an open letter to the university of north carolina basketball teams, plural

I only have one word for the University of North Carolina men's and women's basketball teams right now. It's not a complicated word. It's not a word they'll have to look up in the dictionary, if they want to comprehend its meaning. It's a pretty simple, everyday, ordinary sort of word.

That word is finish. As in, finish off a game.

As in, don't collapse as the pressure goes up.

I watched last night's women's Final Four semifinal on the TV in my bedroom, with sort of a growing dread in my stomach for most of the second half. It was like a horror movie -- where the heroine is going to open the door/go down to the basement/run outside of the nice safe house, and there's nothing you can do to stop her except shout helplessly at the television.

When Carolina shot out to a 12 point lead with 7 minutes left, I could see it coming.

When Tennessee closed the gap to six, I could see it coming.

And when Ivory Latta started missing every shot she took, I put the covers over my head and turned the sound off, watching the last two minutes of the game with one eye, barely peeking over the top of my comforter, and only the sound of my own breathing for company.

It was like some horrible kind of deja vu. It was like watching the men collapse against Georgetown all over again, except worse: in the Final Four, with a starting lineup made up mostly of upperclassmen, against a team that's won more national championships that any other women's team. I mean, honestly, what's Pat Summitt going to do with her 7th trophy, put it in her guest bathroom? At least I could hope that JT3 could stop riding his daddy's coattails if Georgetown won the whole shebang on the men's side. Pat Summitt can win titles on her own, without any help from Sylvia Hatchell's team falling apart in the final minutes.

So seriously, basketball teams: what gives? So much talent, and so little ability to put an opponent away. Look, there's no shame in routs -- if you can rout a team, rout them. I'm a fan of the good old fashioned rout. It's harder to climb back from 25 down with four minutes left than from 4 down with 6 minutes left. But instead you guys never managed to give that final killing blow, and I just don't get it. And the photo of Ivory Latta on the front page of the Daily Tar Heel today made me cry.

And because I would be remiss to call these teams out without thanking them, as well: thank you both, for seasons that went above and beyond my expectations for fun, and heartbreak, and spectacular behind-the-back passes. Thank you for Ivory Latta, popping her jersey and flexing her muscles and running her team like a machine. Thank you for Erlana Larkins, and Camille Little, and LaToya Pringle. Thank you for Rashanda McCants, who reminds me of her brother more and more every day, and who's going to be a force to be reckoned with next year. Thank you, men, for bringing me a new appreciation of the running game, and for letting me love this team so much that my heart did break when you lost. Thank you for reminding me that there's always next year.

And thank God baseball started yesterday. If I'd had to wait for baseball after these last two Tar Heel games, I might have developed a bigger drinking habit than I already have.