The small, petty monster that lives somewhere in the dark recesses of my mind puffs its chest anytime I pass a car with a Duke sticker, as if five o’clock traffic is a race. It’s always good to beat Duke, in anything. I’ve practically floated through the first part of my week, remembering fondly the group of Tar Heel gentlemen who were sitting behind me and my fiancée in Kenan on Saturday, and who declared the game lost for Carolina no fewer than eight times throughout regulation and the firs overtime, only to cheer more loudly than any of us when the student section began to spill onto the field. Smarter folks than I have dissected the defensive breakdowns that led to a closer-than-expected final score I’ve been too busy luxuriating in the post-win glow that only beating that team from Durham can provide. I’ve never met a Duke loss that I couldn’t get along with, and last Saturday is no exception. Let there not be any equivocation on this point, no quibbling here about the manner in which the game was won.
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