I was on Franklin St.

I was on Franklin St. that night.

Amid throngs of Tar Heel revelers overcome with ecstasy.

Above, for fleeting instances, the dancing flames seemingly joined in the blissful celebration.

On top of the crowd at times even, hoisted by unknown hands, the hands of my soul-entwined brothers and sisters.

At, inside, throughout the very heart of a national championship victory.

I reveled in every second of it.

The dumb smile plastered across my face was matched by everyone I encountered. I can only imagine if their brains were similarly faltering. Unable to comprehend the true meaning of the night's events, my mind settled for elementary thoughts, simple conceptions of emotion that could penetrate the enveloping hysteria and arrive at the steps of basic understanding.

"I am happy," was one such thought. "This is cool," another. Maybe add "really" as an enriching preface here or there. You get the picture. I was a little dazed.

Still, I'm not sure that more eloquent words, or any college-instilled knowledge for that matter – even if I'd had a brain capable of processing either at that moment – would have helped in the least.

I was really happy. And it was really cool. That summed it up perfectly.

I was on Franklin St., and we had won. It does not, cannot, get any better.

After the initial frenzy had calmed down a bit, and to a lesser extent, my own emotions as well – so we're talking about three hours later, 2:30 a.m. – I began making a concerted effort to preserve memories.

I looked around, snapping mental photographs of the same scenes, same people, over and over. Over and over.

I hugged friends I had never hugged, lifting them off the ground in my utmost joy. And, in turn, they lifted me off the ground in theirs.

Supersaturated yet still overflowing, I moved on to complete strangers, eager to share my excesses with them. On this night, unsurprisingly, they welcomed them with corresponding eagerness in a beautiful, tacit display of ultimate human understanding.

It was quite remarkable. Just like the night itself.

And somehow my unprecedented actions – ANY display of emotion is a very rare thing for me – seemed entirely appropriate, entirely necessary. On this night.

Even more so when I began to think of my yet unborn grandkids, something I had never, ever done before – a phenomenon which increases in oddity considering I've yet to even meet their grandmother.

Still, with unsettling frequency, I found myself wanting to make memories I could share with my future grandchildren, memories with such resonance that their immutable flow through the generations would be guaranteed.

And I did make them.

Because I know what winning on that glorious night meant, what celebrating on hallowed Franklin St. with my Tar Heel brethren meant, what it all will forever mean.

For it was not something I will never forget, but, rather, something I will always remember.