I'm going to enjoy being a Duke fan again.
For the past three years, I have shut off the part of my brain that pumps endorphins based on pressure man-to-man defense and starting quasi-four corners with eight minutes to go. I have put my fandom on hold. For the sake of my budding journalistic integrity, I shelved my J-Will jersey and donned the stereotypical sweat-stained polo of an objective sportswriter.
This wasn't my plan. The first time I even considered where I wanted to go to college was when I decided I was going to play point guard for Duke. This proclamation came Feb. 28, 1998, after I'd just watched Wojo and the scrappy Blue Devils knock off the supremely talented Tar Heels in Cameron-still one of the best basketball games I've ever seen.
On my high school team, I tried to be a less-talented Shane Battier, which is to say that I clapped a lot and racked up more charges than points. But my Jon Scheyer-like frame and Eric Boateng-esque quickness somehow did not catch Mike Krzyzewski's eye. So my plan changed to either being a manager (quickly canned after hearing about the unforgiving schedule and the more-important lack of pay) or the greatest Cameron Crazie ever.
My roommate claims we each wiped away a tear the first time we walked into Cameron as freshmen. My machismo begs to differ, but I do remember feeling awed.
I started toward my goal the second preseason game of my freshman year, when I went online to research Duke's opponent, N.C. Central. On their Web site, I found a poem that the departing coach had written to his players. I promptly printed about 500 copies and brought them to the line monitors to pass out. I was hardcore. (Or, as my girlfriend says, I was a nerd.)
But as I got addicted to The Chronicle, that plan soon changed. I wanted to impart my infinite knowledge through writing about the team. Now I had a new kind of awe-I was asking Coach K questions.
This new access came with some drawbacks. Now, when I attended games as a student, my friends would yell at me for not jumping up and down. But the impassivity of press row had rubbed off on me, and all I wanted to do was watch the game. I couldn't openly gag in the media room when visiting writers insinuated that Duke got every call. And I had to consider that Gerald Henderson just might have swung his elbow a little bit, even if I wanted to take a swing myself at the redneck UNC fan who pushed by me and another reporter in his attempt to rush the floor and attack G (an attempt that was quickly halted by a huge security guard).
Some claim that we, the rare hybrid of students and journalists, can't turn our bias all the way off. Some say we pull a Jay Bilas, becoming too critical in our coverage to avoid those accusations of homerism.
But home was the only place fandom really ever came out for me. That was where my brother, the world's greatest antagonist, would don his UNC shirt and proclaim each Tar Heel a deity after every made shot. At home, I would pull as hard as I could for the Blue Devils, if just to shut him up.
Now, I'm going into financial journalism, at least for the time being. I'm back, baby. I get to make ridiculous claims about Brian Zoubek's progress-and believe them; I get to kiss objectivity goodbye and openly express my disdain for Maryland.
There may be a day when I have to turn my fandom off again, but I hope the awe never goes away.
Two years ago, I sat in the Georgia Dome an hour before Duke was to play LSU in the Sweet Sixteen. I heard two writers to my left bellyaching about their travel schedule this time of year. My fellow Chronicle writer Alex Fanaroff heard them, too.
"If you ever go on to do this for a living," he told me, "don't ever forget how cool it is."
Somehow, I don't think I will.
Michael Moore is a Trinity senior. He is the co-editor of Towerview and the former sports managing editor of The Chronicle.
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