Have I ever told you how much I hate Dook University? No really, have I? Because if there has been any letup of disgust on my part, please let me know, because I’m really trying to raise it to an art form. I majored in it in college, hell, I’m in Wikipedia for it. And I keep bringing it up on the blog because I think antipathy towards Dook transcends mere basketball rivalry and arcs towards universal hatreds that any of us can understand.
It’s the little things that get me. Take, for instance, their recent injury to star point guard Kyrie Irving, who was scoring over 17 points a game as a freshman, and promising to make us all nauseous. He injured his toe playing Butler last Saturday, which led a nation of Buddhists to believe it was karmic retribution for the cakewalk the Blue Devils had to the championship game last year against… you got it, Butler.
But if’n you ask me, this is another in a long line of Dook “injuries” where the afflicted player comes back 17 weeks earlier than expected, a well-rested, ESPN-fawning “comeback story” accompanied by the grateful tears of Dook fans, and the sanctimonious bow of Koack K. Right now, we are in the Mysterious Affliction Phase, where the injury seems to be of unknown seriousness, and the Dook staff and koach are sending out enigmatic messages, like a passive-aggressive aunt who thinks nobody pays enough attention to her.
This kind of drama-queen-by-fiat happens all the time at Klown Kollege in Durham – it’s meant to make their irrepressible late-season rally seem all the more impressive, and I can smell it from here. After all, it takes an expert to really understand self-obsessed caterwauling, and I majored in that too.
Do I sound like a paranoid sour-grapes playa-hater? Fine by me. But Koach K pulled the same shit with Elton Brand, Carlos Boozer, and a bunch of other snit-nosed floor-slappers that I take Cymbalta to forget. And besides, Dook starters never get hurt. I mean, compared to the injuries we’ve suffered to our best players over the last 15 years, it’s a goddamned disgrace.
The problem with being a longtime follower of any sport – or any movement, for that matter – is that the big wheel keeps on spinnin’. You see the worm turn many, many times in your life. You don’t get to watch your team suck, then come gloriously back to life, the end. You have to watch them start to suck again, and the dark part of that cycle gets harder every time.
We’re just coming out of that bleak solstice as we speak, but for now, we have to endure Dook’s little piss-ant squawk atop the heap. Sure, they can be embarrassed by a Powerpoint sex scandal, or show how troublingly moronic their sense of humor is, making the University fight its “wildly distorted image”, but all the armchair internet sports pundits are still jacking off to their basketball team. Carolina won the National Championship just 19 months ago, but given attention spans, that might as well have been during the Holy Roman Empire.
But there’s one thing that has come back over the last year and a half: insatiable hunger. I was actually growing complacent up to (and including) the 2009 championship, having basked in the warm glow of Raymond, Sean, Rashad, Jawad, Tyler, Ty, Danny, Wayne and two celebrations in five years. I will not make that mistake again, and neither will Roy. I want to pummel Dook back into the floorboards once more. I want the slow pan across the glum navy-blue faces of over-entitled pricks in the Kameron Krazies section as we ritually abuse their rims. Pull whatever mind games you want, Koach – it might not be next week, or even next month, but we’re coming back.