejectedly after a regular season tobacco road game? I think the cruelty of March Madness, a perfect encapsulation of our American Dream, is becoming apparent to me. We dream about successes that match on par with our aspirations. Whether it be money to live comfortably, lust for an attractive sexual mate, or admiration from the others surrounding you, we all want to win the game and be the hero. We want to cut down the nets in symbolic freedom of having to hang around the sidelines and silently swish for the achievements of others. Yet, for every human who becomes a champion, thousands lay at his feet, vanquished.

So, enjoy the victory. Defeat is all around, in siege, raising a war cry that rings throughout the land.