The Great Burrito Challenge Story

In the town of Chapel Hill, it often seems the sun touches every bit of ground. Even through the tapestry of leafy branches in parts of densely-wooded areas, the land is often so bright and the air so light that it looks like it could be fabricated by Pixar.

And then there’s Bandido’s Mexican Cafe.

Tucked away in the heart of Chapel Hill’s cozy and lively downtown, the restaurant is almost hidden. And unlike the rest of the charming college town, no natural light ever finds its way down the stairs in the Franklin Street alley that Bandido’s calls home.

During my descent down the short flight of stairs, I couldn’t have been more thankful for the shroud of darkness that would engulf me during one of my most foolhardy decisions. I was about to attempt to increase my weight by five percent in one fell swoop by trying to eat El Gigante, the locally-famous burrito challenge at Bandido’s.

El Gigante weighs in at 4.5 pounds and, until recently, was available for anyone to order with the reward of a free t-shirt and a photo on a wall upon completion. But recently a high school kid tried to eat El Gigante and fell ill. After the parents threatened to sue Bandido’s, owner Tony Sustaita decided the restaurant would now require parental consent for minors to undertake the endeavor. Intrigued by the attraction of such a challenge and interested in understanding the physical implications of attempting such a feat, I decided it required a firsthand experience.

Emerging from the alley and walking into Bandido’s feels nearly like being transported to an indistinctive limbo between anywhere and nowhere. Frankly, it’s just a basement with brick walls painted with palm trees and crude island scenery and some traditional Mexican-American style decorations. No location feels so distant and separated from the rest of the town like Bandido’s does. And yet, that was just what I hoped for in a location where I was to embarrassingly engorge myself way past my normal eating habits.

After the waitress sent my order to the kitchen, my mind swirled, enraptured in speculation of the size of the burrito. The thought had crossed my mind before, but it wasn’t until after the point of no return that I realized I couldn’t actually fathom an estimate of the burrito’s physical size. My confidence upon entering Bandido’s may have been at the level of a competitive eater, but doubt was now beginning to creep in.

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Days after my attempt, Takeru Kobayashi, the six-time Nathan’s Annual Hot Dog Eating Contest champion, gave me his advice that he would give a normal person trying to take down an unusually-large order of food. The world record-holding competitive eater broke it down into two parts: preparation and eating strategy.

“First understand your own condition and any possible strengths you may have,” Kobayashi said. “And then safely begin stretching the capacity of your stomach with different techniques. I drink water. Lots of it, in different volumes over a certain period of time.”

I did none of this.

As for mid-meal strategy, he emphasized understanding your prey: the ingredients, the texture, and what would be the easiest way to eat it and advance it to your stomach. “I believe it is first important to be able to understand how to break down that particular food into a size where I can physically hold it in my hands,” Kobayashi added. “Not necessarily so small it fits easily into my mouth, but at least a size where I can hold and maneuver it.”

I also did minimal amounts of this, and none of what he suggested about being able to hold it.

In hindsight, it is clear that doom had followed my every step from the beginning. And Kobayashi certainly had words of warning for trying to eat something like this with no preparation. “All the risks imaginable are there: any physical discomfort or dangers of the stomach, jaw, throat and certainly a lot of heartburn.”

I was undoubtedly unprepared. But such risks are the price to pay for journalistic integrity.

—————————————————————————————————-

Thankfully, I didn’t have to worry too much about possible insult being added to injury. Despite the magnitude and size of the order, the staff neglected to make the extraordinary dinner into the spectacle it could have been. El Gigante arrived like any other meal. The couple next to me was clearly amused and somewhat bemused by the thin, 115-pound college kid being served a dish the size of a small infant.

Truth be told, El Gigante is not so much a burrito as it is a tortilla calzone with the ingredients within a thick folded tortilla. The burrito completely covers the plate upon which it is served. Ten ingredients come inside the tortilla: rice, black beans, onions, tomatoes, cheese, salsa verde, steak and chicken fajitas with sautéed onions and bell peppers. But wait, there’s more! The tortilla is topped with salsa roja, more shredded cheese, lettuce, tomato, sour cream and guacamole.

In spite of that intimidating list of ingredients, El Gigante doesn’t seem unconquerable, though. For a minute, I let it cool and analyzed it, trying to form a strategy. I spread out the sour cream and guacamole and just began to cut it and eat it with a fork and knife, piece by piece.

It began easily enough, but after clearing the toppings and getting into the center, trouble began. The steak was tough and tiring, slowing me down and hurting my chances to fool my brain into letting me eat more than my body normally permitted before it received the signal from my stomach that I was full.

At midway, my stomach began to tighten and contract, a telltale sign my brain was telling my body it could not hold much more. But I convinced myself that it would just be all downhill if I could reach the three-quarters mark.

I never did.

At one point my fork accidentally shoveled pure guacamole into my gullet. I held back immediate urges to purge, but with that I recognized hope was futile. I wouldn’t last much longer, even with unbuckling my belt and unbuttoning my pants.

Within minutes, I admitted defeat. Man vs. food – winner: food, by technical knockout.

—————————————————————————————————-

After paying the bill, I returned to the rest of the world in a bloated stupor with a hefty to-go box of leftovers. I hadn’t gotten sick and my shame stayed within the dark hidden corridor. I took those as reasonable moral victories.

But the challenge still perplexed me. With the risk of shame, intense discomfort and vomiting, why do people want to attempt something where the reward is just a t-shirt and a photograph?

Much like George Mallory and Mt. Everest, the answer seems to be “Because it’s there.” Sustaita says he thinks the main attraction is simply the challenge. UNC-Chapel Hill student Dylan D’Joseph, who ate El Gigante in 20 minutes, did it on the spur of the moment for the sake of the challenge during a casual dinner with friends.

Though I hadn’t been successful, more than a handful have defeated El Gigante. In fact, rumors say one man has done it so easily and so often that he’s become a legend of sorts. Sean Ryall is now currently somewhere in Brazil on a Mormon mission and cannot be contacted, but he was known among his friends to take down El Gigante in unimaginable ways. A competitive swimmer that regularly ate calorie-intensive meals, he supposedly racked up nearly $200 in restaurant vouchers for eating the massive burrito so many times, two of his acquaintances said. Further, I was told he holds the El Gigante record for fastest time, somewhere in the neighborhood of three minutes. Sustaita denies both of these claims. The mystery lives on.

At the same time, El Gigante has tallied close to three times as many defeats as victors, crushing 70 to 75 percent of wannabe conquerors, says Sustaita. This list of casualties includes Sustaita, who has failed to best El Gigante in three attempts. This can be dangerous because of the health risks involved in eating an abnormally large burrito.

Matt Paolillo experienced these dangers firsthand when he tried a similar burrito challenge this past March at Pico Taco in Washington, D.C. Though he regularly eats a lot of food, he could not escape cruel fate. This included “sweating, nausea, discomfort, a sense that I had let down my parents and everyone I care about because I couldn’t eat a really big burrito,” Paolillo said.

And then he threw up immediately after the event and didn’t eat for about 36 hours, he recalled.

But perhaps the risk isn’t just for the competitors.

Jeffrey Mervosh, a witness to Paolillo’s endeavor at Pico Taco, saw the lone champion in their group await his prize, a free t-shirt and photo.

“The girl who took the picture asked if he wanted to see if it turned out OK before they printed it on the wall,” Mervosh said. “He just said ‘I really don’t care. I’m never eating here again.’”

An addendum on the stigma associated with blogging

I just had a very interesting discussion on Twitter about the “clownfraud” stigma associated with being a blogger and whether it can be erased completely.

We all agreed the answer is no, it cannot be removed.

But I think that’s perfectly fine. My previous piece didn’t intend to take down the stigma, but rather the complete dismissal of a medium without any consideration of the writer’s ability solely because of the form.

I think we can make a metaphor between blogging and pickup basketball in these regards (or pick-up whatever sport you want). Assuming you’re not an NBA player, let’s pretend you’re going into a gym where you’ve never played before. You know no other players on the floor. Before anyone even takes practice shots, do you assume they’re all trash? Maybe they tell you they all played Division I ball — do you take them at their word?

Of course not. If you’re anything like me, or most pick-up players, you understand to be prepared for whatever. Don’t assume the small dude can’t destroy you and don’t assume the tall guy will be a force. You wait for them to show their skills on the court before trying to definitely analyze them, right?

That’s all I want when it comes to the stigma about blogging. Don’t judge the medium; judge the player on their talents. In other words, don’t throw out opinions because they come from bloggers instead of from a traditional form of media. And conversely, you shouldn’t assume quality writing is coming from those traditional media outlets, regardless of how much they supposedly value credibility. Read the writing first (and try to leave your bias at the door), and then decide whether I’m full of crap or not.

I used to do the same reprehensible thing with the infamous Bleacher Report blogging website. The site’s a magnet for what becomes joke fodder in internet circles because with such little burden to access, any idea gets through to a large audience. Though there’s still a good many articles there that make me sigh or laugh, they do in all honesty have some good writing over there whether you want to believe it or not.

From Bleacher Report to SB Nation, the stigma will forever be there, and you know what — who cares!

Blogging is a wonderful thing, whether it’s about sports or anything else. The barrier to entry is so low that anyone can have a voice, which can do great things when it comes to issues that don’t see much light.

This is undoubtedly a double-edged sword. While some may have much valuable experience and wisdom to share over the Internet, others may spout nonsense all willy-nilly — or worse. Thankfully the cream rises and those that separate themselves as respectable bloggers will probably see results if they have the dedication and passion for it.

I find that broadening perspectives and spreading understanding through well-informed yet under-reported opinions even in spite of giving an outlet to the ignorant opinions is incredibly valuable — much more valuable than having no outlet for the ignorant views at the expense of the competent ones as well.

So for the foreseeable future there will probably be a stigma associated with a passion for blogging. Whatever. I just want people to not pass judgment on a medium and deem it incompetent because it doesn’t fit biased outdated perspectives on respectable media. Blogging has shown it’s earned as much.

Old media Luddism and the new world of blogging

The past couple years as a journalism student at UNC, I’ve faced the same questions on the first days of classes each semester: “What’s your name, hometown and something interesting about yourself?”

And each class, every semester, my mind races with how I’m going to answer the last part of the introductory question that forms the foundation of my peers’ perception of me.

Do I say My name is Ben, I’m from Charlotte and I cover the Charlotte Bobcats for SB Nation? Do I replace that last part with and I’m the managing editor of SB Nation’s Charlotte Bobcats site?

Or do I just come out and say I blog about the Charlotte Bobcats?

Maybe this is over-analyzing the situation. I do tend to think that way. But the perception when it comes to a journalistic position and the word “blogger,” the connotations are very far apart. One is thought of a respectable profession and the other is often thought of as simply some bozo spilling his wild thoughts to the frenzied frontier that is the Internet, a lowly basement-dweller beneath the regard of even the loons that pen letters to the editor. And I have to think about how this will characterize me to my peers.

You could be a sports columnist writing homophobic columns for a small newspaper and that title will give you higher repute than blogging better-written pieces. And yet the old guard of print media with their feet willingly planted in concrete penny loafers tries to perpetuate this stereotype of bloggers being poor writers, wantonly making mistakes with reckless disregard for truth and effort that covering anything should get.

It’s rather disgusting. I understand that the financial viability of print media is faltering and has been for years now, and that saddens me. Like other art forms I hold dear, I value the physical form. I like reading newspapers and magazines to the extent that I have a newspaper subscription and pick up magazines that intrigue me whenever I can.

But even more than that, I like reading strong writing founded on good research. Unfortunately for newspapers (and other tenured media), print media is no longer the only major outlet for those who wish to express their well-researched opinions to a large audience.

On the whole, this is a good thing. It’s evolution of journalism, for better or for worse. Wider access for people creates a much more diverse landscape of viewpoints on a more diverse variety of topics, leading to a more informed audience. Quality writing for large audiences is no longer constrained to mainstream media outlets. Sticking your head in the sand and feet in the ground while making unfounded ad hominem attacks against bloggers is little more than journalistic Luddism. Further, if traditional media are such credible sources of news and writing, then why are their credibility ratings continuing to fall?

Times are certainly changing, especially evident with the wave of old-school writers joining Twitter to interact with the readers on the Internet. Thankfully, some of the aforementioned “old guard of print media” are eager to recognize the merits of blogging and are receptive to the new development. And though perception is changing, some refuse to accept that many of those who write online are not only gifted writers with expertise in their beats but trained as such with journalism and English degrees. We are not so different. In a different media landscape, a fair number of bloggers would have joined you at the horseshoe copy desk.

Ever still, newspaper scribes like the Boston Globe’s Kevin Paul Dupont continue to put down bloggers as some kind of third-world writing. He likens bloggers to the “replacement reporters/writers” of journalism, nothing more than mere typists. Dupont pats himself and his peers on the back for charity work, making a mockery of his own underlying reasons for goodwill just to slam bloggers from a nonexistent moral high ground that he fails to research for a second. If he had, he’d notice the $200,000 that comic blogger sensation The Oatmeal raised for charities. Or if he just wants to focus on the sports realm, these are some I found in five minutes of Google searching — just on SB Nation. He cries that bloggers lack ethics or morals, but perhaps the ultimate ethical fault is laziness, and Dupont has certainly exemplified this as he tries to deflect his insecurities with uber-machismo wit that reeks of what I call “Trying Too Hard Syndrome.”

Bloggers have come a long way to legitimacy. They’re making their way onto your television sets, into your newspaper (HEAVEN FORFEND!), onto your radios, into your favorite team’s front office, in your media availability scrums asking the best questions, you name it. The close-minded people that continue to demean blogging like Dupont are on the wrong side of journalistic and media history. Their intent is to hurt the image of blogging, yet just end up damaging their own.

Blogging has rightfully emerged as a growing new medium, especially in sports writing. So you’re damn right I’ve come to welcome my position writing in this so-called “blogosphere” with pride.

My name is Ben Swanson and I’m from Charlotte.

And I’m a blogger.

Excerpt from Untitled Giant Burrito Story

Days after my attempt, I asked Takeru Kobayashi, the six-time Nathan’s Annual Hot Dog Eating Contest champion, what advice he would give someone trying to take down an unusually-large order of food. The famed competitive eater broke it down into two parts: preparation and eating strategy.

“First understand your own condition and any possible strengths you may have,” Kobayashi said. “And then safely begin stretching the capacity of your stomach with different techniques. I drink water. Lots of it, in different volumes over a certain period of time.”

I did none of this.

As for mid-meal strategy, he emphasized understanding your prey: the ingredients, the texture, and what would be the easiest way to eat it and advance it to your stomach. “I believe it is first important to be able to understand how to break down that particular food into a size where I can physically hold it in my hands,” Kobayashi added. “Not necessarily so small it fits easily into my mouth, but at least a size where I can hold and maneuver it.”

I also did minimal amounts of this, and none of what he suggested about being able to hold it.

In hindsight, it was clear I was doomed from the beginning. And Kobayashi certainly had words of warning for trying to eat something like this unprepared. “All the risks imaginable are there: any physical discomfort or dangers of the stomach, jaw, throat and certainly a lot of heartburn.”

I was undoubtedly unprepared. But such risks are the price to pay for journalistic integrity.

Pro Golf and Hypocrisy

Golf is a beautiful mirage. Fans hold its morals and etiquette high above every other sport on a noble pedestal. It’s so very gentlemanly, you see. They wear nice pants and polo shirts and a clean white glove on one hand. They stride the course heads high, holding nothing. They don’t hold their clubs, the caddies hold the clubs. Can’t have those golfers carrying their own clubs, of course. That wouldn’t be very noble.

And nothing exemplifies this more than the Masters.

There’s no need for me to introduce the Masters – it’s the king of the golfing world. You win the Masters and you take home a million-dollar purse, immense honor, seeing your name splashed across Sports Illustrated in the next issue and, of course, donning one of the ultimate trophies in sports: the green jacket.

That’s just the outside. Viewers see the pressed pants, the tucked in shirts, the caddies in clean white jumpsuits, the beautifully-manicured course.

But it’s all a disgusting farce.

Golf is so fantastic because as an individual sport, it’s almost like a microcosm of life. Alone in nature, there are little to no distractions, optimally. You need not judge your ability but only by the benchmarks you hold yourself. Hole by hole, you take upon yourself the goal of getting a tiny ball in a hole in the ground. If you make mistakes, you deal with them and plod onward. Frustration mounts often for players because even masterful skill can easily mean little with just a slight sudden gust of wind. Understandably, emotions can run high.

That is, unless you’re on the PGA Tour playing in the Masters.

On Friday, Tiger Woods shanked a tee shot into a sand trap. Immediately upon seeing his shot heading off-course, he dropped his club to the ground and kicked it.

Within hours I saw an article about his actions, calling them “the equivalent of wiping your nose on the green jacket.”

The sport prides itself on eschewing these types of emotional reactions. They’re not elegant. It’s disgraceful to the game, the champions of the sport say. People love seeing the raw emotion of the victor in their moment of glory. But they can’t bear to see the other end of the spectrum: the frustration that the athletes endure at the highest level of competition in their sport at its most visible event.

To call such actions dishonoring the game is laughable, especially during the Masters at Augusta. Augusta National is a place where women can’t be members in 2012. A place where African-Americans couldn’t become members until 1990. A place where a female journalist was refused entrance to the locker room for an interview in 2011. A place where a founding member said “As long as I’m alive, all the golfers will be white and all the caddies will be black.”

But they hold this honor of the game high above everyone’s heads as the objective for every person regardless of how well they’re playing. It’s a disgrace that players must abide by stoicism lest they be shunned as a dishonorable athlete.

We loved Michael for leaving everything inside him in the basketball court. We loved the moment he collapsed under the sheer weight of his emotions after he won the 1996 NBA Championship on Father’s Day, his first title since his father’s death. We loved the moments he fought his toughest opponents, win or lose. We loved the moments he barked trash talk and bantered with those brave enough to return fire. We hated to see him fall, but loved it because we knew he’d rise from it. To deny us the passion of frustrating losses is to deny us the captivating emotion of defeating it.

But maybe basketball’s not the honorable sport that golf is.

I couldn’t care less about that. The nobility is a farce, elitism in the sports world at its worst. Show humanity in the thick of your passion and unless it’s utter joy, you’re shaming the game and so you must be shamed, as well. They’ll call it immaturity, but if maturity means swallowing your frustration, then I know zero mature people.

And everyone seems to just accept this.

I guess I should be shamed, too. I don’t play much anymore, but I grew up playing it. At golf, I was decent. At swearing, I was superb. Yet I loved it. It’s just you and the course. You go through the journey of your emotions, frustrations and elations and come out with an experience that makes you feel like you accomplished something. Refusing to even accept expressing yourself during a game because of dishonoring the sport is stressing dated traditions over humanity.

Ah, just another year of hypocrisy at the Masters.

Kickball

Note: My sportswriting class played a game of kickball Monday, after which we were instructed to write a 200-300 words blog post about it. Our professor wanted a fire to be kindled between the two teams, and the best way we figured we could do this on somewhat short notice and still splitting the class in half was “Greek Life” vs. “Non-Greek Life”.

Is it sad that I woke up this morning with sore legs after a 10-inning game of kickball? Perhaps. But dadgummit, it was worth it.

Maybe the ‘Greek Life’ team had a few too many light beers before the game – I can’t say for sure – but they were completely discombobulated and disorganized throughout the game. After 10 innings, the game ended 16-11, though the score doesn’t accurately reflect the thrashing our ‘Non-Greek Life’ team put down on the opponents.

All it really took for the Greek team to see they were clearly outmatched was the first play of the game. The batter connected, sending the ball soaring down the right-field line. But the ball was not long for fair play. The right fielder dove and snatched it out of the air. With the frat bros and sorority sisters’ gaping maws, they realized it wasn’t going to be an easy fight. Hell, it hardly was one at all.

Though they managed to pull in a run in the first inning, it was all downhill from there. Our squad of GDI’s dropped three runs in the bottom of the first inning and never looked back.

The Greek team tried to come back but it was a futile effort. Their defense was weaker than a wet paper bag. Pop-ups befuddled their fielders like they were hungover. We might as well just call the path between third and home base the ‘Walk Of Shame’ for the Greeks because of how easily they let the Non-Greek team reach the plate.

As for me, I popped out a few times but also scored a few times. I hardly did my Dream Team II Shawn Kemp jersey proud, but I imagine the Reignman would beam at my celebratory dancing.

Oh wait – maybe that’s why my legs are so sore.

Stop — You’re making me hate the Hornets

As a Bobcats fan, it’s more annoying than just about anything. It’s more annoying than constantly fighting ignorance about the team. More annoying than not being able to watch the team on TV because my cable doesn’t carry Fox Sportssouth. I am of course talking about the topic of changing the team name.

It pops up for discussion once every six months, almost like clockwork. But it’s fairly easy to ignore because the most dedicated fans know it’s not worth discussing at this point. There’s always the people who want Jordan and the team to change it to “Charlotte Flight” or some other arena football team quality name. But the simple fact of the matter is that there’s is zero evidence that a name change to these names would instill a new level of confidence and support in a move that would still just be the Bobcats but with a different name.

Unfortunately, the one name that fits the area and isn’t too chintzy is already taken, by the New Orleans Hornets. It’s a given that ‘Hornets’ is a better and more fitting name with more unique colors that ties into the city than ‘Bobcats’, but them’s the breaks.

A name switch of sorts has long been suggested between the Bobcats, Hornets and Jazz, but come on: that’s little more than daydreaming.

And now comes an effort to bring the name back, but the only success they have had is embarrassing me as a Charlotte Hornets fan.

This ‘movement’ is little more than attention-grabbing bullshit. It started as an internet petition. Yes, you read that right: it started as an internet petition and they want it to be a legitimate movement.

Here’s the thing: how have they been supporting the team in the past? If the team did magically change the name to ‘Hornets’ and the team was just as bad, would they support the team then? For them it’s just putting a lipstick on a pig and once the pig is still a pig, adios.

It’s a disgusting show of riding the coattails of the retro fad, notably the popularity of Charlotte Hornets throwback snapback hats. And they’re trying to catch the first class seat to the media spotlight.

My main question is this: WHAT ARE THEY ACTUALLY ACCOMPLISHING? The Hornets own the name as of right now. The ball is not in Charlotte’s court. If they could change the name back to the one the city loves, they probably would. They know the impact it has. They hired Carl Scheer, for crying out loud. You remember Carl Scheer, right? The former president and GM of the Hornets? Yeah, him. Nice guy. We’ve talked. They aren’t oblivious to it. They see announcers calling the team the ‘Hornets’. So what the hell does this do besides inciting the ignorant into being angry over nothing? It’s the dumb leading the dumb and all I know is it’s something I can’t get behind.

Once Charlotte has a team I can watch on a nightly basis and New Orleans has changed their name, then let’s talk. Until then, stop. Just stop. I’ve never been more embarrassed as a fan of the Charlotte Hornets brand than as I see Charlotteans try to defame the local team and their players for personal gain.

For more, let’s turn to Konata Edwards, who has some things he’d also like to say.

1)   There’s a good portion of you who don’t seem to get that it’s bad business to get caught up in a fad, because let’s face it, those Charlotte Hornets snapback hats, they’re a fad. And like all fads, they tend to die, so while it may be fashionable to want the Hornets name back, it’s probably best that the Bobcats you know, not get caught up in trends.

2)   A quick question, since the Bobcats have been in town, exactly how many of you have paid for a ticket? Gone to see the team? Or possibly, actually care about the NBA?? Exactly?? Very few or none of you, which means that most likely absolutely none of you would support this team AFTER the name was changed and the team is still in the rebuilding stages.

3)   Another question, how many of you were bitter about the way George Shinn left town? Does it hurt that it Bob Johnson was the one to bring back NBA basketball to town? Did it also frustrate you when the arena deal was done, even though you voted no? Regardless of the many gaffes of Bob Johnson (C-Set and the Jumper Classic) , he was kinda right about bringing Time Warner Cable Arena to downtown Charlotte, without it, Uptown Charlotte doesn’t have the Epicenter, any of the new hotels, the CIAA and lest we forget the Democratic National Convention in September. Again, if the Bobcats weren’t here, Charlotte doesn’t have that revenue.

Die, Bring Back The Buzz. Just die and quit being a spectacle for the sake of being a spectacle. It’s pathetic and sad.

Cardboard Gerald Goes To Atlanta

In many ways, the stars aligned for this.

I hardly ever do anything for spring break, so when a friend offered me his extra ticket to Radiohead in Atlanta, I gladly forced my schedule to permit me to go with him. But in no way could I have predicted the trip would include crashing the Georgia Optometrist Association’s State Convention after-party and a visit to Atlanta Medical Center.

Admittedly, I’m wasn’t the biggest Radiohead fan then. It’s not that I didn’t like them; I just didn’t listen to them as much as I should have. Regardless, I knew Radiohead tickets aren’t easy to come by and the band’s fantastic, so I tried my damnedest to make it work.

But it was complicated.

Originally, I thought it was during the week of UNC’s spring break, so all I’d have to do was switch shifts with someone in the event that I was even scheduled to work the Thursday of the show. It was actually the week before, on March 1, during the week of most of my midterms. Luckily, my Friday class’ midterm became a take-home due at midnight that evening, so there was no class that morning. Instead of attending my News Editing class at its regular time on Thursday, I went to the earlier class so we could leave in hopes of arriving in Atlanta without missing any of the show. The simple fact that my schedule worked out somehow allowing me to go to Atlanta on time and without missing any midterms was a small miracle in and of itself.

So we planned it as such: Tyler and I were to roll on down to Hotlanta, aiming to arrive a little after 6:30 p.m. With luck, we would find a place to eat quickly before the concert. Then we would saunter over to Philips Arena, marvel at some fantastic music, relax a little afterwards and head back home, stopping in Greensboro, N.C., for Tyler’s optional morning class. But as long as we were back in time for my work shift at 3 p.m., we were golden. During the trip, I would work on my take-home midterm, which was due via email at midnight on Friday.

But nothing ever goes as planned, and this was certainly no exception.

I struggled to focus during the long car trip to take advantage of free time in the car and only finished two of three short answer response questions and still had the essay remaining. We took a short pit stop at some place in the boondocks of South Carolina or Georgia where two Waffle Houses were separated by maybe 200 feet. With our time cushion shrinking, finding dinner before the show came into question. We parked a few blocks from the arena about 30 minutes before the opening act was set to begin.

The opener was decent, but Tyler and I decided to leave our seats and kill time by people-watching. Among the thousands of moments I noticed, someone shouted “Go Hawks!”, which is probably the largest Hawks cheer their arena’s seen since the Human Highlight Reel. I also saw a man in a weird 19th century explorer get-up. Even more embarrassing, many people wore the Radiohead t-shirts they clearly just purchased on the arena concourse. Rookie move, people. Take note. Moving on, spirits were reasonably priced. Just kidding, it was $7.50 for a light beer.

After a while we made our way back to our upper-deck seats. Tyler had the aisle seat, and I next to him. Two cute girls who seemed to be about our ages (me 20, Tyler 21) sat next to us. I struck up a conversation with them and we chatted a little before the show about where we were from (Me: Charlotte, Tyler: Chicago), where they were from (Atlanta) and about the show and yada yada yada.

Then the concert began. The music was fantastic, only surpassed by the dancing prowess of Thom Yorke. The sound was great; the presentation was impeccable; the experience was just about perfect.

After the final encore, the lights returned and people began shuffling out. I asked Leah, the girl who sat next to me, if she and her friend would like to join Tyler and me for a late dinner. She said she was going to meet up with her friends, but she gave me her number to get in touch with her later to see what she was up to.

While Tyler and I waited, we knew we couldn’t rely on her response as if it were set in stone. So we walked the streets of downtown HOTLANTA, trying to kindly shrug off a panhandler who told us he lost his daughter after she caught herpes. He then pleaded with us repeatedly to “NOT FUCK UP” and begged us for money. We had no small bills or change on us, so we politely declined and went on our way. Cutting through the Olympic Park, Tyler and I made our way back to the center of downtown. Plans with Leah fell through and the only open restaurant appeared to be a 24-hour diner. We headed back to our car in the parking deck to park closer on the street.

The only problem? The parking deck had closed. Metal shackles locked the entrance. ALl color must have drained from our faces. Upon noticing a side door, we pressed the intercom button and security let us in, get our car and opened the gate. And we thought that would be the crisis of the night. Hoooooooo boy, were we wrong.

We parked a block or two from the diner, then got seated at a table. Tyler, who’s vegetarian, desperately tried to find anything he could eat. Alas, the menu was basically a herbivore’s nightmare, and it wasn’t too appealing to me, either — and I eat meat. So we left and once again began wandering the empty streets of downtown Atlanta on a Thursday night in search of food. We tried a couple pubs, but with me being only 20, they wouldn’t let us in.

Eventually we found the Atlanta Marriott Marquis, which had a couple restaurants. We decided to check it out and were seated to a table, but to our dismay, the kitchen had just shut down.

Tyler and I were tired. We were hungry. We didn’t know where else to go. So we asked a hotel employee for any ideas. He told us we could just order takeout delivered to the front desk and we obliged to take his advice.

With 35-45 minutes between us and our pizza delivery, we headed to get water from a bar in an upstairs lobby area. It was oddly crowded for a Thursday night. The bartender, clearly unaware of my age, teased me with Jägermeister after I told him I just wanted a glass of water. I declined. We mingled in the crowd a bit and rode the elevator for shits and giggles to kill time. An elevator companion told us it was an optometrist convention, the Georgia Optometrist Association convention to be exact. “A bunch of drinkers,” he said after drunkenly fumbling his key card and loudly muttering profanities as he made earnest efforts to pick it up.

I continued texting with Leah. I sent her a winky smiley face. I’m quite smooth, you see.

Tyler mentioned he didn’t feel so hot, which we blamed on the whole ‘We Haven’t Eaten Since Noon And It’s Now About 1 A.M.’ thing. It had now been about 50 minutes. We retired to some large comfy chairs to wait by the bell desk for “Mama Mia” to finally arrive with our veggie pizza. While we waited, a different intoxicated optometrist tried his hand at comedy, asking us “Where are your skateboards?” Ha ha ha, because we’re punk skater kids? Anyway, the pizza finally came about 10 minutes later. We quickly scarfed down a few slices. It wasn’t very good, but hell, it was still pizza. We tossed the pizza in the trunk so it wouldn’t stink up the car and left downtown Atlanta.

Our plans had changed. It was well after the point that we could make it back in time to Greensboro. With nowhere to spend the night, we decided that we’d park the car at a Whole Foods parking lot. Tyler would sleep and prepare to drive back and hopefully I would knock out a few more questions of my midterm.

It just so ended up that we did neither.

I was more exhausted than I thought and drifted in and out of sleep trying to concentrate on the ideology of South Park. Meanwhile I heard Tyler hurriedly opening the driver side door. He rushed to a patch of dead grass in a median in the lot and vomited. Oh shit, I thought. Tyler was in some rough shape and there wasn’t anything we could do. He seemingly finished and fell back into his chair, hoping the worst was behind him and perhaps he could find some sleep. But he would continue to vomit intermittently throughout the early hours of the morning.

At one point around 5 a.m., a short, pudgy man walked by on his way to work. Through broken English in a Spanish accent, he suggested to Tyler that he should probably go to the hospital. Tyler resigned to the fact that this had become the only option. There was no way he would get better otherwise at a healthy rate, at least. Luckily, Atlanta Medical Center was barely five minutes away.

Tyler was admitted to the ER and immediately got hooked up to an IV and received some medication. His phone dead, he was essentially cut off from the outside world. I stayed with him a little while, but exited to finish my midterm at the Starbucks in the adjacent hospital building.

After finishing my last short answer question, I returned to check on how Tyler was doing at 7 a.m. He was asleep in his bed. I quietly woke him up to ask him how he felt. I told him that I’d be in and out between the ER and Starbucks and left him my number if he needed me since his phone was dead. There was no way he’d be discharged in time for me to make it to work on time, so I called in and told my manager what happened and everything was fine. I returned to working on my midterm.

Looking ahead, I texted Leah to tell her I was unexpectedly in town longer than I had anticipated and to ask if she wanted to join me for lunch. But as it turned out, she was still in school — in high school. The stigma attached to that forced me to question myself at first, but after all, I’m only 20 and she’s 18, so no big deal. She told me that she’d be out around 4 p.m. and I told her I’d call then.

The day took a turn for the worse from there when my order of Chick-Fil-A fries at lunch were clearly unsalted, or in the least, undersalted. I managed to push myself to finish my essay and hit the send button to finalize my midterm.

It was now 3 p.m. and I returned to check on Tyler. He told me the doctors had been incrementally notching up his medicine after he couldn’t keep down water. I began to wonder how much longer they would keep him in the emergency room. And so I decided to hedge my bets. I told him the situation with Leah and reminded him that I left him my number. I instructed him to call me immediately if he was discharged and I would end my get-together and pick him up.

I felt terrible about leaving but didn’t want to have regrets about not trying hard enough to get to know Leah better while waiting hours for Tyler’s discharge as he slept.

My call a little after 4 p.m. went unanswered. I left a text message. I could feel the window closing with every ticking second. I drove Tyler’s car back to the Whole Foods parking lot to kill time as I waited and to charge my phone. After about 15 minutes, I gave up amid conflicting feelings to go back to check on Tyler.

Upon returning to the ER, I showed security my visitor’s pass they had given me earlier, which listed Tyler’s name and room number. The guard squinted to read the room number. Tamika? he asked. No, Tyler. Room twenty, I said.

Oh shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. He’s been discharged and he forgot to call me, I thought.

I wandered through the normal places in the lobby and hallways searching for him. Nothing. I went outside, now wide-eyed and fearful that this could turn into a long search.

But then I saw him in the adjacent building. We both showed visible signs of relief and exhaustion.

You ready to leave? I asked. Yeah, let’s get out of here, Tyler said.

It was 5 p.m. Rush hour. In Atlanta. On a Friday afternoon.

Throwing caution and intelligence into the wind, we picked up I-85 from smack-dab in the middle of downtown Atlanta. Tyler was obviously not in the shape to drive, so I took the wheel. I had only gotten an hour or two of on again-off again sleep, but yes, I was the man behind the wheel.

I made it barely outside of Atlanta in the middle of bumper-to-bumper traffic before I knew I had to stop for caffeine and sugar or else I would kill us both.

I’ll skip the boring details of a 7-hour drive for your sake, but we survived. Another bout of vomiting outside Charlotte and massive fog threatened to set us back, but the one stop in Charlotte was the only one before we got home.

Unfortunately, Leah and I never got to meet again, but c’est la vie.

What a trip. What a way to begin spring break. I couldn’t have predicted or asked for anything more.

11 Miles Between Agony And Unbridled Joy

“Thank you, Zell-er! Thank you, Zell-er!”

The chant for UNC forward Tyler Zeller emanated into the dark night sky. Zeller had powered the Tar Heels with a forceful 23-point and 11-rebound performance in a physical duel against their hated rivals, Duke.

But these were not cheers from Carolina fans.

No, these were chants from Blue Devils fans as they celebrated a narrow victory well into the wee hours of the night in Durham.

Reveling in his late-game missteps that opened the door for an Austin Rivers game-winner, Duke students mockingly thanked Zeller, disintegrating the rest of his night from memory.

Though his eight buckets kept UNC in the heated rivalry game all game, the one he made that he wouldn’t get credit for made the largest impact. After accidentally tipping in an airballed Duke jump shot, Zeller went on to make only one of two free throws on the following UNC possession, setting up Rivers for his buzzer-beating three-pointer.

In less than 20 seconds, Tyler Zeller’s previous 32 minutes and 40 seconds on the court disappeared from memory.

Stunned, Tar Heels fans wished they too could have the game disappear from their memories.

Franklin Street hardly made a peep less than a few hours after the game, though open restaurants and bars were plenty crowded. At least one sports bar refused to show SportsCenter on its televisions. Somber fans preferred to forget the painful loss beneath glasses of beer or liquor. If not for so many students and fans wearing Carolina basketball jerseys, you might not have even been able to discern that a game took place.

But that was a far cry from the scene only 11 miles down the road.

While UNC fans tried their best to forget the night, Blue Devils fans celebrated for hours on end.

“There is no sleep happening,” one student said.

Despite midterms looming in mere hours, many excused themselves from their studies to commemorate the win in near-freezing temperatures. Hundreds gathered immediately after the victory in the quad, shouting chants that echoed throughout the campus.

When news spread that Duke’s team bus would be returning soon, there was a mass exodus to the parking lot outside Cameron Indoor Stadium. A crowd of about 2,000 students and fans crammed into the area in anticipation. When the bus arrived and players stepped out, the group of students and fans turned into a mosh pit. The throng thrashed back and forth in waves as they tried to reach out and congratulate their triumphant victors. The players were mobbed and pummeled with overzealous heavy-handed pats on the back, but they happily took them in stride.

Then hero Austin Rivers disembarked from the charter bus. Chants of his name hung in the air for minutes as he plunged into the tumultuous sea of fans and peers.

But in Chapel Hill, there was no palpable energy. Stunned fans could hardly believe the turn of events that happened before their very eyes.

After withstanding an early barrage of three-pointers, Carolina strode to a slight lead by halftime carried by Zeller’s early dominance.

The second half picked up where the first left off. Duke’s three-point shooting regressed and the team began to struggle finishing at the rim. Harrison Barnes and Kendall Marshall guided Carolina to a commanding 13-point lead

The Blue Devils’ perimeter shooting kicked back into gear, but it looked futile as they traded baskets for minutes on end, making up little to no ground. But mistake-prone UNC possessions late in the game, including Zeller’s aforementioned blunders, permitted Duke to catch up quickly. A 10-2 Blue Devils run led to a mere two-point Duke deficit with 13 ticks remaining on the clock.

Freshman phenom Rivers pushed the ball upcourt and crossed to the right side of the court.

Five seconds.

A screen above the three-point line forced a defensive switch, matching Zeller up on Rivers.

Four.

Rivers backed a couple feet away from the line and Zeller maintained his position.

Three.

Rivers dribbled in place, then took a short step forward.

Two.

Rivers rose, hoisting a bomb over Zeller’s outstretched arms.

One.

Buzzer.

Swish.

Duke’s players swarmed Rivers, dogpiling on him as he fell to the hardwood.

For the Blue Devils and their fans, there could be little sweeter than such a thrilling victory. Rivers described it as his “favorite win” and “the best feeling [he’s] ever had.”

For the Tar Heels and their fans, few defeats could be more agonizing.

“It really hurts,” forward John Henson said. “For us in the last three minutes just to give it up like that is really depressing.”

And so crushed Carolina fans skulked into the darkness to forget or at least distract their minds from the depressing ending. Meanwhile in Durham, Duke fans exploded into the night in pure triumphant jubilation.

Behind Enemy Lines – A UNC Student At Duke

While the UNC-Duke game raged on late in the first half in Chapel Hill’s Dean Dome, I made a solitary exit from the town via 15-501.

And I’m a UNC student.

This might be perplexing. Why would I want to go away from the epicenter of the action while my school’s team played its largest game yet not a 30-minute walk from my apartment? It was a calculated risk.

Tasked with covering the game for my Creative Sportswriting class, I had no ticket, no credential — just my TV. So I figured I’d try something unique: watch half the game in Chapel Hill and then trek to Duke and watch the rest at their popular Armadillo’s sports bar on campus. Regardless of which team won, I knew I’d get a unique perspective of the game that perhaps no one else would have. If UNC prevailed, their celebration would probably still had been continuing by the time I returned and if Duke won, well, I’d be at the center of the action.

I still wanted to get the UNC atmosphere too, so a few hours prior to tipoff, I set out to walk around Franklin Street and all the way to the edge of campus to the Dean Dome.

An ambulance marked the beginning of my night as an intrepid reporter. EMTs placed a young lady on a stretcher and into the back of the emergency vehicle, probably ending her night before 6:30 p.m.

Things had yet to ramp up on Franklin Street, though it was somewhat busy with the hustle and bustle of an anxious throng of people. Knowing that students lines at the arena had been forming for hours, I left the main strip to check out the horde of UNC fans in line for the game.

My god, that line. It zig-zagged in a huge queue that stretched up the outdoor stairs all the way to the Kenan-Flagler Business School. People had been there for hours; one student was still in medical scrubs pants, clearly having come straight to the line from med school. The atmosphere was one of hushed excitement. I overheard one person say they were nervous about the game, yet confident that UNC would defeat Duke.

On my return trip back to my apartment, I passed by Franklin Street again. Crowds were beginning to form outside a few hotspots. The Varsity Theatre had transformed its movie showing into huge game viewings. The most popular sports bars had begun slightly overflowing into the street. As I left, another ambulance’s siren neared from the distance.

With a little over four minutes remaining in the half, I started up my 25-year-old Volvo and left town on an empty 15-501.

A friend at Duke had suggested watching the game at a sports bar on campus called “The Armadillo Grill”. By the time I got there it was halftime and the place was packed. Every TV was set to the game, with the projector screen on a small time-lag. I felt a little uncomfortable as a clear outsider, though nothing could identify me as a UNC student. I took a seat on one of lower layers and quietly watched the rest of the game.

The Duke students were fairly animated, groaning as the team fell down 12, and screaming as the Blue Devils roared back.

When Austin Rivers hit the three, the restaurant exploded. People stood on tables and chairs. One girl D-Generation X’d out, performing his trademark hands-to-groin gesture and yelling repeatedly, “Suck my dick!” The television cameras cut to doubled-over UNC players overcome by their emotions. The Duke students responded by mocking their despondence.

After a couple minutes, people filed out and rushed into the quad. I followed dutifully, pen and pad in hand.

That’s when things got wild. I found myself towards the middle of a huddle of a few hundred Duke students. Many students had midterms the next day but excused themselves from their studies to celebrate. “There is no sleep happening,” one student said. I tried to take notes of my surroundings to mixed results. I pushed my way out and tried to get a handle on the scene. Students desperately wanted to burn a bench, but they had no fire permit. Rumors that passed through the crowd said that didn’t stop others.

“Are we going to burn anything?” one student said.

Hell yeah! I’ve got lighter fluid back in my room!” responded, his friend.

Students chanted relentlessly, yelling “Au-stin Ri-vers!”, “Thank you, Zell-er!” and “Go to Hell Carolina, go to Hell; eat shit!” One crowd-surfed on his peers.

It was at this point that I found an old high-school friend. He led me around the crowd, introducing me to friends, always overjoyed to tell people I go to UNC and get a laugh from each person. A helicopter appeared far into the pitch black sky and the students roared in approving cheers.

Then came the mass exodus. News spread quickly that the bus was on its way back from Chapel Hill.

Students ran to the gym parking lot and began forming a crowd that would grow into the thousands. Police tried to create space but more streamed into street. I took to the high ground for a decent vantage point of my surroundings. Time stretched on as the bus still didn’t arrive. Bored drunken college students began to get restless. One attempted to climb a large oak tree, but failed to pull himself onto a limb and was forced to lower himself back down. Later, he tried again with some help from friends giving him a boost, and made it, to the delight of the crowd.

Then the bus arrived. I moved closer, but I figured the bus would drive past me. It didn’t. The next thing I knew, I was in the middle of a 2,000-person mosh pit as every tried to get close to their triumphant returning heroes. I wore blue suede Pumas and could feel step after step on my feet. The crowd pushed to and fro, knocking waves of people off-balance. I wondered how soon it would be until I fell and got trampled, considering my size. So I pushed my way back out.

Players were mobbed and pummeled with heavy-handed pats on the back, but they took it happily in stride. As the last players entered into the gym, I decided to leave, though still afraid I could miss something even more amazing.

I passed a smoldering plastic trash can that emitted smoke and fumes that must have been quite unhealthy. And then I returned home.

I had gotten in touch with a friend who had gone to the game and asked him how the atmosphere in Chapel Hill was after it concluded. He told me everyone was pretty much shocked and stunned. One of his friends’ dads had been arrested and jailed after an incident concerning a Duke fan’s spilled beer. At least one sports bar refused to play SportsCenter on its TVs. The scene was somber.

When I got back to Franklin Street, it sure as hell was somber. The sidewalks were empty, save for the occasional quiet student. Four police cars, lights a’blazing were lined up on the north side of the street, though the officers were just huddled on the sidewalk to ensure there were no conflicts. But it wasn’t like the street was empty. Restaurants and bars were still crowded, yet there was barely any noise. Upbeat pop music wafted down from Top Of The Hill’s open roof, but fell upon deaf ears, and seemed to haunt the street more than anything.

Such are the effects of such a devastating loss.

Now you may wonder how I could stomach being a lone UNC student amongst thousands of my so-called despised rivals. Well, I’m simply not a big Tar Heel fan. I never developed the love for UNC and college basketball that many of my friends did. Rather, I grew up loving NBA basketball with a connection to the hometown Charlotte Hornets. Yet I had no connection to college basketball. I thought I would develop a love for UNC sports after deciding to attend school here in Chapel Hill, but that’s just not how it worked for me. And so when I found myself surrounded by Duke students going insane inspired by the thrill of victory, I was not crushed or stunned into silence. I just tried to observe and take in the experience as best I could.

And what an experience it was.

Me – last row, far left