What happens when the magic seems like it has gone? Or when beliefs are tested by the unexplainable or impossible?
Nothing happens. The world just stops and the crowd stares in disbelief as the game winning three-pointer swishes—not bounces, not even rolls—straight through the hoop, slashing our hopes to tie the 46 winning game streak in the place where magic was born.
Cameron to a Crazie is more than just a stadium. It is a place where we can forget about the stress of classes, the anxieties of a cloudy future and the social and cultural barriers that may separate us. In Cameron, the crowd becomes the sixth man.
So when some friends from home asked “Why do you care so much?” after I described the tragedy of Saturday’s loss to Florida State to them, I struggled to explain what it meant to lose in a place like Cameron.
“It’s like when you’re watching a Heat game ... ” I began and immediately stopped. Because there was nothing I could say that would compare to watching a game in Cameron. There’s a history in Cameron Indoor Stadium, named after Coach Edmund McCullough Cameron in 1972, that is immediately felt upon entering the building. A history of dedicated coaches, outstanding players and crazy, crazy fans.
I wasn’t always a Crazie. When my interviewer for Duke asked me if I had heard about the Duke-UNC rivalry, I shook my head and wondered why he was asking me about basketball. Even after the first semester of my freshman year, I couldn’t quite understand all the hullabaloo around basketball.
Until one thing changed my mind about Duke basketball, the biggest thing: the 2010 national championship game. The Spring semester of my freshman year was particularly tough for me, as I was still trying to get accustomed to a college course load, amongst other difficulties. But there was something about watching that win—a victory that did not come to us easily—that made me believe I could find a way to get through the hardships.
Like most students, I watched the game in Cameron, and ever since, I have always thought of the building as some sort of pinnacle of hope. The Chapel compels us to revere its magnificent architecture and the dominance of its stature, but Cameron commands our respect with the glory of its past and the hard work of the people who made the stadium what it is.
While reading the preview to Saturday night’s game, I remember the words of one sports commentator who commended Florida State on a strong recent performance, but then took a reality check, saying “after all, this is Cameron.”
Now that I think about it, it is quite remarkable that a building can inspire so much pride and respect just by its very involvement in a scenario. It makes me wonder: If the Capitol building could inspire that much confidence, maybe our legislative system wouldn’t be as paralyzed as it is today.
I thought Saturday’s defeat would make me believe a little less in the magic that is said to be found in Cameron. But it only made me believe in it more. The stars of victory gleam brighter against the darkness of defeat. And yes, the defeat is a sore one, but let’s be real—we lost by three not by 33.
As life after Duke gets fearfully closer, I find myself constantly reevaluating my future plans and dreams. I try to be more and more realistic about the life that awaits me beyond the safe walls of the Gothic Wonderland: the dream school that’s impossible to get into, the job that you have only a one-in-a-million chance of getting offered. But every time I am in Cameron for any game, I dare to dream for a little while longer.
The magic may be in the building, but it is kept alive by the spirit and pride of the people who live, play, and cheer in it, win or lose. And years from now, I will probably never even remember this loss, or the many defeats I will personally face in my life. I’ll remember the bigger victories. I’ll remember the good times demolishing Carolina and the not so good times crawling out of a warm sleeping bag at 5 a.m. (sirens still make me twitch).
And I’ll remember the place where I learned to dream ... dreams I still believe in as much as I believe in Cameron. Just call me crazie.
Sony Rao is a Trinity junior. Her column runs every other Tuesday.
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