Rusty red corollas, murky gray sedans and midnight black trucks swarm together on the three-lane highway enclosing a rivalry unmatched since the Civil War. Honking horns, swerving tires and screeching brakes hum brilliantly like a symphony of old train whistles.
The wheels of my blue Toyota Camry inch forward, making the road toward Odum Village still beyond reach. I silently curse my boss for keeping me at work, believing he hates UNC enough to make my 20 minute ride home an insufferable hour and 15 minutes, thus far. With music blasting, I crack my window half-way to let the cool breeze in while trying to minimize the bickering banter of Blue Devil fans implying our team is lacking in the anatomical department.
A Duke fan in the lane to my left tosses an unmistakable blue jersey out the window and his chuckles echo in my ears. My teeth clench and my fingers find the volume bar, increasing Coldplay’s Clocks, sending musical interludes into the mix of reverberations. The last stop light before Manning turns apple green and a smile creeps to my mouth—I’m almost there. But no one moves.
A dove gray pick-up truck in the right lane accelerates and brakes with quick stops dripping oil on the asphalt like melting butter.
A man dressed in a mixture of periwinkle and pale blue paint rolls down his mud-stained window and leans hard on the wheel—a clamorous persistence that UNC will win, echoed by Tar Heel decals and a glowing blue UNC #1 license plate. His cheeks glow red as he screams, “Suck it, Duke!” A car next to him, a black Chrysler with Blue Devil streamers blowing from the side windows, coasts alongside the perceived enemy and cuts him off, barely missing the front bumper.
The light turns yellow and my frustration builds. My palm presses the horn with gentle pressure—a middle finger reflects back at me from the Duke fan. The smell of burning rubber lingers after he makes a wide right turn onto Manning. The light turns a burning red. I pop two migraine pills into my mouth, swishing the tablets with old, warm water resting in my cup holder.
The sun melts beneath the North Carolina horizon with an expectation that each new day begins and ends with the same sky radiating the colors of the rainbow. But on this night, fading so slightly from the light blue sky of the afternoon into the pinks and yellows of sherbert, the streaks dip closer to a dark blue, almost as though the stars and planets have breathed truth into this game—a game that defines identity and fervent admiration.
The light turns green and cars roll past, children sipping juice boxes wave flags from back seats and my foot presses the accelerator, the gears churning in mechanical rhythm on my journey home. Bright orange cones bleed into view as bands of dark blue and light blue sweatshirts zig-zag through crowds approaching the Dean Dome, crossing the street with whoops and hollers.
Apple green welcomes me to Hibbard Drive. Weaving around the curves and gravel of Odum Village, my dashboard clock reads 8:47 p.m. and I breath a sigh of relief as my parking spot inches into view.
© 2007
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