Hell was the first curse word I was allowed to say, and even then only when preceded by “go to” and followed by “Duke.”
It felt weird, as a child, to cheer the Tar Heel team like H-E-double-hockey-sticks while condemning the Blue Devils to a fiery oblivion mere minutes later. Kind of a psychic wince, an anticipation of a scolding for saying the word I was always thinking but seldom said within earshot of my parents. It felt even weirder, then, to hear my own small voice drowned out by theirs, intertwining
and fading into the sea of wished-for damnation from the Tar Heel faithful. A giddy delight, to not only be implicitly allowed to say that word, but encouraged to scream it with my extended family, all 60,000 of them, in Kenan Stadium.
A few years ago, I took my now-wife to her first Carolina sporting event. She had graduated from the school in Raleigh early in our relationship (folks, you can overcome anything with enough therapy) but had always been laser-focused on studying for her career. She was, is, and will continue to be several orders of magnitude smarter than I am, but as a result of all that time spent in the library in Raleigh, she had missed out on the spectacle of football in her time in school. Sensing a weakness, as you ought to do in all good relationships, I spent the first few years indoctrinating her into the Tar Heel way of life. I would mention my distaste for darker shades of blue in passing, she would good-naturedly nod along, and I would twirl the ends of my cartoon villain’s handlebar mustache as my plan proceeded apace. We’d go to a baseball game here, an early-season basketball game there, but never a game against the Blue Devils. Not on purpose, really, it just never worked out for our schedules or our wallets. Each game, though, she seemed taken aback by the shouted refrain in the fight song.
“They’re not even playing Duke tonight?”
On a chilly evening in November of 2023, we finally found ourselves warming the seats in Kenan Stadium, listening to the assembled light blue faithful booing the team from Durham as they took the field. When the band kicked in before kickoff, we both joined in the beloved tradition of cursing our enemies to their (doubtlessly deserved) eternal suffering. Drake Maye, as heroic then as he is now in New England, led the Tar Heels to an intense overtime victory, over the course of which we both lost our voices. Fortunately, we found them just in time to chime in for the last rendition of the fight song, once more telling those Blue Devils exactly where they could go. Breathless and hoarse, the woman I would marry turned to me and smiled.
“You know what? I think I get it.”
It’s a powerful thing, to curse in unison. The rhythm of the drumline and the guidance of the band direct the voice as well as the heart, cementing the tune as well as the sentiment in minds receptive to the light blue way of living. A harmless curse, as curses go, and fairly tame as far as fan interactions. Perhaps that’s why my parents saw no issue with me joining in. Still, there is an undeniable potency to the simplicity of that curse, and something that is worth remembering even when the opponent isn’t wearing that awful dark blue. Something that a Tar Heel born, bred, or otherwise never will forget — today, tomorrow, or any other gameday.
Go to hell, Duke.
