The Baby Blue Jumpsuit
Written in February 2014
It started as a dare and ended as a symbol of resilient pride.
As I ran my fingers along the seam of the baby blue velour jumpsuit — the same jumpsuit the heroes of Chapel Hill wear each day — I emitted a tired sigh of submission.
On the eve of what might be the greatest rivalry in college basketball, Duke University versus The University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, everyone was brimming with anxious anticipation.
It seemed as if Chapel Hill in its entirety was fixated on making last minute preparations to ensure it was ready to witness the annual Battle of Tobacco Road. Families proudly displayed Tar Heels flags on their porches, fraternity boys withdrew $20 bills so they could bet money on the game, mothers dressed their babies, future Carolina blue devotees, in bibs that read “Little Tar Heels Fan.”
However, I was more fixated on the fact that I would be wearing a basketball warm-up to one of the town’s busiest and most beloved bars, Pantana Bob’s for the year’s most coveted and watched game.
“Oh my goodness — you’re wearing this out tonight,” my best friend, Katheryn, said after finding the velour jumpsuit in the living room of our sorority house. “I dare you.”
As I rolled my eyes and released a groan, I toyed with the idea.
“This is bullshit,” I thought to myself. “There’s no way in hell I’m going to do this.”
Every close friend, cute guy, teacher’s assistant, child I nanny and mere acquaintance, plus some, would be watching the game at this bar. I would look like a complete idiot wearing — swimming — in the very same outfit that Dexter Strickland and Harrison Barnes sported to warm up for basketball games.
But because I can’t ever refuse a dare, I grudgingly gave in. “At least I’ll stay warm,” I assured myself.
Three hours later, clad in an overwhelming amount of cotton candy baby blue, looking like an overly enthusiastic super fan on steroids, I timidly entered Bob’s.
Making my way through the vast sea of Tar Heels fanatics, receiving a few snickers from a group of cliquey sorority girls, a wide-eyed expression from an elderly woman and a “Damn, girl” from a young man, seemingly drunk off of a pitcher of beer and the prospect of beating the infamous Blue Devils, I darted toward a concealed table on the porch near the back bar.
I had hoped I would blend in inconspicuously — after all, every single person in the bar was wearing some sort of baby blue — but this was not the case. Before I could even sit down, I was bombarded with high fives and a few slaps on the back and approached by a number of strangers.
“Here’s a drink for the Tar Heels number one super fan,” a man, as worn and as leathered as the cowboy hat he was wearing, said to me, handing me a Bud Light.
Although the attention I received was entirely positive — at one point, a man compared me to one of Carolina’s greatest fans, the mascot, Rameses — it was slightly overwhelming, particularly to someone who is as shy as I am.
Thankfully, time approached 9 p.m. and the game started. Hope took the place of my embarrassment, and along with the rest of Pantana Bob’s, I became enticed by the basketball game. By the final minute of the first half, the Tar Heels were up 43-27, and it seemed as if sweet victory was within our reach.
Chilling goose bumps blanketed my body as I played with the thought of defeating the Blue Devils, our greatest and most hated rivals, on their home court in just 20 minutes more of basketball.
Only the clinks of celebratory shot glasses hitting the wooden tables and the cheers and chants by elated basketball fans were audible above the Tar Heels fight song that blared from the five flat screen televisions.
“Go on now, do a dance!” the man with the cowboy hat enthusiastically said to me. At this point, I had overcome my awkwardness, and I willingly complied. I started shimmying my shoulders and twirling in a circle, and soon enough, the entire back bar of people joined me, fist-pumping, shaking their booties and jumping up and down.
It was a rare and beautiful moment. Every type of person, united by a love for Tar Heels basketball and mesmerized by the possibility of a win, danced in unison.
However, the celebration was premature. Within the first few minutes of the second half, the Blue Devils tightened in on the Tar Heels lead, and the potential blowout became a nail-biter. Looks of horror were soon plastered over the faces of everyone who, minutes before, had been gregariously expressing their pride.
When the final buzzer — that prolonged, ear-piercing sound — went off, signaling a Blue Devils comeback and a Tar Heels defeat, nobody uttered a word. The Tar Heels lost 79-73. As this realization settled in, an eerie and chilling silence engulfed the bar and fans turned their backs away from the televisions, too disgusted to watch a Duke celebration. As I scooted my chair out to leave, piercing this calm, I looked down at the velour jumpsuit. Now I really looked like an idiot.
While I trudged home with defeated spirits, stepping on the frayed heels of my pants and cursing under my breath, Duke fans drove past me, telling me how stupid I looked and yelling profanities targeted at the Tar Heels. Their cocky taunts were added insult to injury, and I wasn’t about to take it. As I was about to retaliate, scream back to those despised Blue Devils and tell them to go to hell, however, I started to smile.
It was as if a divine power interrupted my thought process to provide me with a final comforting thought.
At least I don’t go to Duke.