Hating Coach K Hatred makes scholars of its practitioners, which is to say, all of us. We study the objects of our disdain like old dons in the British Library poring over ancient manuscripts. No less than lovers, good haters notice everything about their enemies. Every tendency, every inconsistency, every speck of newness. Hatred focuses the attention.
As a North Carolinian raised and educated in Chapel Hill, with a robust distaste for the privileges of class, I have hated Duke University basketball and all for which it stands for as long as I can remember. And my attention has been focused.
All season long, I have been paddling up the Nile of my Duke hatred, looking for its source. And with every new meeting, my hatred has evanesced like fog in a bright sun. The Blue Devil players, past and present, even the Duke fans—I am mystified to say that I kind of like them. They aren't that bad. Some are even better than that. Then, however, I was faced with the ultimate encounter that I had long been dreading during my voyage upriver—I was going to see Mike Krzyzewski. Or, as he is more commonly known to me and my fellow Carolina fans: the Rat. Ratface. Satan. The Evil One.
I would finally see whether Krzyzewski up close was the same guy I hated so easily from afar, whether man and symbol matched, whether there was any similarity between the dark prince of my psyche and the coach from eight miles down the road. A friend of mine mocked me. "You're going to like him," he said.
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Sunday, March 20, 2022
I Hated Coach K. Then I Made Him Cry.
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