The difference between losing and being a loser

Losing sucks. The only thing that makes it suck this much is the ease of winning. I am not talking about the season. Yeah, right. The season does not matter in the days following a loss to those guys. I mean taking three games in a row from a self-righteous team that, ahem, is a little more righteous in victory than defeat.

"Walk off the court when the game is over," Coach K said loud enough so the mic could pick it up and spill it across the nation. What class. What poise. May I rewind for just a brief moment?

We could always talk about The Foul. I went for 11 months as undecided on Henderson's blight. I watched it before last night's game on YouTube. I have no more doubt. You want me to describe it? Watch this instead: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C04fSlYTGzI.

Rewind a month earlier to Josh McRoberts crying at home. Is it too much pressure to play in the greatest rivalry on Earth? I hesitate to offer the following link because it makes me cringe to think about it. Life gets tougher than getting nailed by the Heels, Josh. Pull yourself together. Next time punch yourself in the face to at least draw blood like Gerald would. Poor guy. http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=josh+mcroberts+cries&search_type.

Some would say this post is a sore loser's display. Hear this. We lost. We lost fairly. It doesn't matter that Ty wasn't there. It doesn't matter that Wayne and Danny struggled nor that Quentin continued to turn it over. Those aren't excuses. Those are mistakes, and mistakes cost us the win. We lost. And further, Duke won.

Tar Heel fans, remember this fact. A little less than half the country actually enjoyed the outcome of last night's game because Duke didn't embarrass themselves with a hissy-fit loss. For America, they are damn cute when they win. It takes a team that beats them more than anyone else to understand what they really are. Losers.

Duke, bring it on from now until forever. You won't see our lip quiver. We won't need consoling. We won't dish out any season-ending cheap shots because we are Carolina. We lose with class and win with class.

Deal with it.

For a friend

"Don't apologize for asking questions," she said. "I'm supposed to answer your questions." I doubt her job description included helping me, a shaken rookie teacher coping with culture shock and scrambling for time to eat. But neither were most of the things she did during a typical day.

I heard her talk about herself once when I first met her. After that, she was a mystery. She talked about her kids and her husband, and she looked after everyone around her.

“Don’t you need to eat more than just a sandwich for lunch?” she once asked aggressively, giving me and my bag lunch a cold look. I explained I had already eaten my other sandwich and that we had this same discussion a month ago.

“I’m just making sure you’re OK,” she said while pulling out her meds. I must have seemed an unnecessary mess with unkempt hair, ink-stained hands and a sandwich with no cheese nor condiments because of an early-morning rush. “You know, Rudene and I are your surrogate mothers.” I immediately tried to calculate whether my own mother would be thankful for or jealous of her claim. I think I went with thankful.

Some of my coworkers knew her for more than 20 years. I knew her for a mere 16 months, but I clung to her for two reasons. First, she was a beacon of sanity in a storm of chaos. Second, she was perfect. She was perfect in an environment that doesn't have use for the word. Her kind of success was, in a word, inexplicable.

“Would you stay another year if you hadn’t already committed to it?” I remember her asking me.

“No,” I said flatly and honestly.

A close friend of hers spoke with me the day she passed. The conversation left me with this lasting image.

She graduated from this school. She taught at this school since 1983. She witnessed this school transform into an underserved, underachieving school that burns out many teachers in few years. She refused to leave. She refused to abandon a place and a mission that many people would abandon young and in good health. She, a woman whose health declined steadily since I’ve known her, stood her ground.

She used to come to work pale and sweaty and ask us how we were. We’re all fine, thank you. We’re all fine because you’re here and you keep us going.

We will miss you, Ms. G. This school will never be the same not because you are gone but because you were here.

Canton's cowboys and cherished elders

I visit Canton, Illinois, twice a year over the holidays. Actually, I now visit Dunfermline since my grandparents moved two years ago to the nearby town/cul-de-sac that exists because of an annual fish fry/polka concert. These are the river towns of central Illinois.

My grandmother's three sisters, who all live on the same street, make up the many grandmas of Dunfermline. They bake cookies, mash potatoes and "warsh" the dishes. They also hustle "jumbo index" card games and grandchildren. They take frequent bathroom breaks. They take extensive smoke breaks. They curse motion-activated Santas around their country homes. They slurp Pabst Blue Ribbons not because it's cheap but because they like the crisp taste.

I'm a 23-year-old man, and I don't drink PBR in Dunfermline because I haven't earned my stripes. Besides, I don't like the crisp taste.

I love all of this. Your grandparents probably drink wine and play hearts. Sucker.

To be pantsed or to be depantsed

"It's called pantsing someone," my girlfriend said, referring to yoinking one's pants against one's will and without one's knowledge.

"It's called depantsing," I corrected, my hands nervously hovering around my waistband.

The definition of depantsing on dictionary.com is "to remove the trousers from, as a joke or punishment."

Pants is not a verb on dictionary.com. I'll make it up.

Pants
v. 1. To put trousers on another quickly, as a joke or punishment.