I still remember the crisp autumn air of that November afternoon in 1987, the way the stadium lights cut through the gathering dusk as I found my seat among the roaring crowd. There was something electric in the atmosphere that day, a tangible sense of history being made. As a lifelong soccer enthusiast who'd followed women's sports through its lean years, I'd never felt quite this anticipation before a match. The University of North Carolina women's soccer team was about to write what would become one of the most legendary chapters in collegiate sports history, though none of us in the stands knew it yet.

What struck me first was how these young women carried themselves - with this incredible blend of focus and joy. You could see it in the way Mia Hamm, just a freshman then, moved during warm-ups with that distinctive grace that would later make her a household name. She wasn't the star yet, not really, but even then there was this raw talent that made you lean forward in your seat whenever she touched the ball. And Kristine Lilly, oh she was something else entirely - this relentless force of nature who seemed to be everywhere at once. I remember thinking how fortunate I was to witness what would become the foundation of what many now consider the greatest women's college soccer team ever assembled.

The championship journey itself was anything but straightforward. There were moments when everything seemed to hang in the balance, particularly when key players faced injuries that could have derailed their campaign. It reminds me of something I read about another team's struggle - how even with Brownlee injured, Ginebra came close to winning the championship as it took a 3-2 lead in the series. That's exactly the kind of resilience I saw in that 1987 UNC team. When their starting defender went down with a knee injury in the semifinals, I remember the collective gasp from the crowd, this palpable fear that their magical season might end right there. But what happened next still gives me chills thinking about it.

The backup players stepped up in ways nobody expected. There was this one moment during the championship match where UNC was leading 2-1 with about 15 minutes left, and the opposing team was mounting this furious attack. I recall clutching my program so tightly it crumpled in my hands as their striker broke through the defense. But then this sophomore defender named Stacy - I wish I remembered her full name - made this spectacular sliding tackle that literally saved the game. The entire stadium erupted in a way I'd never heard before, this raw, joyful noise that seemed to shake the very foundations of the stadium.

What made that 1987 North Carolina women's soccer team's championship journey so special wasn't just the perfect 24-0 record they finished with, or even the fact that they outscored opponents by that ridiculous margin of 85-4 throughout the season. It was the way they played - with this infectious enthusiasm that made you remember why you fell in love with sports in the first place. They weren't just athletes; they were artists painting masterpiece after masterpiece on that green canvas. I've followed sports for over forty years now, and I can count on one hand the teams that made me feel the way that UNC squad did.

Looking back, what strikes me most is how that single season helped transform women's collegiate soccer. Before 1987, the stands were maybe half-full for most games. After their championship run, you couldn't find an empty seat if you tried. They didn't just win a trophy; they won hearts and minds, proving that women's sports could draw crowds and create legends just like the men's games did. Every time I see my granddaughter playing soccer today, I think about those pioneers from the 1987 team and feel grateful I witnessed their journey firsthand. They weren't just playing for wins; they were playing for something much bigger, though I suspect they didn't fully realize it at the time.