When I was a kid, probably eight or nine years old, I had a boil on my back. I don’t remember much about it, and haven’t thought about it for years until I was ruminating on the West Virginia game this morning.
Yeah, I’d say that thin, pasty-faced Brit nailed it. I’ve pretty much wanted to smash faces with a sledgehammer all week. Do you wear gloves for that sort of thing? I don’t need much reason to hate the Sooners.
I have a hard time mocking Iowa State.
Last Saturday didn’t go very well, did it?
The launch of the U.S.S. Herman and a perfectly beautiful late summer day were marred by a collision with a commercial crabber. You wouldn’t think such a small, lightly-regarded fishing boat could do so much damage to our mighty, vaunted, fear-inducing destroyer, but there we were, halfway through the first quarter, taking on water, dog-paddling to shore, wet, scared, frustrated, exhausted, wondering WTF just happened.
I can’t decide which is worse: my lack of surprise at the Cal-Berkley loss or the fact that getting pantsed by a team that was manhandled the previous week by San Diego State didn’t really bother me all that much.
Comedy and tragedy as two sides of the same coin: tragedy can lead to profound, hard-earned wisdom and joy, and comfort and satisfaction can spoil and destroy us and lead to ruin.
Which leads us to the No. 11 Texas Longhorns. From unranked to number 11? Really? After the first game of the season? After beating an unproven Notre Dame at home in double-overtime?
It was a long, hard, hot summer in the Hill Country. We had almost two-dozen days of triple digit temperatures. The heat and humidity were unrelenting, like trying to breath through a steamy, hot washcloth. Before my daily morning run I’d look for some miniscule, easy-to-miss portent that summer’s death grip might break and fall would eventually arrive – a cool breeze, a smell in the air, anything. All I found was heat and sweat – dripping off my nose, stinging my eyes, baptizing the toes of my Asics.
Last Saturday’s steamroller win over the hated Oklahoma Sooners must have felt amazing for embattled Texas coach Charlie Strong. Having already been measured for his coffin (short nut wide in the shoulders, a.k.a. the “Mr. Incredible” Model), Strong was widely written off in social media and on Longhorn interwebs.
What the Longhorn nation wanted last Saturday was to see a slow, steady improvement from the Cal and Oklahoma State losses. We wanted something linear. What we got was frustration, confusion, finger-pointing, timidity, gross incompetence, a moon-shot punt snap, missed chip shots and a halftime tweet.
One of my middle school coaches way back in the day was named Travis Harkness. Because the distance between the bottom of his nose and the top of his upper lip was unusually large, we called him Chongo, always behind his back, of course.