Often it takes moments of backbreaking pain or breathtaking ecstasy to bring us to realizations. Often in the mundane, in the day-to-day, in the nine-to-five, nothing changes. Often it takes victory laps, sunsets, or concession speeches, for us to wake up to the world around us.

At the mountaintops of life, the moments of confetti and kissing in the kitchen, you find this to be a pretty good world, after all. It all worked out, just like they said it would. And in the canyons and valleys, the moments of cold pillows and empty seats, you find this to be a pretty cruel world, after all. It never worked out, just like they said it wouldn’t.

This week, a lot of us have found ourselves at one of these two points. Elation for some, desolation, for others. And although it took me a few days to come to grips with what has happened and put my fingers to these keys, I have found some solace.

From E.B. White, this:

“If the world were merely seductive, that would be easy. If it were merely challenging, that would be no problem. But I arise in the morning torn between a desire to improve (or save) the world and a desire to enjoy (or savor) the world. This makes it hard to plan the day.”

This is a quote that resonated with me when I was in the mountains in Maine, a few summers ago. I underlined it like crazy, drew arrows, the whole nine yards. It just made sense. There are only so many hours in the day, and there are so many places I want to see and so many things I want to do. Is it possible to save the world and savor it? Is it bad to want to do both?

I would say this is innate for us, to try to find a happy medium.

But I can tell you now more than ever, it should be easy to plan our days. We should arise in the morning with the desire to save the world.

It’s not always quitting jobs and packing bags, though, it’s driving across town when your grandson has a flat tire and sitting with that man at church who has dialysis twice a week. It’s acting. It’s living out love does.  It’s not trying to fix people and what they think or do, and just being with them.

From 1 John, this:

“We know love by this, that he laid down his life for us — and we ought to lay down our lives for our brothers and sisters. How does God’s love abide in anyone who has the world’s goods and sees a brother or sister in need and yet refuses to help? Little children, let us love, not in word or speech, but in truth and action.”

A chapter that I often turn back to in times of doubt and confusion, 1 John 3, has never felt more apt. There are plenty of things we can get bogged down with in life. Many of them good things to worry and think about, like who our president will be and work and play and beauty. These things happen.

But here in 1 John, we get a beautiful reminder. A reminder that we ought to get more often. Jesus painted love on the cross and told us to be love and hope and a bastion of peace for our neighbors.

How can we not do that in return for Him? How can we not try every single day to arise as the moon rests its head and be better. And do better. And speak truth. And love. And never forget why we get to arise, in the first place.

Because we are called to love, like he loved us.

There is a climax to every story. There is rising action and a resolution, but it is the climax that keeps you from putting the book down.

For some, this is a moment of great joy. It is cutting down nets and donning rings of silver.

For others, this is a moment of immense pain. It is one less banner in the rafters and a bullet hole sent straight through the heart of destiny.

For the North Carolina men’s basketball community, the night of April 4th, 2016, is a climax they will never forget, no matter how hard they try.

They will remember the hope of a Tar Heel five-point lead at halftime, the despair as Villanova ran away in the second-half and the elation following the Marcus Paige 3-pointer.

It was an evening that everyone in Tar Heel nation had marked on the calendar since the first tip of the basketball in November. It was an evening where legends roamed the hardwood. It was an evening where the boys in Carolina Blue could become immortal.

It was the night of the unspeakable.

***

Jeff Jones sat on the front steps of the University United Methodist Church minutes after Michael Jordan and the UNC basketball team won the 1982 NCAA Championship.

He rushed to Franklin Street, but as blue paint was flung and claustrophobia sunk in, he found himself watching the thousands of students from the elevated church steps.

“I remember being in the middle of the crowd,” Jones said. “The feeling of euphoria was pretty awesome.”

Jones was a freshman at UNC, then, and had been a Tar Heel fanatic since his childhood. Thirty-four years after that March evening when he sat on the church steps, he can still tell you every detail about the day Jordan shook his hand. It was an English 42 recitation, Film Criticism, in a tiny room in Hamilton Hall. Jordan walked in, sat beside him, turned and smiled, “Hi, I’m Michael.”

He remembers the minute details of Carolina basketball. A Walter Davis bandaged hand after the 1977 ACC Championship. A James Worthy missed free throw in 1982. A sleepless night after a season-ending loss to Georgia in 1983. The pain, the joy, they are all still fresh in his mind.

Jones, 53 years old, now, remembers watching the 2016 game from his home just as easily as when he cheered the Tar Heels on from Carmichael Arena.

“I kept thinking this is it — it’s over with,” Jones said, recounting the moment when Villanova held a six-point lead with less than two minutes to play.

But then Marcus Paige hit “The Shot” to tie the game. Falling to the floor, on one foot, almost posing for the camera, the fate of the season hung in the air, in the shape of an orange sphere.

“I’ve seen so many of those Carolina games where we made amazing comebacks,” Jones said. “But that’s one of the greatest shots I’ve ever seen.”

***

Pat James sat center court, three rows back, with his fingers glued to his keyboard when Villanova inbounded the ball with 4.7 seconds left.

After Paige’s shot, he rested for a moment, taking it all in, but then looked right back at his screen.

“When Marcus hit the shot, first it’s kind of hard not to take in the spectacle of it,” James said. “I don’t think anyone could predict what happened next.”

As the sports editor of the Daily Tar Heel and a senior at UNC, the intersection of work and fandom was never more evident. He had two tweets prepared for the DTH’s sports account: one, if the Tar Heels lost, the other if the game went to overtime.

“As soon as Ryan Arcidiacono passed the ball to (Villanova forward Kris) Jenkins, I was already editing the losing tweet,” James said. “I knew it was going in.”

Swish.

“I hit send, I stood up, they celebrate, and I’m watching it all happen as I’m packing my bag,” he said. “I wanted to get out as quick as I could, but I also didn’t care to watch it, as well, from a fan stand point.”

James was the first one out of the media section, hurtling toward the locker room. He pre-wrote part of his story, but after that ending, a blank canvas awaited him as he walked in a room of heartbroken men.

“I had to go over and shake (UNC sports information director Steve) Kirschner’s hand to tell him thank you,” James said, “And in that corner on the left side is Hubert Davis with his hands in his face and there’s Roy [Williams] shaking his head.”

As a senior, covering the last basketball game of his career as the sports editor, the gravity of the moment began to sink in. Sure, he would cover a few baseball games, and yes, he would edit plenty more stories — but this was it. This was what the whole year had built up to. Now he must write.

And how can you do that, in a moment like this? How is it possible to put the emotions, the memories, the power of that game, into words?

“All day, you’re thinking about it,” James said. “Eventually you’re going to have to put your fingers on the keyboard and pound this thing out.”

“While hopefully I’ll get to cover some big stuff down the road, what could possibly get bigger than this?”

***

Marcus Paige sat in the back of the locker room, Gatorade towel draped around his sweating neck, with dozens of microphones in his face.

The point guard had surely spent many nights dreaming about that moment. The moment where he could hit a shot, acrobatic and beautiful, that would give his team a chance to win at the most crucial moment of the game, with his back firmly against the wall.

And he did.

Yet, here he sits, with tears in his eyes.

“That was supposed to be our moment,” Paige said. “I’m going to see it, and it’s going to hurt every time.”

He would never make another 3-pointer, as a Tar Heel. He would never run down the court calling a play, as a Tar Heel. He would never sprint out of the tunnel to a roaring crowd in the Dean Smith Center wearing no. 5, as a Tar Heel.

“It’s hard,” Paige said, “because at some point tonight I have to take this jersey off, and I never get to put it back on.”

For four years, Paige worked every day for the chance to sit in that locker room and take questions from reporters. It’s what motivated him. The awards were great, the kind words were fine, the regular season wins were important. But a national championship — that’s what kept Paige up at night.

He couldn’t help but look back at his time in Carolina Blue. The wins and the losses and the laughs and the tears. His jersey would be in the rafters in the Smith Center with dozens of others, but was that enough?

“You had to get to this level to be considered and to be remembered,” Paige said.

“There’s not a whole lot of guys that have done better than us if you think about it. It’s hard to say now because we were so close to being at the top of the mountain.”

Look down, Marcus. Look how far you climbed.

***

Julianne Strickland sat in the back of a black Nissan Sentra somewhere on a highway in Texas at 3:00 a.m., when someone finally brought it up.

What was it? Maybe it was Paige’s shot. Maybe it was the wrong shade of blue confetti pouring over them as the buzzer sounded. Maybe it was the aching feet from standing in the April, Texas heat. Until that moment, there was silence. Yes, a passing comment about getting gas or stopping to use the restroom, but not a word about the game.

Strickland dared the silence, “I thought we had it won.”

The sophomore and four other friends made the 21-hour trek to Houston to see the Final Four and National Championship games. They took turns driving, slept at a friend’s house at Rice University, and were the first people in line at 8:00 a.m. for the national championship.

“When I bought my tickets I had no clue how I was going to get there or where I would stay,” Strickland said, “But I just trusted that everything would work out.”

Back in the car, her head leaned against the rear window, with a Brice Johnson jersey on, the memories rushed back. From the second row of NRG Stadium, she witnessed one of the greatest endings in the history of the illustrious game of basketball.

“It went from one of the greatest moment of our lives to the worst,” she said.

But there’s no regret for Strickland. She would do it all over again in a heartbeat. What is a five-page paper, what is a good night’s sleep, what is a hundred bucks, to memories made?

“It’s like loving family members — no matter how many times you get upset or disappointed with them, they’re still your family,” Strickland said. “Yeah, my heart felt like it was ripped in two, but I can’t stop loving this team.”

“I will always cheer for those players because they make it feel like I’m part of their family.”

Mark Wohlers threw it. Marquis Grissom caught it. The Atlanta Braves won it. The year, 1995.

It took the Braves six games to defeat the Cleveland Indians in the 1995 World Series. The demons — a pair of losses to the Twins in 1991 and the Blue Jays in 1992 — were squashed and tossed in the corners of the champagne stained locker room, the moment Fred McGriff commenced the dog pile on Javy Lopez. The Atlanta Braves were World Champions.

I’d like to think I kicked in my mother’s stomach that night.

While she watched from a two-bedroom home in Shelby, North Carolina, my dad was just down the road, broadcasting a high school football game on the radio. In between breaths, he leaned over trying to catch a peek of his Braves on the television strategically placed in the booth.

When the baseball landed in Grissom’s glove and Fulton County Stadium went delirious in uproar, my dad couldn’t help but let out a yelp on air — I’d like to think he wished I was with him that night.

***

I was born in March of 1996, just five months after that October celebration. As I was being passed around from one relative to the next, the Braves were at Spring Training and had been dubbed “the team of the 90s.”

It couldn’t be a better time to be born into Braves fandom. In that decade Atlanta went to five World Series’, boasted three hall of fame pitchers and drafted a franchise player in Chipper Jones.

So as soon as I could walk, I was reaching for a baseball and dragging a glove everywhere. My dad would back the car out of the garage, and I would throw the ball against the wall for hours.

I was playing for the Braves, you see. I was the star pitcher, the clutch hitter and the revered manager. I was the Most Valuable Player. I was the baseball card every kid dreamed of unwrapping from the pack.

My parents had to haul me in from outside every night. They would bathe me in my Braves colored bathroom, tuck me in under my Braves bedspread, and help me say my prayers, all under a Chipper Jones poster.

My first pilgrimage to Atlanta came in the summer of 2002 with my dad and granddad. It was an out-of-body experience. Chipper was feet away from me. Marcus Giles signed my book “Best Wishes, David!” Atlanta’s stadium, Turner Field, was so much bigger than my garage.

I still have the ticket stub. First base line. Row 7. Seat 5. Section 119. God, is this what Heaven is like?

***

This isn’t a story solely about games and numbers, but they have to be included. The arc doesn’t make sense — the narrative is incomplete — without understanding the agony.

The Braves weren’t a bad team. And that’s the thing. They were great. They were promising. They were fun to watch. They won at least 88 games for 11 years in a row. They have been to two World Series since I’ve been alive. But they just couldn’t win them. And that — that is worse than anything else.

The first playoff game I ever went to was on October 7, 2002, for the final meeting of the Braves-Giants Divisional Series. Dad and I piled in his 1996 Honda Accord and drove 211 miles in brutal interstate traffic to Turner Field. My excitement was unparalleled. Christmas morning joy couldn’t even be mentioned in the same breath.

At least that’s what it felt like when I took my seat for the first pitch. Because after the Giants won 3-1 behind a Barry Bonds home run to win the series, it was like Christmas morning with lumps of coal under the tree.

But the nightmares didn’t end there.

There was 2004, when the Braves blew a 2-1 divisional series lead at home to the Astros. There was 2005, when the Braves played the Astros again in the divisional series and took the final game to 18 innings, but lost on a walk off home run. There was 2010 when Atlanta second baseman Brooks Conrad made two errors in the bottom of the ninth in what felt like a sealed game against the Giants. The horror stories continued to pile. There were playoff losses to the Dodgers and Cardinals in heartbreaking fashion, too. There were trades, free agent signings, management changes, and everything in between. It was simple: the Braves couldn’t finish. But dad and I couldn’t seem to stop caring.

***

For me, life as a Braves fan revolved around three things: My dad, Chipper Jones and losing when it counted.

I was only a Braves fan because of my dad. I didn’t choose the Braves, I was born, bred and baptized as a Braves fan. It was dad who drove while I slept on the way to Atlanta. It was dad who threw ball with me in the backyard every night. It was dad who taught me to appreciate the sport, the team and even the misery.

If dad made me a Braves fan, Chipper Jones kept me a Braves fan. I played third base not because I wanted to, but because Chipper did. I put a wad of sunflower seeds in my mouth when I stepped to the plate because Chipper did. I tried to be a switch hitter because Chipper was.

And as for the losing, that was just part of the game. It was always just a series of tumultuous events that left me in tears every season, but it was nothing that would stop me from finding a new team. That wasn’t an option.

So in 2012 when Chipper decided he was going to retire, my dad, brother and a few of my friends made the trip to Atlanta to see our hero play in person, once more.

After $20 worth of hot dogs and sodas that September evening, the Braves found themselves down four runs going into the bottom of the ninth. Again, it felt as if the four-hour drive to Atlanta was for naught. But a rally emerged.

I remember it like it was yesterday. There was a Reed Johnson base hit. Then a pair of walks to Paul Janish and Michael Bourn. Yes, then a lucky error by the Philadelphia defense. And all of a sudden two runs scored and Chipper had a chance to win the game with one swing of the bat.

Of course, you know the story. I wouldn’t be telling the story if he struck out. Chipper hit the ball a mile into the right field bleachers. I don’t know if it ever landed, to be honest. It may still be in orbit.

Dad was on the ground in a matter of seconds. He was rolling down the steps, losing his glasses and his sanity. I did the opposite, collapsing into my seat, praying to God I wasn’t dreaming. And after collecting ourselves, we hugged. We hugged for what felt like an eternity. I cried, because we won. And Chipper hit it. CHIPPER HIT IT. We won. Really, WE WON.

The Braves could have lost every game for 16 years, and in that moment it wouldn’t have mattered. Nothing mattered. It was just a normal, unimportant, regular season game. Just one of 162 they played that season. But to us, it was the game. It was the game I would tell my children about one day to remind them there is hope as a Braves fan.

High school graduation could come knocking. College could come knocking. The real world could come knocking. And eventually I would have to answer. Eventually, the little boy snoring in the sleeping bag, sprawled out in the back of the car on the way to Atlanta would have to sprout from his Braves colored room for something bigger. And we both knew that.

So we hugged, cried, and never wanted to leave Turner Field.

The Braves won. And not another damned thing mattered.

Because tonight, we were together.

David Ray Allen Jr.

It all started with an oatmeal cream pie and a glass of chocolate milk.

She ate his favorite snack every day for a year — 8th grade — trying to get him to notice her.

He didn’t. So she had to take the initiative herself, asking him to go on a hay ride. December 3rd, she recounts off the top of her head, some 30 years later. Some days you just don’t forget.

With only one bump in the road, the summer where he wanted to watch Atlanta Braves baseball and didn’t have time for a girlfriend — at least that’s what she claims — the rest was, as they say, history.

The pair went to different colleges after graduating high school. He went to Chapel Hill, while she went down Highway 74 to Charlotte. That didn’t last long. She enrolled at UNC soon.

And after four years of college they wed at Eastside Baptist, her home church that he started going to as the relationship had progressed. Her father walked her down the aisle, and the soon-to-be-husband smiled from the front of the room under his mustache. They kissed, danced, threw the bouquet, ate some cake. To Disney World they went.

A few years passed and then came David Jr. They were 28 on that March afternoon. He was a cone head of a baby with the bluest of eyes. They held and marveled at God’s creation. He was theirs.

He would walk and talk like his father, share a passion for sports and writing. He would favor his mother, with his nose and thin hair, share a passion for reading and a penchant to cry.

Then came Michael. They were 31 on that January evening. He had a head of blonde hair, and an infectious smile. They held and marveled at God’s creation. He was theirs. This time around, David Ray waited in the wings. He had a new friend. And he was certainly getting too much attention. (Some things never change.)

He would favor his father, thick hair and a set of dimples pulled from a magazine. He would spoil his mother rotten, quick to tickle and the fastest to make her double over in laughter.

Then there was Kathryn Rose, they would call her Katie. They were 36 on the August midnight. They held and marveled at God’s creation. She was theirs. This time there were two big brothers anticipating the arrival. She had a red birthmark that scared them, and those red cheeks. Truly, a rose.

She was her mother’s child, undoubtedly. Her brown hair and charming smile. And that giggle. A ray of sunshine to all she came in contact with. She would be a daddy’s girl, too, though, often found asleep on his lap or in a tickle fight.

Surely there were tough, arduous moments along the way, moments that all couples go through, but you would never know it. Not with them. Mom doesn’t complain about dad’s snoring — brutal, in every sense of the word — and dad doesn’t complain about mom’s dancing — which was passed down to her oldest son. Dad wakes mom up when she falls asleep on the couch during “Game of Thrones,” and explains what she missed. Mom takes dad’s side when the kids make fun of him. There is a sense that where one ends, the other begins.

As parents, they are flawless. The example to end all examples. What she can’t do, he can. And what he can’t, she can. A tough job, guiding three children, but for them, an art. A seamless portrait. A city skyline. A graceful waltz.

They have sat through every ball game, and coached quite a few. They have listened to hours of screeching instrument practice, and paid for the lessons desperately needed. They have loved unconditionally, and never thought twice.

Now the two sit together. Twenty-five years removed from that day at Eastside Baptist. Thirty-three if you go all the way back to that December hay ride.

The three children in between them sit, 20, 17, and 12. On the precipice of great heights in life. The oldest, two years from going into the “real world.” The middle child, a year away from graduating high school. The baby, a few months from being a teenager.

For their children there will be times of darkness, sorrow, and stress, as the mountain bluffs sprout skyward into deafening clouds. Darkness will prod and jab, and the world will certainly overwhelm and inundate them at times.

Luckily, in mom and dad, there are two pillars of love and bastions of strength alongside them. Keeping their distance, but watching over them earnestly.

And to think it all began with an oatmeal cream pie and a glass of chocolate milk.

-David Ray

I should be studying.

No, really. I should. I’ve got an exam on media law and the history of drama tomorrow. I should probably be tucked into a Davis Library alcove covered with books towered up to my eyes. But for some reason, I have found myself here, attempting to put words on an impossible narrative, some incredible relationships, and the feeling of belongingness.

When I walk out of the Stone Center tomorrow I’ll have finished two years at UNC. Two of the best years of my life, my sophomore year being the pinnacle. Milkshakes from The Loop. Lectures with Bart Ehrman. A trip to a national championship. New friends. New family. Old friends. Tight family.

Often a year makes a huge difference; we find out new things about ourselves, grow physically and emotionally, deepen bonds, push limitations, and sneak outside of our comfort zone. And in two years in Chapel Hill, I have done all of these things.

I have hurt along the way and at times felt overwhelmed and stressed and sad and downcast. But the inevitable, irreconcilable nature in the power of this place — the people, the atmosphere, the qualities we cannot name — always calls me back in.

I hurt today. Not because of the daunting media law exam tomorrow that awaits me, but because I’m halfway there. Just yesterday it feels like I was moving in, holding back tears as my mom and dad and brother and sister walked out the door. Just yesterday it feels like I was sitting in Shelby High School with my brothers. Just yesterday it feels like the “real world” was far away.

But today I stand halfway there. With my family who have loved and supported me from 181 miles away. With some of those same brothers sharing a suite. With a freshly minted double major. With the real world knocking on my door.

So that’s why it hurts. It hurts to say goodbye to my friends and to a tiny dorm room. Sure, we’ll be back in Chapel Hill in a few months, but things will always be different. Pat and Paige won’t be here to keep me in line at the Daily Tar Heel. Will, Luke, and I will be in a new home, but we won’t able to harass passersby from the seventh floor. The basketball team will be excellent, but Marcus and Brice and Joel will watch from their TV screens.

But that’s life. And the beautiful thing is, I’m doing this in a place with the best people, who love and care and shine. In a place where passionate learners and meaningful teachers roam the same halls and call each other friends. In a place that I can, and will, call home.

–DA

“But it’s comforting, knowing that whichever direction I’m driving on the highway, I’ll be headed back to a place that I call home.” — My friend, and brilliant thinker, Kristen Roehrig

This isn’t going to be pretty.

The good thing is, though, it doesn’t have to be.

Usually when I sit down to write, I think of themes. I think of vocabulary. I think of motifs. I think of ledes and final thoughts. It’s like an art.

This, though, isn’t that kind of piece.

_________________________________________________________________

I enjoy words.

Ever since I was a boy, I’ve had a thing for words. The way Chip Cary said “Rafael Furcal at the plate for the Bravos.” The way Truman Capote could keep me on the edge of my seat. The way Seth Avett sounded over the car speakers. Words were powerful.

So for obvious reasons, I love(d) quotes.

There seems to be a quote, a passage, or a verse for every moment. There’s just something beautiful knowing that someone else has been there and can relate to you.

Sometimes you need more than a pat on the back, or an “it’s going to be OK.” Sometimes you need words for a drive home on a beautiful day with the windows down. Sometimes you need to be restored. Sometimes you need advice.

For me, this comes through words.

Whether it’s a line from a Bradbury short story, a lyric from a Dylan song, or an illustrious quote from the parable of the prodigal son, there’s always been something there for me.

And now, after making it through 20 years, I reflected on the words that meant the most to me. Believe it or not, it wasn’t a lyric. It wasn’t a line from one of my dog-eared books. It wasn’t even a verse from a Gospel.

The words, in this case, advice, that stuck out the most to me, came from the mouths of two men. Two men who collectively mean more to me than nearly anything in this world, save my sweet mama. My dad and my late grandfather.

The first, from my dad, came my senior year of high school. My English teacher asked parents to write their son or daughter a brief letter with advice for the future as we took on the brave new world ahead of us.

My dad, a former journalist and one helluva writer, chose not to impart sophisticated prose on me. Nor did he chose to be overbearing, complex, or didactic (like I just was, oops).

He was simple. He was honest. He cut to my core.

“Always work hard. Always go to class. Always love your mom. Always pray to God. Always pursue your dream. Always chase the girl. Always save for a rainy day. Always pull for the Braves. Always say thank you. Always help others. Always have fun. And always be the man granddaddy would brag on.”

I would be lying if I told you that I didn’t embarrass myself that day in front of my class. I didn’t even make it halfway through the letter before I was running out of the classroom, tear-stained glasses in one hand, the other clinging to my eyes.

Nothing has stayed with me more. That letter has moved around from my Bible to my car to my back pocket on certain, special days to my desk to above my bed. But it has stayed with me.

The second set of words came from my granddad.

Just a few weeks before he died, I was lying with him in his bed after he had just knocked out a bowl of ice cream in his recliner. A man known for his incredible story telling, artful dinner time conversation, and wit, chose once again not to impart wisdom on me in some convoluted manner. He asked a question. A question that I have asked myself every morning since that night.

“What’s pushing you?”

That’s it.

“What’s pushing you?”

I expected a story symbolizing how to live life right or a witty one-liner. Instead, I got a question. The question as far as I’m concerned.

“What’s pushing you?”

20 years of reading books, listening to songs, and scribbling words down for fun. Nothing has stuck with me like what those guys said.

I told you this wouldn’t be pretty.

I have no deeper meaning or alter call. I just have some words.

Keep reading books. Keep listening to records. Keep writing your heart out. But every now and then, look around. Treasure life and love more.

–DA