I know exactly where I was on March 29, 1982...

Standing in my childhood living room, screaming at the TV. The basketball national championship — my Tar Heels against the Georgetown Hoyas.

UNC won by one point. For a 12-year-old fan, a life-changing moment.

But the best part? My paperboy job. The next afternoon, I delivered newspapers with “Champions” blazed across the front page. Oh, and this happened on my birthday. Pretty cool.

I also remember where I was on April 3, 2017...

A family Disney trip, kids piled around me in an Orlando hotel, all of us yelling at the screen. Another title game: Carolina vs. Gonzaga. The Heels triumphed by six. Sharing it with Jess, McKenzie, Luke, Jake, Kate, and Sam made it even sweeter.

Then came last night — this year’s championship. Just me watching. No Tar Heels. No screaming and no kids (they’re all grown up). The outcome didn’t even matter.

But I still tuned in. That’s what I do, because of the memories. I haven’t missed one since 1982.

And bonus… I didn’t have to fold 47 newspapers this time. Or pay for Disney.

We once took the family to Planet Hollywood.

To celebrate Luke’s birthday in Myrtle Beach, he picked the giant, globe-shaped restaurant. When our server found out we were there for his special event, she told Luke he could choose any song to blast over the speakers.

After thinking, he made an inspired decision. Actually, he selected what I consider the best '80s anthem. Hint: it’s by Bryan Adams. The tune? Summer of ’69.

Yes, a proud Dad moment.

I can remember how Luke's face lit up when those first guitar riffs kicked in. The emcee even gave him a shout-out. And the whole place turned into his personal concert venue as we ate burgers and played air-guitars.

Fast forward to today. We weren’t in a glitzy globe, but at the serene New Kent Winery. For a few hours, we met up with McKenzie and Will, sitting on a patio and listening to a musician strum '80s and '90s covers.

We split a plate of crackers and pimento cheese. And oh yeah, celebrated my birthday — just a few days late. A world away from that loud Myrtle Beach party. Years between. But the heart of it stayed the same.

Still with family. Still rocking.

Every time I see one, my stomach turns.

Growing up, we’d make the drive to Raleigh for the NC State Fair. A classic experience filled with spinning rides and carnival games. Also prize pigs and vendors selling steak knives.

But oh, the food. Southern everything: hush puppies, smoky BBQ, and sugary treats that defied logic. Fried Oreos, anyone?

However, one menu item always made me cringe. The infamous... turkey leg.

It seemed everyone wandered the fairgrounds, gnawing on these massive drumsticks, juice running down their chins like some medieval picnic. All I could think: do you realize you’re ripping and chewing meat off a nasty bone? Gross!

I know, I’m the oddball.

Fast forward to today. We took a 45-minute trip to the Gloucester Daffodil Festival. The 39th annual celebration, held on Main Street, is a throwback to those old fair days. Live music, hundreds of merchants, and we even saw the new Daffodil Queen wearing her satin sash.

Then we hit the food section. Country guitars twanged from the stage and fried batter wafted in the air. Booths served up everything from funnel cakes to corn dogs to shrimp.

And there it was. A ghost from my past, a nightmare. The turkey leg.

What could I do but shake my head and laugh?

I came for the daffodils, but I left haunted by the bones.

I’ve never been so hot.

As a teen, I spent my summers working 10-hour shifts at Mr. C’s Car Wash. The North Carolina sun showed no mercy as temps soared into the upper 90s. We didn’t just work — we baked.

By late morning, my coworkers and I had a ritual. We’d sprint across the street to a convenience store, our air-conditioned oasis. Inside waited my hero: a massive 32-ounce fountain drink. Filling my cup with crushed ice and Pepsi, I called it the Bladder Buster.

That giant soda powered me through the concrete inferno. And to this day, I have a weakness for Pepsi. Not only for the flavor, but for the memory of carbonated survival.

That’s how we got it done back in those times… through sweat, grit, and high-fructose corn syrup.

Today I read that Pepsi sales are slipping. In the ‘80s, they gave Coke a real run for the lead. But now they’ve fallen to #3, behind Dr Pepper.

Coke, Pepsi… they taste nearly the same to me. But somewhere deep in my nostalgic heart, I want my fav cola on top. To me, it will always be the “Taste of the Carolinas.”

And my fizzy, emotional support in a cup.

He coached us almost every afternoon.

Mr. Sessoms, my next-door neighbor’s grandfather, was passionate about baseball. More than just a casual fan, he once played for the minor league Yankees alongside Joe DiMaggio.

After school, we’d rush to the backyard. There, Mr. Sessoms stood with his glove on, cap tilted, ready to instruct.

He taught us how to throw sidearm. How to field grounders without flinching. And most importantly — how to hit. His advice? “Wait for the right pitch. Don’t swing at them all.”

I didn’t realize at the time he was teaching more than baseball. Trying to hit everything is for batting cages and burnout.

Today, I heard an interesting piece of business wisdom. Someone I admire said, “I have yet to meet a high-functioning leader who answered every email, responded to every text, got back to everybody, and showed up at everything.”

Huh. Those words transported me to those dusty afternoons, bat in hand.

Don’t swing at them all.