The night of the Heels

FUCK YES. My boys have done it. The refs tried to take them out of the game, seldom calling any fouls down low. Tyler Hansbrough was taking some sort of beating that undoubtedly resembled something that goes on in that maximum-security prison that I pass every summer in South Carolina on my way to the beach. After the game, Roy Williams nearly flipped out in his press conference when asked about the illegality of what went down in the post. But alas, through all of this, we won. On Senior Night, in Cameron Indoor Stadium. How sweet it is.

My dad had been sipping brews all night. When I came home to join him for the game, there was an empty box of 12 sitting out. He was hammered. The night was littered with profanity, excessive even for a man who had taught me the word "Fuck" when I was at the tender age of five. Luckily, I had forewarned Virginia, who was with me, that Pops was going to start mouthing off a bit. And he certainly did not disappoint.

I really wish I could have had a few brews of my own, but as I had expected, the beers I purchased the night previous had been consumed by an unidentified culprit; can't trust the fellas to guard your alcohol. Who can blame em, when the stuff's close by it's hard to lay down the law and proclaim them to belong to someone else. But alas, for what was certainly not the first and most definitely will not be the last time, I was cheated out of money and booze. And even after a sweet Tar Heel victory, that leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. Ah, but it's simply the semen of high school; should be over soon.