At long last, I finally experience Franklin Street first-hand as the Tar Heels win a national basketball title.

            In 1977, I was a sophomore at Carolina and watched the Saturday semifinal victory over UNLV in a tuxedo. I chauffeured my date and a car full of fraternity brothers down Franklin Street en route to a formal at the late, great Ranch House as the bars erupted with fans yelping and squealing over the prospects of Walter Davis, Phil Ford et al securing Dean Smith’s first national title two nights later against Marquette. Alas, the Tar Heels squashed their promising second half rally by gaining the lead, pulling out into the Four Corners delay offense, losing their momentum and eventually the game, 67-59, in Al McGuire’s coaching finale. There was no celebration on Franklin Street that night, just thousands of morose Tar Heel fans trudging around like zombies.

In 1982, I was assistant sports editor of the Durham Morning Herald and my job was to design and edit the sports section chronicling the Tar Heels’ championship game against Georgetown. As soon as the first edition rolled off the press at 11:45 and final-edition changes were executed in the composing room around 12:45, I hustled over to Chapel Hill to catch the final strains of the merrymaking over Michael Jordan’s “Hello World” jump shot that secured the Heels’ 63-62 triumph. By then the immediate euphoria of the occasion had waned and what remained was sloshed silliness.

In 1993, I was in the Super Dome in New Orleans when Donald Williams went stupid-hot, nailing 15 of 23 field goals over two nights and scoring 50 points to lead the Tar Heels over Kansas by 10 and Michigan by six. Bourbon Street was the better place to be as Carolina fans reveled in ecstasy from Iberville to Toulouse Streets, quaffing Hurricanes at Pat O’Brien’s and devouring shrimp po-boys from the Gumbo Shop. I was coherent enough at 2 a.m. to remember writing the 77-71 score of the Michigan game on a dollar bill and pinning it to the wall in the Old Absinthe House. I was in New Orleans about five years ago and, dang it, forgot to return to the Old Absinthe and see if my dollar was still there along with thousands more in the century-old watering hole.

Then in 2005, a business venture took me out of town the night of the Tar Heels’ 75-70 win over Illinois. At the time I lived on Jones Street, just off Franklin, and arrived home by 1:30 a.m. and caught the latter stanzas of the victory festival. I walked the half mile west to the 100 block of Franklin, and it was actually a little scary. The harmless euphoria of the Carolina student, Chapel Hill townie and UNC alum had given way to a more sinister out-of-town element. It seemed like too many at that point were looking for trouble and not frolic.

And so it was Monday night I was quite delighted to be comfortably tucked into the Youth Room on the third floor of University Baptist Church at the corner of Franklin and Columbia Streets as the Tar Heels tipped off against Michigan State for the national title. Charlie Neufeld, the 16-year-old daughter of my fiancé Sue, is good pals with Ellie Simpson, the daughter of church pastor Mitchell Simpson, and we joined a small group in front of a wide-screen TV to watch the game and be well-positioned for the revelry that was sure to follow.

We parked at Kenan Stadium and walked across campus, anticipation of the tipoff growing to a fever pitch as the electric atmosphere engulfed us at every step. Sue spotted the “Heelraiser,” the 21-foot long Carolina blue hearse, ambling down the street. Big Fraternity Court crackled with the sound of laughter and convivial conversation, and a large crowd was gathered behind the Beta Theta Pi House to watch a huge TV mounted in the backyard.

I planned to announce my intentions to go cuss-free for an entire basketball game, given the sanctity of the venue, but Mitch playfully alluded to his wife Betty and her passion for the Tar Heels.

“I’m glad we have guests,” Mitch said. “Betty will be on her best behavior.”

Betty responded with a consummate “pot-calling-the-kettle-black” expression.

The church served as command center for some 300 policemen, state troopers and other law enforcement officials who would later attempt to manage the crowds that had been estimated at 50,000 four years earlier. The authorities have gotten the operation down to a science, blocking off the streets around Franklin to vehicular traffic and setting up entry posts with large garbage cans and confiscating open beverage containers and anything made of wood that can be used to build bonfires.

I was really not worried about the Tar Heels on this night. The sentiment pendulum had swung too far in Michigan State’s favor—the home state advantage, the “cause” of playing for downtrodden Detroit, the “destiny’s darlings” moniker was all just a little too pat. This Carolina team was simply too good, too focused, too committed after the debacle of San Antonio a year ago and the return of four starters following their NBA flirtations last spring. And I have empathy for Michigan’s moribund auto industry; but no one in Detroit was asking about the lives devastated the last year in North Carolina by the implosion of Wachovia and the decimation of Bank of America’s stock price.

As Roy Williams said on Sunday, “We have a few causes to play for ourselves.”

The issue is essentially settled by the first TV timeout. Deon Thompson with a nice inside move and the opening Carolina bucket ... Danny Green with a 3-pointer ... Wayne Ellington with the first of the night’s silky jump shots ... A short shot by Ty Lawson hits bottom ... and then another trey from Ellington.

It’s quickly 15-5 and the rout is on. We sweat out Michigan State’s mini-rally in the second half, but the outcome is never in doubt. We hear the noise of the gathering masses as the last few minutes of the game inch along. (Will you ever see anything as sweet as Tyler Hansbrough’s post-game guttural exultation?) As soon as the 89-72 final is posted, our party is quickly out the doors of the church and positioned on the stone wall to watch the proceedings.

The intersection of Franklin and Columbia is quickly submersed in unbridled euphoria. Celebrants climb trees and the utility poles on the street corners and pound off the large green street signs (later the Columbia sign will be used as a makeshift surfboard for one hardy young man). Bonfires are lit and kids with the kind of intelligence it takes to be admitted to Carolina go totally idiotic and find sport in leaping over the fires. Bonfire jumping is clearly the fad-of-the-day for victory celebrations; curiously, there is little toilet paper and Carolina blue paint evident.

The crowd swells 15 minutes into the proceedings as many of the 10,000 or so watching at the Dean Dome make their away downtown and join in the carousal. It seems that everyone has a camera in their cell phone or PDA and is snapping images. Impromptu choruses of “I’m a Tar Heel born ....” break out in various corners. Despite windy conditions and temperatures around 50 degrees, some well-lubed fans are shirtless. Others have Carolina blue wigs, and you can spot the occasional light blue stovepipe hat of Dr. Seuss vintage. One fan carries a crude wooden version of the NCAA championship trophy. Some who have been drinking all day stumble and break their bones (26 individuals were treated by medics or taken to the hospital).

Across the way, I spot a clever sign hovering over the masses: “F--- Dook.” I want to take a photo of that one myself and email it to some buddies, and I venture from the sanctity of the stone wall into the masses. Not a good idea. The sea of humanity is in total gridlock as I try to turn east down Franklin. Sign boy is going away from me, so I give up and wheel back around but now find myself against the current. I lower my shoulder and press through. At one point I can go nowhere and decide, like a swimmer caught in the rip tide off the coast, to simply ride the tide until I can find a little crevice in the throng. Eventually I divest myself of the mob and return to the stone wall.

“Oh my, what a fabulous day,” Sue said. “The only sad part is that it is over. I will miss this team and all they represent.”

Indeed, this team embodies all that’s been great about Carolina hoops for half a century. Class. Teamwork. Unselfishness. Brains. Athleticism. Balance. The whole being much greater than the sum of the parts.

And though next year looks to be a rebuilding year with the likely departure of four starters, the Tar Heels have what is regarded by some experts as the top-ranked recruiting class in the country—two 5-star prospects and three 4-four star player as ranked by Rivals.com.

“See you right here again next year,” Mitch said as we bid him good night around 1 a.m.