Bits of Real Panther, So You Know It's Good

Welcome to the inaugural installment of Pro-Carolina, the blog dedicated to dissecting (OK, mostly mocking and criticizing) the trials, triumphs and trivialities of the Carolina Tar Heels/Panthers/Canes. As you can see above, I fucking suck at Web design, hence the three giant logos you have to scroll past to get to my ravings. But that old-school pissed-off ram kicks ass, you have to admit.

I love these teams passionately, which, as in most passionate relationships, very often means I'm so pissed off at them I can't even stand it.

My wife is a fairly poor outlet for these emotions as a) she doesn't really give a shit and b) she doesn't like it when I rant. Fair enough.

My buddies: not much better. Many of them are professional sports writers, which has pretty much made them forget about why they ever loved sports in the first place. There are only so many self-absorbed athletes, slithering SIDs, myopic douchebag fans and ego-maniacal coaches one can encounter in your time before you get totally jaded about the whole thing. It's why I'd never want that job in a million years. I want to remain an unabashedly partisan, occasionally irrational (though this blog will endeavor to bring a modicum of common sense to the table), superstitious and emotional fan.

My theory: the rest of life very often requires us to be rational, even-handed, clear-eyed and dispassionate. This goes against our nature in many ways. We have animal instincts that tell us to fucking KILL, to be mad, to hate others for little to no reason, to believe whole-heartedly that our actions and wills can affect not only those in our immediate vicinity but also the entirety of the cosmos. Ridiculous, but that beast must be fed. I can think of no better outlet for those rather frightening sociopathic instincts than sports. Yelling at the TV, wanting Mike Krzyzewski to die in a horrible gas fight accident, feeling superior when the spoiled athletes who don't know you exist that you have elected to root for beat another group of spoiled athletes who don't know you exist but that you have not, in your infinite wisdom, chosen to support. All that shit helps you to NOT yell at your loved ones, NOT want real human beings to die (Coach K is the unholy spawn of a weasel and Beelzebub; we all know this), NOT feel superior when divine providence bestows blessings that actually mean something in your actual life.

In short, sports is cleansing, detoxifying in a way. (Though I manage to ingest plenty of toxins as part of my enjoyment of sports - plenty more on that down the road.)

I suppose this whole endeavor is due to the fact that I need further purification. This may surprise you, but the world does not need another douchebag blogger who thinks he's right about every fucking thing. But I feel the need to get more shit off my chest (I really need to cut back on my Cleveland Steaming habit). I don't even know if anyone will ever read this and, honestly at this point, I could care less. If some folks stumble on this and find it amusing or insightful in anyway, well, that would be a motherfucking peach.