And for some strange reason, I thought that feeling may settle down after the tassle was turned to the other side of my time at UNC. I was going to be a big kid. Surely a big kid would have more important things to worry about – salary, bills, work – than a silly game.

I was wrong.

As we got settled at our table at a pub on Capitol Hill, a gentleman came up to me. “Is that a Carolina shirt you’re wearing?” he asked, with a hint of apprehension. “Yes, sir it is,” I snapped back, ready to defend to the death my beloved Tar Heels. He lifted his hand and slowly began to unzip his fashionable sweater, revealing the most gorgeous shade of blue with big white letters sprawling across his chissled chest: UNC. I was among friends; fellow Tar Heels; brothers in the Religion of Carolina Basketball. And the game began. It didn’t take us long to realize that it wasn’t going to be pretty.

It wasn’t.

It’s the worst feeling in the world to be mad at yourself because of something that only you had control over, and I’d imagine that’s exactly the sentiment pulsing through the team as they made their exit from the court on Wednesday night. That game was theirs to lose, and they did. It wasn’t because of any number of bad calls or dirty playing on the part of the Blue Devils. It was on account of them allowing themselves to be outplayed. And they were the only ones who could control that.

But even still, I love them, Roys Boys, those magnificant group of men who bring a school, town, state and country together. And quite contrary to what I thought, it’s a love that grows stronger with each passing game.