Bang Head Here

I can't believe I'm using one of my favorite lines of The Little Prince to discuss basketball, but I am. And let's face it, basketball is just the starting point for many of life's great quandries.

"You risk tears if you let yourself be tamed."

That's kind of how I feel about Carolina basketball lately. You set your watch, mood, and heart by it and you get burned. All the things done to tame yourself in the ways of something outside yourself have no place here. No matter what socks you wear, how hard you hit the couch, how many curses you shout, it's beyond your control. My lucky socks aren't going to make them catch a pass. Hitting the couch isn't going to keep them from turning over the ball. And cursing isn't making them play with heart.

But that's the risk you take when you let yourself be tamed. And it's certainly better than the alternative: being a fan of some other team. (Ugh, perish the thought!)

Though I truly hope the rest of the season doesn't cause me to continue to do this:


Because it's really not good for my head. Or my back. Or my attempts at normality.

Day 175: "All grown-ups were once children - although few of them remember it." (Antoine de Saint-Exupery)

Pat Conroy, in a lecture at UNC my freshman year, said, "A book can change your life, and change it forever."

I didn't actually attend the lecture, but I read the quote the following day in the DTH and it has stuck with me. I read a lot. And not just books, but also magazines, news and web articles, blogs, Wikipedia entries, and quotations. Put something with words in front of me and at the very least I will skim over it.

And though I still maintain that it is utterly impossible for me to choose a favorite book, there are several that I give as stock answers. Books that are honestly old friends, that are there in the happy times for celebration and hard times for support. To Kill a Mockingbird. The Bell Jar. O! Pioneers. The Diary of Anne Frank. The Notebook.

And, The Little Prince, which I already own. I bought another copy today at the used book store, a hardback, with a dedication in the front. My new thing. In all the used books I've bought over the years, I can't think of a single one with a hand-written note in it.

The book was first published in 1943. The note inside is 21 years old. And both still resonate. More and more each day. I hope that whomever Lynda gave it to got some use out of it. Maybe I shouldn't have bought it, maybe I should have left it for someone else. Or maybe I'll just keep it for a little while and pay it forward later.