Confessions of a Two-Way Traitor

traitor: one who betrays another's trust or is false to an obligation.

There's no getting around it.

By definition, I'm a traitor.

Worse, I'm a two-way traitor.

Yes, a back-and-forth traitor, probably the most disgusting, least respectable kind there is.

If being a traitor means being regarded as a sinner, I've sinned pretty much my entire life, starting as a child.

Both my parents graduated from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill.

They had two sons.

By birthright, brother Brice and I should have followed in our parents' heels and become Tar Heels.

Brother Brice, in case you don't know, is the Good Son.

And to spell things out a little more, Brother Hardy (that's me) is the Bad Son.

So even if you don't know me well enough to know this already, you've probably put the context clues together and figured out that, for some reason, something went very wrong, and the Carolina-Blue Blood that should have flowed to my brain and through my heart didn't.

Somehow, a very different color of blood got into my bloodstream.

Some people would say it's the same color, only a darker shade.

But the difference between having Carolina-Blue Blood and having Duke-Blue Blood is as great as the difference between being a Capulet and being a Montague.

In both cases, there's not supposed to be any mixing going on.

I don't know how that darker blood got into my bloodstream.

I'm guessing that one night, while I slept, a Blue Devil snuck into my bedroom, put his fangs to my throat, and took a bite.

Maybe he used his pitchfork as an IV instead.

However it was done, the deed was done, and before I reached adolescence, I was a full-fledged Little Blue Devil myself.

Few Tar Heels will understand this, but for some reason, my parents didn't put me up for adoption.

They even allowed me to attend the Duke Basketball Camp. Twice.

Of course, back then, Coach K and his program weren't what they are today.

And it wasn't like my parents were providing Coach K a future weapon against the Tar Heel basketball team.

Back then, I was as loud and obnoxious a Duke fan as you can imagine.

When I went to football and basketball games with my family, we always sat in the Carolina section, but that didn't stop me from yelling and screaming as loud as I could for my beloved Blue Devils.

I can only realize now what an embarassment I must have been for my parents.

They still loved me anyway.

Or at least pretended they did.

As I grew older, Duke basketball got better.

A lot better.

(I must have been a True Fan. I was pulling for Duke when they weren't winning. And I wasn't bad-mouthing their coaches or players, demanding changes, or just keeping quiet. I only pulled for them louder and harder.)

Duke got very close to winning a national championship during my high school years.

It just wasn't meant to be.

Then, I did what no Good Blue Devil should ever do: I entered Tar Heel Land as a student.

I got a very good scholarship and decided to become a sell-out.

And at the end of my freshman year, Duke won its first national championship.

I was probably the only Carolina student secretly cheering inside that Duke had finally won the Big Game.

(I was old enough to know by then that to maintain good health in Chapel Hill, I needed to keep closely hidden the fact that I was a Blue Devil at heart.)

I earned my degree at Carolina, and I have fond memories of my college years.

Today, when it comes to athletic allegiances, I'm a two-way traitor.

I can watch or attend a game between Carolina and Duke and honestly be happy regardless of the outcome.

When Duke's won its national championships, I've been a proud Blue Devil.

When Carolina's won its national championships, I've been a proud Tar Heel.

I know, I know. None of this is acceptable, anyway you look at it.

All I can ask is this:

Please forgive me.