Make no mistake, UNC is a basketball school. From Michael Jordan to Sam Perkins, Rick Fox to Vince Carter, many notable ballers have worn the Carolina blue that continues to unequivocally engulf the entire region.

Peruse Franklin Street in June, when school is out and we are about as far as we can get from college basketball season, and you would be beleaguered to find one shop not adorned with basketball shirts and jerseys.

Carolina basketball is and always will be the alpha dog in Chapel Hill.

But there’s another program rising to the elite level, and that is Carolina baseball. The Tar Heels don’t spring to mind when you think of the college baseball giants—Texas, Southern California, and Louisiana State—but they are carving out their own path into the annals of college baseball history, at a time when not many outside of Chapel Hill are looking.

The Tar Heels, college baseball’s No. 4 national seed, hosted the East Carolina Pirates last weekend in the NCAA Super Regionals, and they promptly beat them Saturday and Sunday to advance to the College World Series, which will begin Saturday in Omaha, Nebraska.

Only eight teams reach Omaha each spring, a dream that is shared by few and envied by many. One trip to Omaha makes a college career officially one worth cherishing.

So pardon this group of Carolina seniors if they pinch themselves over the next two weeks.

This is the fourth straight CWS appearance for head coach Mike Fox and his Tar Heels, becoming the first Atlantic Coast Conference team to accomplish such a feat.

Also with the newest Omaha trip, UNC became the first ACC school ever to reach a bowl game, the men’s Final Four, and the College World Series in the same season. Not bad for an athletic department defined solely by the hardwood.

Where did the Tar Heels come from? That question is left without an answer as Fox wraps up his 11th season in Chapel Hill.

What is no mystery, though, is that all great programs have the ability to recruit the nation’s top talents, and that is where Fox excels.

Twenty-seven of Fox’s former Tar Heels are currently playing professional baseball, most notably Andrew Miller of the Florida Marlins, Daniel Bard of the Boston Red Sox, and Chris Iannetta of the Colorado Rockies.

Life as an elite program can be difficult at times, especially when signing a handful of the best high school prospects. UNC gets to handpick many of the best players around the country, true, but it is also reality that many of those players never make it to campus, signing a professional contract out of high school instead.

If it weren’t for college baseball’s rule that requires players who enroll at a university to stay put for three seasons, sustaining any type of national pedigree might be virtually impossible.

This year’s team will presumably lose multiple impact players. Junior first baseman Dustin Ackley is long gone, as he is regarded as the best hitter in this year’s draft and is somewhat of a lock to be selected by the Seattle Mariners with the second overall pick in Tuesday’s MLB Amateur Draft.

Ackley draws Chase Utley comparisons. If you have seen him play, you know why, and if you haven’t, that’s all you need to know.

Carolina’s ace, Alex White, had an inconsistent junior season but is still likely to be popped within the first 12 to 15 picks, as his fastball and slider both grade as major league-caliber pitches, and the right hander is closer to the big leagues than any of the acclaimed high school hurlers.

Third baseman Kyle Seager, who went 5-for-9 over the weekend, is also a junior and is expected to be drafted in the first few rounds. Throw in senior Adam Warren, Carolina’s No. 2 starting pitcher, and that’s a lot of talent leaving the club.

Of course, high school outfielder/quarterback Donovan Tate, who is signed to play both sports at UNC (expected to be a top 10 pick), and Jacob Turner, a flame-thrower from St. Louis (expected to go in top 15), probably won’t ever know what a dorm room is.

There’s hope for Coach Fox, though, as both players are represented by Scott Boras and will most likely come with steep price tags, which could scare off many teams.

Such was the case in the 2007 draft with Rick Porcello, a UNC signee who was regarded as the top high school arm in the draft but fell to the Detroit Tigers with the 27th pick due to bonus demands (only to sign the richest high school contract ever, worth a total of $11.1 million; Porcello is now pitching in the big leagues at 20 years old).

But losing recruits to the draft is like having such an amount of wealth that you don’t know how to efficiently invest all of it in different markets. It’s a good problem to have.

Any player would be lucky to spend three or four years in Chapel Hill playing in Boshamer Stadium—undoubtedly one of the nation’s most scenic and prestigious facilities—with the opportunity to reach college baseball’s ultimate stage.

Fox has not won it all during his time in Carolina, coming close twice in '06 and '07, but that remains the only thing the Tar Heels haven’t done in his tenure.

The fact that the Texas Longhorns have won two rings under Auggie Garrido in the past eight seasons, and are vying for a third this year, should put them at the top of the national pecking order for now.

But USC hasn’t been relevant since their national championship in '98, and Cal State Fullerton is the only other perennial powerhouse that has shown the capability of consistently returning to national prominence, winning it all in 2004.

Considering the routine June trips to the Midwest for North Carolina, if the Tar Heels finally win the ring this season, it will cap a résumé that begs to be labeled a dynasty as we welcome the next decade of great programs.

You can reach Teddy Mitrosilis at tm4000@yahoo.com.

With the MLB draft fast approaching, I took a trip down to San Diego in March to take a look at Stephen Strasburg, the projected number one overall pick. Here's what transpired... 

Last Friday, March 20, I got my first glimpse at the Next Big Thing that will soon be hitting the major leagues. I squinted my eyes and snuck a peek at brilliance. I kicked back and marveled at utter domination.

To be clear, bodies aren’t supposed to be this physical, arms aren’t supposed to throw these kinds of fastballs. And we are talking about a college kid, here.

I loaded up the car around 2:30 PM, hit the I-5 south, and rode that baby all the way down to San Diego to see Stephen Strasburg pitch. The right-handed pitcher is a junior at San Diego State and is everybody’s preference for the number one overall selection in the June draft.

People throughout baseball circles are all ready trying to explain why the Washington Nationals, the holder of the first pick, should not take Strasburg.

That’s what scouts do when a prospect is so spectacular. They try to look for reasons why they don’t like him. But they have nothing on Strasburg. It’s impossible.

The San Diego State Aztecs were playing the Cougars of Brigham Young University, but you couldn’t tell as you approached Tony Gwynn Stadium, conveniently placed in the heart of the SDSU campus.

This was Strasburg against BYU. Don’t tell me about his teammates because nobody wanted to hear about them on this night. This wasn’t a Mountain West Conference game, this was an experience. This was a national jewel tucked away in the San Diego cliffs. It’s the perfect setting for Strasburg.

Majestic settings deserve majestic outcomes.

The community gets up for Strasburg on Friday nights. A town more known for surfing isn’t laid back when No. 37 is taking the hill. The atmosphere was electric and you could sense something unusual.

The fans, students, and faculty treat Strasburg’s starts like celebrations, and why not? It would be a travesty not to play it up, and luckily for those in attendance, San Diego simply knows how to party.

Not even one hundred feet outside of the gates was a massive tailgate—approximately 1,000 people—strictly for Strasburg.

I’m not talking about a handful of dads and their buddies pre-gaming with some ballpark franks and Diet Cokes. I’m talking about a festival, a scene you would expect on Sundays before Chargers games.

It was a mix between a Poison concert, Mardi Gras, and a Bobby Flay cookout.

A makeshift gate roped off a boundary that stretched from the back of the end zone to the 30-yard line on the football practice field. Tents were propped up on the outskirts of the lot providing cover for sizzling grills and buffet lines.

Ice buckets held frosty beverages—any selection from (Mountain) Dew to brew. Kids played ‘pickle’ and San Diego State’s finest, donning cut off shirts with ‘37’ on the back, handed out Strasburg t-shirts. A full forty yards of happiness.

Everything was a notch up for this night. Is everything this fun in San Diego? Is everybody this friendly and this welcoming? Is it always like this? If this is indeed true then, fellas, follow me. I’ll show you heaven on Earth.

Most ballparks don’t let you bring any type of food or drink into the game. Even sealed bottles are ordered to the trash. But, of course, I’m not buying a $5 dollar bottle of water and a $2 bag of seeds, so my pant pockets are stuffed.

Water bottles in the back pockets, two bags of seeds in the front left pocket, wallet, keys, and gum in the front right. My lower body looks like the Michelin man.

But what does the lovely 50-something-year old lady do to me at the gate? Nothing. Any open bottles, sir? “No, umm, nothing open,” I said. Great, well then you enjoy the game now!

Not a pat down, not a “what’s in that pocket,” nothing. Just a simple “enjoy the game now!” I’m telling you, everybody was on their best behavior for this night. That was the unequivocal feeling throughout the entire night.

We’ve all been to electric sporting events before, or at the least, we have seen some pretty epic environments on TV. We know that “buzz” that accompanies greatness. That nostalgic feeling of great October baseball games was present as the teams were taking pre-game infield practice and Strasburg sauntered down to the left field corner to stretch out and warm up.

That feeling has no business being at a college baseball game, but there it was.

Strasburg took a light jog to the center field fence, placed his hands on the wall, stretched out his legs, and stood there. He stood there zooming in towards home plate, as if he were checking out his setting for the night.

He gazed over the BYU dugout, seeing the next feeble lineup that would soon be his. He stood on the warning track, lightly wiggling his legs and arms, almost like he was stalking the diamond.

After playing catch, he headed into the home bullpen on the third base side and started heating up. I stood fifteen feet from him, only to hear his pitches hiss into the glove. There were a handful of scouts mesmerized as he stood on the rubber pumping four-seam fastballs into the mitt.

Strasburg finished his warm up tosses and calmly walked into the dugout for a quick sip of water. He gathered up with the rest of the Aztecs before taking the field to Michael Jackson’s “Thriller”, slowly hopping over the foul line as his teammates sprinted.

It’s hard to say what is most impressive about Strasburg, although his performance was nothing short of dominant. Strasburg made Division 1 hitters look like a high school junior varsity team. He was throwing fastballs in fastball counts and blowing them by the BYU hitters. We are talking 2-0, 3-1 counts. Counts where you are looking dead red.

Strasburg struck out the side in the first inning. He jogged off the mound like he does that all the time; I believe him. He struck out seven of the first nine hitters. His final line was nearly impeccable: 7 innings, 0 runs, 2 hits, 1 walk, 15 strikeouts. He did it like there was nothing to it.

I sat in the first row over the San Diego State dugout, and Strasburg looked like a train from that close. Phil Nevin sat next to me in amazement. What was more telling than anything was the reaction of the crowd and Strasburg’s teammates. Everyone was giddy. His teammates hung over the dugout railing, clinging to his every pitch.

They actually looked like they knew they would never witness anything like this again in their lives.

The crowd cheered and clapped for every two-strike count, begging for the strikeout. The ‘K’ is a drug when Strasburg is on the hill. Scott Boras sat behind the plate drooling over the amount of money he could possibly get his new client come June.

Two of his executives accompanied him with a radar gun and notes. According to Boras’ gun, Strasburg’s fastball sat at 97-99 mph, and topped out at 101.

He lives off of his fastball and slider, which acts more like a curveball. It’s a hammer with sharp, late break, the kind of pitch gives you wide eyes and wobbles upon release. The fastball/slider combo is far too much for any college team to handle.

The hitters were guessing at the plate, although when they guess fastball they had some semblance of a chance to put the bat on the ball, but not much.

Strasburg has a change up which he only showed during the game, mainly because he just doesn’t need it. I got a good look at it when he was warming up in the pen, and it is a solid pitch.

His short stint in the minor leagues will be to develop that pitch for the left-handed hitters in the big leagues. Once he comes along with that, he will be as dominant as they come.

The outing was everything that I came to see, but what the scouts wanted to see happened in the sixth inning. Strasburg struck out the first guy on four pitches, not wasting any time. Then this mammoth left-handed hitter came up to the plate and Strasburg delivered.

Fastball, outside corner. Ball 1. Fastball, outside corner. Ball 2. Fastball, inside corner. Ball 3. Fastball, outside corner. Walk.

Strasburg painted four straight fastballs and the umpire gave him none of them. You could see Strasburg mumble under his breath, a little agitated after being squeezed, before he swiped the ball back.

The next hitter guessed fastball and started his swing before he even got to the plate, and dumped the first pitching into right field, putting runners on the corners with 1 out and San Diego State ahead 2-0.

This is exactly what the scouts came for. They wanted a jam. They wanted to see what Strasburg would do about some adversity. Strasburg backed up third base on the base hit, and once the ball was in the infield, he stopped.

He glared toward home plate, took a deep breath, and let out a grunt that could be heard from the stands. He slowly walked back up the mound as his shoulders scaled back some more with every step.

It was as if Strasburg decided right then and there, that there wouldn’t be any more contact in that inning and nobody was going to score. Of course, Strasburg struck out the next hitter on three straight sliders, before striking out the next hitter on three straight fastballs. No chance.

It was that moment, as he walked off the mound staring back at home plate, with the BYU hitters staring back and the BYU fans staring stunned, that I realized the most impressive thing about Strasburg. He looks like he belongs in the big leagues.

He acts like he belongs in the big leagues. The presence, the swagger, the confidence, put it all together and it is overwhelmingly tantalizing. He has an aura about him that he knows he is the best player on the field, but he doesn’t need to say anything to prove it.

You literally feel something special about watching him move around the field and pitch, and you have no idea why. Until that one moment late in the game when he physically takes himself above the competition and decides that he won’t lose.

For other players it’s luck, but for him it’s merely a decision. A switch. He commands the attention of the ballpark for his entire outing. You can’t stare at him enough. When he is standing on the rubber, you don’t get up to go to the bathroom or get a drink. You have to watch. Life stops for his half of the inning.

He brings an intimidation to the mound that is unparalleled. Nolan Ryan had the same effect. Roger Clemens was terrifying, but he was more animated. Combine Strasburg’s arsenal and his body language, and it is nothing short of creepy. He is stone-faced but confident.

After five innings, my buddy who came to the game with me leaned over and said, “God, I just want to know what he is thinking one time, just one time show me something.” But Strasburg wouldn’t. He is relentless, and that is part of what makes him so great and so chilling to watch.

Up above the right field fence at San Diego State is a huge wall commemorating the SDSU baseball Hall of Fame. At the bottom of that wall is a rail.

That rail acts as Strasburg’s Strikeout Meter; a new ‘K’ is hung on the rail after each batter he fans. While fifteen strikeouts were being put up on the railing, you couldn’t help but glaze over the Hall of Fame. Tony Gwynn. Mark Grace. Bud Black.

To the far right, one panel remains empty. Call it an omen, call it a coincidence, call it whatever you want. But there is something special happening on Friday nights at Tony Gwynn Stadium, something that college baseball may not see again for a very long time.

San Diego is stopping to take part in it, and it would be a shame if we let this career pass on by without getting our fix.

Strasburg will soon be off to bigger things, but his legacy will always remain intact at SDSU. It’s only a matter of time before that Hall of Fame has a new inductee and that lonely panel has its first name.

You can reach Teddy Mitrosilis at tm4000@yahoo.com.