FOOTBALL SEASON IS OVER. FOOTBALL SEASON HAS BEGUN.
by Spencer Hall on Sep 2, 2010 2:44 PM EDT
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Hunter S. Thompson wrote "Football Season Is Over" at the top of his suicide note. The end of football season was, for him, a convenient time to check out of life via gunshot. It is not hard to understand why: looking out the window in February, when the whistle has sounded and big men pour into physical rehab or the bars for the winter, is bleak as hell's backyard no matter where you are. Up north there is snow, more snow, and grey cottony skies blocking the sun for months at a time. Down south the trees spit their leaves, and half of the mid-South looks like the back of a porcupine's ass. In Florida, the snow birds pace the sidewalks like bedraggled death-herons lurching from one cafeteria to the next. It may be the most macabre of all scenarios, but you wouldn't believe it until you see it.
You don't believe many things until you see them, because people remain visual learners. For instance, You won't believe that you can lose that game, and there the score sits in indisputable yellow lights on the scoreboard. You won't believe now that in four months you will sit at the window and see it all happen all over again and then find yourself staring at the metaphorical piece of paper reading: Football season is over. Camus stated that all reasonable men consider their own suicide. I'm not saying I think it is a noble decision in his case, or in any others.
If I were going to understand it, though? That first Saturday morning without football would be the day to do that.
My grandfather died in February. He looked like Bill Clinton crossed with Shrek. Personality-wise, he was more of the latter and the former, and in a good way. He liked to cook country ham on a hot plate on his sealed concrete patio. He tended a terraced garden big enough to feed a family and regarded squirrels with a hatred bordering on the pathological. He would take me out in his shed--a mini-house across the creek in the back of the property with wood-burning stove, radio tuned to WSM radio, and a hundred well-oiled tools hanging on the wall--and just sit there occasionally telling me stories while he fed split wood into the belly of the stove.
He was usually sipping on coffee during these chill sessions. Later, after his death, we would find whiskey bottles stashed all over that shed. I did not lick a taste for stimulants mixed with alcohol off the grass.
He was one of the first people I can remember telling me anything definite about football. My grandparents owned a Magnavox. They don't even make these anymore, and by they I mean "Americans who made televisions," a rare breed of people that existed before we collectively acknowledged the universal truths of international existence: that Asians make killer electronics, that Germans make face-ripping cars, and that we do best when just sit back and kind of improv like the brilliant bullshitting nation we are.
It was huge, and made a supernatural humming noise when you turned it on. For a time as a child, i believed televisions in wooden casings made to look like distinguished furniture could only pick up three types of programming: Hee-Haw, Gunsmoke, and Barnaby Jones. My grandfather seemed to live off pork products, black coffee, and those three television shows. He got vitamins from them, and were an important part of his balanced diet.
It shocked me one day when football came on the television and shattered my beliefs about the receiving abilities of wooden-based television arrangements. Vanderbilt was playing Tennessee. I was maybe eight years old at the time. Tennessee scored off a short TD run. My grandfather made a displeased grunt from somewhere in his enormous lantern-sized head, the same one that totters on my neck like a bowling ball taped to a gameday shaker.
"What's wrong, Gran-gran?"
"I'm thinking Tennessee's a little bit more physically equipped than Vanderbilt is." *
*He really did have this Foghorn Leghorn kind of diction. I thought I was making it up for comic effect until I watched an old video of a Christmas at their house and, in receiving a coffee thermos from his daughter, said he first wanted one when "your husband opened it in the car, and things smelled good, so I had to nose around the car and investigate where the smell was coming from." If anything, it was bigger and more exaggerated in real life.
"Are we pulling for Tennessee?"
"No, Spencer. We can't do that."
"Why?"
"We just don't. You can't cheer for Tennessee. We don't do that in Nashville."
"Can I cheer for Vandy."
"You can cheer for Vandy, but you can't pull for ol' Tennessee."
"Got it."
Cancer would eventually kill him, and not in the gradual, graceful soft-focus way movies about people dying young always have cancer doing its work. Cancer moved in, set his lymphatic system on fire, and then set to work on his brain. Toward the end of his life he told lies about his habits, extravagant, uncharacteristic lies about where he'd been, why he'd been saying strange things, or even where he got the Totes hat we'd given him for Christmas a month earlier. ("I got it from my friend the Jamaican sea captain!")
When he was buried, on a day in February when the rolling scroll of hills around Nashville did look like the back of an elderly hedgehog, I thought about relatively few things. I remembered that my cousin farted, and farted quite loudly on the stairs at the funeral home. The stairs acted as an amplifier, a kind of woofer for the frequency booming out his flatulence through the entire visitation. It remains one of the most spectacular bits of farting greatness I have ever seen.
I also remember thinking about what I learned from him. He sucked the marrow from chicken bones, because anything less than total consumption of the whole bird was wasteful. He laughed at himself in all situations even when he ripped his driver's side door off backing down the driveway. He wore two pairs of pants in retirement and kept one special for holidays. And he did not, for any reason, ever root for the University of Tennessee, even dead and being lowered into the ground wearing a strange suit I had never seen before.
My son was born in February. The timing was intentional, and not just for football. Pregnant women, being literal ovens of human bakery, hum along at an even 300 degrees Fahrenheit, and my wife thought better of attempting to carry a human pizza oven through the heat of an Atlanta summer. Instead, he came in the month without football when the weather was cold enough that, on good nights, she needed a single sheet over her to stay warm while I froze under three blankets. She didn't need to have a baby in summer: she carried the season with her in bold disregard for the calendar's conventions.
She reclined on the bed and slept for a while. In terms of labor, we got off easy: a late induction, eight hours of pure, hellacious suck, and then the epidural that landed her sleeping on the bed during the break. If you've been in a hospital overnight, you know it floats in its own plane of existence. No one walks the halls. The sound of intermittent moaning and murmuring nurses break the slience. Sleep deprivation makes the sound of the ice machine spitting fresh cubes into the bin seem like a crashing omen of bad, uncontrollable things. In the room, machines beep and whirr in rhythm.
On the street outside in downtown Atlanta, I watch one guy in two hours walk down the sidewalk, a tall, wispy man dragging a ragged piece of rolling, wobbling luggage so pitiful a more loving owner would have shot it. The wife slept on. Sitting on the couch I felt like Michael Collins in the Apollo 11 command module, staring out the window at a howling nothing and time that wouldn't move fast enough for me, death, or birth. In the middle of the night in a hospital everyone's alone no matter how many people are there.
In the morning, there was one more person in the room than there was the night before. If you drive out west for long distances, you will not see a sign for a destination until it is at least theoretically within a long day's drive, which out west can be a mind-boggling distance. When you finally see it, a veil of certainty creeps in: this is where you are going, this is where you have been, and you are progressing to this place, slowly perhaps and across long distances, but towards that place nonetheless.
Seeing your child born is the best moment in your life, but it's also a sign indicating mileage and distance. We're moving on here, and the end of this road is [X miles] ahead. You don't see the number, but you know it's there, and that without exits, stops, or pee breaks, you are running headlong toward it without stops. It doesn't change anything, but technically neither does the warning light on the gas gauge coming on in your car. Things might be the same, but you are decidedly not.
It was cold when we took him home for the first time. The wind whipped right around the side of Crawford Long Hospital. It cut right through me like it never had before.
Months later, it still does. If you're born without an emotion chip, this part can be installed at a later date. if you choose not to order this part, it will be forcibly installed upon the birth of your first child. Systems calibration will not be offered, and is not available anywhere. Systems may overload unexpectedly and without warning. No recalls will be made, and no improvements made on this faulty part. No apologies, The Management.
Other parents will tell you it "makes you realize what's important." This is partially true, if only in the sense that it makes you realize everything is important. I have gone from being a casual guest at the restaurant of life to a part owner, and it all terrifies and obsesses me. The lack of salt in the shakers before the lunch rush concerns me in a way it never did before. The empty tables on a Friday night fill me with dread. The pleasure of a well-organized kitchen working in perfect sync delights me like it never could before, and so does its collapse into complete anarchy. I no longer leave the plates on the table and assume someone else will bus them away, and I will not walk into a restaurant ten minutes before closing time and order food, because the person behind the grill is me. (And this is a dick move, and the last person I want to be a dick to is me.)
It is in part because you have something depending on you, but also because this space and time just became more finite and precious. It is the first bite of fall in the air of an endless summer, the hint that you have crossed into something else, something with falling leaves, a chill in the air, and a gradual shortening of the literal and metaphorical days.
Camus makes a guest appearance here again:
In the depth of winter I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer.
Summer's never been my favorite season. Fall, however, is. I don't have a clue what will happen with John Brantley, or the Florida defense, or to Alabama, or Georgia, or Michigan, or USC, or Western Kentucky, or any other team. There are depth charts, and rosters, and points spreads and buses and planes headed to various points to play on various fields. Everything but those is filling the space between diversions staged to liven up the otherwise dull expanse of a working week.
I do know, however, that like everything else this experience, this randomness we do each fall means so much more to me now than it did before. It is not enough to admit that your seriousness becomes that much more serious when you reproduce. Your arbitrary passions, your silliness, your distractions become that much more intense now, if only because you understand how limited a resource they are. The whistle blows. The conferences order themselves. Then you will face the winter again, holding the note and understanding the urge to write those words on a sheet of paper: "Football season is over."
The experience, though, is now more than enough. The wind may cut through me now. It's an indicator that I'm alive, completely and fully alive in the indefinite span between arrivals and departures. This all matters so much more now, all of it, football and every other absurd fixation, the time, the space, the diversion, and most of all who you share it with, because it is finite, borrowed, and ultimately reclaimed. Its scarcity is its value; its pleasure is in its ultimate end. Its consolation is its rebirth and continuation.
In the depth of winter I finally learned there was in me an eternal September. This definite, very real September I'm writing in, however, is the only place and time I want or need. Football season is over; football season has begun. The rest is life, and it can and will wait until February, the question that always answers itself by becoming March, and then April, and then back to September again, where we do not root for Tennessee, because that is simply not done here.
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:: Applause ::
Great work as usual, Orson.
"You can't be afraid to play somebody because they've got 3 really good players. How are you going to win if you're afraid to play? We're not going to be afraid to play - we're going to fight, we're going to attack, we're going to throw it out there and see what happens." - Carlos Boozer
Rec'd for prosaic awesomeness.
While we’re sharing stories, here’s an interesting one about football imitating life, or vice versa, depending on how you look at it:
Grandma ACS was awesome. She grew up dirt-poor in rural Missouri in the Great Depression, smoked like a factory, and was a fiend at poker. She also gave the best Christmas presents ever. The woman could barely work a TV, but when I was 8 years old, she gave me a GameBoy and three games she selected at random. They happened to be Zelda, Mario, and Tetris. That’s grandma magic at work right there.
Grandma ACS died the morning of October 15, 2005, which you may know was also the day of the classic Notre Dame-USC game. I was at the game, so I didn’t find out until the following morning, but damn, did it feel like the universe was out for me that day.
In a lot of ways, it’s been all downhill for Notre Dame football since that day almost five years ago. Until this offseason, that is. I, for one, am ready to dust myself off, crack a beer, and try this shit again. From the top, please.
Brian Kelly says no commercial interruption.
by Ancient Chinese Secret on Sep 2, 2010 2:59 PM EDT reply actions 23 recs
I used to love listening to my Great Grandma tell stories
Of being the youngest in a family of 12. She would tell of the time she glued thumbtacks [business end up] to the outhouse seat and hide the lantern, because her dad didn’t take her to the Wisconsin-Minnesota game, even though she was way more of a fan than her brothers ever were.
Or of the time the KKK burned crosses on her and Great Grandpa’s farm they got as a wedding present, demanding the “Cat-Licks” go back from where they came from. And how later that year the Notre Dame Student Body stood up to the KKK [immortalized in this book] and that day forward she decided that someone in our family would be Domer. She died one week into my freshman year.
On her last day, she was complaining of thirst and was offered some water. She said, “I’d rather have a beer.” The nurse advised against it and was given the most intimidating look ever offered by a 90lb woman in a hospital gown. My brother promptly went to the bar across the street bought a bottle of Old Style [her favorite]
Damn I miss her
A Notre Dame Grad, born and raised in Wisconsin... life put me in the express lane to alcoholism.
by stempke on Sep 2, 2010 3:37 PM EDT up reply actions 5 recs
link fail
A Notre Dame Grad, born and raised in Wisconsin... life put me in the express lane to alcoholism.
My Irish Catholic Grandmother
moved to Florida from Brooklyn, NY, to the middle of nowhere in the Ocala National Forest in 1939. She was the youngest of 8 children, a graduate of Cornel, and married to a University of Florida alum. She died last month at age 97. Some of my earliest childhood memories include her telling me: “We don’t cheer for Notre Dame. No one on that team is Irish or Catholic”
Valid or not, for this reason I do not cheer for Notre Dame. Instead I was galvanized into a Gator fan as Herschel Walker put 44 on us in Jacksonville while my Grandfather threw things at the snowy TV.
Them that don't know him won't like him and them that do sometimes won't know how to take him. He ain't wrong, he's just different but his pride won't let him do the things that make you think he's right - Ed Bruce
by Steve from Umatilla on Sep 2, 2010 3:57 PM EDT up reply actions
My own grandmother...
…also did not live to see my graduate from Auburn University. She passed, sadly, 4 days after my last class, which was 2 days after my 23rd birthday. If it wasn’t for a ridiculous course that I had spent the 5 semesters trying to get in only to be told halfway through the semester it was no longer going to be a required course, I would have walked in May. My Grandmother, in her cancer stricken form, would have driven down from Hoover to watch her first grandson be a third generation alum from Auburn. Instead, she was buried in Alexander City on one of the saddest 4th of July weekends.
I have a lot of mixed feelings towards the University and what they denied me and my family but come Saturday, a lot of that emotion disappears. All I can hope for is the best and I can’t think of any harm in that…
I swear to Pat Dye's pants I will make Trudy Campbell my wife!
by Oscar Whiskey on Sep 2, 2010 4:56 PM EDT up reply actions
My Grampaw old south lawya, former politician
Yella dog democrat, lifelong drunk and womanizer and one of the funniest and nicest folks to those who were on his side. U of Alabama undergrad and bama law school. Pure Bama fan with a natural hatred of Auburn. Always kept a Cadillac but drove a red and white F150. You’ve met the type.
It broke his heart when I left Alabama (where law school was still a long shot) to go to Auburn to pursue and engineering degree and a way of life that better suited my college years. He still fully supported the change and attended my graduation. The week before the Iron Bowl every year was filled with shit talking between us before the game and one of us answering the call of shame immediately after the game. It was wonderful – some years.
He died in 03 the day GT beat Auburn and OU beat Alabama in Shula’s first loss. It was a sad day for all on all accounts. I got the news and drank an unknown amount of tequila in his honor since I didn’t have any Jim Beam. During the Shula years I had a lot of sympathy for bama – I assume because of nostalgia. I’m so glad that’s worn off.
Nick Saban is my BFF
by cowcollege on Sep 3, 2010 10:21 AM EDT up reply actions 1 recs
The rare opportunities to peek behind the curtain are never disappointing.
Everyone fails. The successful learn from their failures. I just wish we'd quit giving ourselves so many learning opportunities.
by WhiteSpeedReceiver on Sep 2, 2010 3:04 PM EDT reply actions 4 recs
Crawford Long? Georgia grad.
"Be worthy as you run upon this hallowed sod, for you have dared to tread where champions have trod."
Nice
Real nice. And we don’t root for Tennessee ’round here, neither.
A Hoops Fan Lost in the Wilderness Since 1995.
Maybe not teared up over here
But definitely touched.
Of course my tearing glands are a little overloaded currently from reading a bit too much about Brock Mealer in the past few days.
No, you're not.
My maternal grandfather was my first sports authority (and he tuaght me to love oysters). He died from acute leukemia over the course of 38 days one dark and cold West Virginia winter. And it was right at the end of football season.
"I like the taste of danger most of all." - Jonatha Brooke
I don't know if there's anywhere in West Virginia
that looks good in winter. When the leaves fall and all you have is the gray hills and mountains and piles of mine tailings and bleak, tall concrete silos (talking coal country here) — well, it’s no wonder we all left for Myrtle Beach.
Stop dying, you cowards! -- Zapp Branigan
by An 'eer with a beer on Sep 2, 2010 6:58 PM EDT up reply actions
Nope, you're not the only one.
It all makes sense now, how in the first football season after my son and daughter joined the family (adoption) that Bama would win the title and I woudn’t go apeshit crazy. Kids do that to you.
Damn fine writing Spencer.
I'm with Turd
So to speak.
Things might be the same, but you are decidedly not.
Until our defense proves otherwise, it should be presumed they will be excellent.
It seems quite a few shared the sentiment, and with good reason. Beautiful writing, and – as one who has also lost a grandparent in the recent past – especially touching.
Although Grandma was more of a D-III football fan – both my parents graduated from Mount Union in Alliance, Ohio – I’ll still be cracking that first beer for her when Wake and Presbyterian kick off this evening.
absolutely...
broke down, my Grandma is facing cancer now and we connect through Florida and Notre Dame football. This one may have hurt a little but left a great impact and has me ready for maybe the biggest & most important football season of my life…maybe the last with Grandma
as usual Thank you Spencer
Well said.
I got a little misty, myself. A very happy college football season to all of you (even Mizzou). May every month be September, and may every day be Saturday. I truly and deeply love this game and this site. Innumerable cocktails to you all. Go Big Red.
"I learned long ago, never to wrestle with a pig. You get dirty, and besides, the pig likes it."-George Bernard Shaw
To those here to see it, and those who aren't:
Happy holidays.
"Don’t want to spend my night waiting in line unless it’s for more beer."
--EssBee, on LoneStarBall, Jan. 21, 2010
by ghtd36 on Sep 2, 2010 3:10 PM EDT reply actions 1 recs
Happy Holidays, indeed
“Advent is concerned with that very connection between memory and hope which is so necessary to man. Advent’s intention is to awaken the most profound and basic emotional memory within us…”
The season is here. Let us rejoice and be glad in it.
I brought the noise, but I think I left the funk on the counter next to the toaster...
Back in the pre-Gorbachev era, my great aunt (a survivor of the Depression, world wars and McCarthyism) was asked who she would cheer for in a Soviet Union v. University of Texas matchup. Her reply, “I’d take the Reds.” And that is why we celebrate college football – its evokes a passion rarely found in daily life.
by Wes Tex on Sep 2, 2010 3:18 PM EDT reply actions 3 recs
She "survived" McCarthyism?
Was she blacklisted?
Stop dying, you cowards! -- Zapp Branigan
by An 'eer with a beer on Sep 2, 2010 7:00 PM EDT up reply actions
Not to worry
it was from Hop Sing’s.
by ESS EEE SEE Speed on Sep 2, 2010 7:14 PM EDT up reply actions
Single Tear...
I felt like I was reading the musings of a Ken Burns about cfb.
by Terry Bowden's Shoe Lifts on Sep 2, 2010 3:20 PM EDT reply actions
damn you for playing the Ashokan Farewell
as now I’m trying to stop this absurd eye leakage…
I swear to Pat Dye's pants I will make Trudy Campbell my wife!
by Oscar Whiskey on Sep 2, 2010 5:07 PM EDT up reply actions
Nomination
Can we try to remember to put Doc up for a mustache Wednesday? That thing is cowboy-riffic.
by Eric Angevine on Sep 2, 2010 5:13 PM EDT up reply actions
Ken Burns
would have been endlessly panning across black and white photos of Red Grange.
by Eric Angevine on Sep 2, 2010 5:09 PM EDT up reply actions
Nicely done, sir!
Later this fall, I’ll dust off “Why I Hate Ohio University” for the tenth time. It doesn’t hurt any less now, and it gets a little dusty around here when I think of all the new memories the Old Bobcat isn’t here to share with the Devil Children (though I’m damned glad he isn’t turning them in to Bobkitten fans). But those of us from the less communicative half of the species use sports as metaphor, as shared experience, and ultimately as triggers for memory. I can’t watch a game without thinking how the Old Bobcat would have reacted to some play — or some stupid thing Musberger just said. And it makes me happy.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get ready to see my team condemned as human sacrifices at the Swamp on Saturday.
Also...
I really do see Abe Lincoln on a personal watercraft in that photo above.
by Terry Bowden's Shoe Lifts on Sep 2, 2010 3:22 PM EDT reply actions
One of my earliest memories
is going to my grandparents’ farm early one Saturday morning, to be dropped off for the day while my folks went down to Lincoln for the game. Of course, Grandma had it on the radio while she prepared our chicken (meaning the chicken pecking corn that morning was resting comfortably in my gullet after supper). I remember the names crackling over the radio: Jarvis Redwine, Jeff Quinn, Coach Osborne. I remember thinking, “my mom and dad are THERE right now.” And that was the first time I fell in love with college football.
I was nine in 1984 when Osborne going for two and missing out sent me to bed in tears. I watched Sooner Magic crush our dreams every Thanksgiving in the late ’80s. I saw my first Husker game in 1986, the first night game at Memorial Stadium, when Nebraska beat up the Seminoles and we got soaked in a late August rain. I did all of this with my family. When I was in Miami with the marching band to see Osborne finally get his national championship, it was my folks I called first from a pay phone in the airport.
My daughters are three and two, and they know when to shout “Go, Huskers!” with the band. In the interest of family unity, they also know how the Oregon Quacks go as well. When Nebraska plays Iowa State for the last time this November, I’ll be there with my parents and one of my two brothers.
This is all to say that, at its best, football can be a family thing. It’s obvious that you get that, Spencer – and I wish you, your beloved and Magnus all the best this season. Thanks for all the great work you folks do here.
"...when the devil says to you: do not drink, answer him: I will drink, and right freely, just because you tell me not to."
— Martin Luther
#2NU v. #3UCLA, 1987
I was 6 years old and my grandfather asks me, “Whose going to win?” I didn’t know how to respond so I reply, “UCLA!” he says “Oh no, those Cornhuskers are too big and strong for them California boys.” So I cheered Steve Taylor on as he threw 5 TD passes. All throughout the game grandpa told me that Big 8 football players were tougher and stronger than California football players.
We lived in Southern Missouri and I realized that November my Oklahoma-born and raised grandpa was a Sooners fan but I have had a special place in my heart for the Huskers ever since. I will never forget that Saturday afternoon in front of his television. He died in December of ’91.
As a new parent and a restaurant owner... I couldn't have said it better myself
The lack of salt in the shakers before the lunch rush concerns me in a way it never did before. The empty tables on a Friday night fill me with dread. The pleasure of a well-organized kitchen working in perfect sync delights me like it never could before, and so does its collapse into complete anarchy. I no longer leave the plates on the table and assume someone else will bus them away, and I will not walk into a restaurant ten minutes before closing time and order food, because the person behind the grill is me. (And this is a dick move, and the last person I want to be a dick to is me.)
You forgot two things. 1) I no longer get upset at the wait when I don’t make a reservation. Kids are impatient, if I’m bringing mine or my nieces and nephews, I call ahead, even if they don’t take reservations. The last thing a stressed out host/hostess needs is my kid ruining everyone else’s good time. and 2) It is unacceptable to treat your waitress with anything but the respect and dignity that my daughter deserves, because dammit my daughter will most likely be your waitress one day and you’re just as likely to get a foot up your ass and a place on the do not serve list as you are to get a free meal, if you think bringing a teenage girl to tears is a good idea.
/rant over
//this shit happens way too much
A Notre Dame Grad, born and raised in Wisconsin... life put me in the express lane to alcoholism.
by stempke on Sep 2, 2010 3:23 PM EDT reply actions 3 recs
This. All of it.
This is why I still cheer for the team that my daddy and his daddy were passionate about. Happy September, my friends. Even LSU and Bama fans.
Well...
I can see what you’re saying about the season’s heat and a gal’s pregnancy, but y’know… carrying a kid through the summer can be a gift to the child. On years where the calendar and the conferences agree, college football’s opening kickoff can be his birthday present.
For example? This year, today. Happy Birthday to me. Football season is here.
Think about this, though:
Instead of being depressed at the end of football season, the kid will at least have his birthday party to look forward to.
by Eric Angevine on Sep 2, 2010 5:26 PM EDT up reply actions 1 recs
I cried when I saw "Rudy"
The scene when his family goes to see him play in South Bend. When his dad comes through the tunnel to see the field.
I also cried when the Saints came home to the Superdome on MNF vs the Falcons.
Who should I hand my mancard over to?
by Trouble's A Bruin on Sep 2, 2010 4:07 PM EDT up reply actions
I had to find random shit on the internets to keep me from tearing up in Torts
“Why are you crying?”
“College football, professor”.
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a zombie in possession of brains must be in want of more brains
by Chekhov's Spread Gun Option on Sep 2, 2010 3:28 PM EDT reply actions 1 recs
The Eggshell Skull Doctrine makes me cry.
"Be worthy as you run upon this hallowed sod, for you have dared to tread where champions have trod."
by Silver Britches on Sep 2, 2010 3:37 PM EDT up reply actions 2 recs
Just tell the professor
. . . that you’re having a delayed reaction to the Carbolic Smoke Ball.
by DevilGrad on Sep 2, 2010 3:56 PM EDT up reply actions 3 recs
Then you take Bar Review and realize how simple it is in practice.
"Got a bill that's big enough to twist the Tiger's tail. Husked some corn and made those SORRY HUSKERS BAIL!"
by KennyGregoryRockThaCradle on Sep 2, 2010 4:33 PM EDT up reply actions 1 recs
There are way too many lawyers/law students reading this blog!
/goes back to reading for my next class
by CanWeBeMature on Sep 3, 2010 12:38 PM EDT up reply actions
I cried tears of joy
When I discovered that all 33 of my footnotes for my source & cite were id.s
The new year approaching, click in. Let’s facelift bar! Open the wardrobe is not yet found love after another the right clothes? So, also waiting for? Immediate action bar!
Awesome
Great how football memories can also be family memories. One of my first memories in life was watching Emmitt Smith in the Swamp with my Dad. I think i’ll go call him.
Go Gata - Congresswoman Corrine Brown on the floor of the U.S. House of Representatives.
by Miami Wade County Gator on Sep 2, 2010 3:28 PM EDT reply actions
You made me dust off my old login. I hate logging into sites, but I had to.
Our second daughter was born in July. Our first was born two years ago, also in July. Saturday, she will eat apple pancakes for breakfast, ribs for lunch and drink Coke all day long. She has her Alabama dress, I have my houndstooth hat, and we are going to watch together. She already knows what football is.
I’m from Kentucky, sixty miles north of Knoxville. I’ve hated Tennessee since I first learned what “orange” was. Before he died, Dad said “You just can’t beat those sumbitched Vols sometimes, they get too damned lucky”. Of course, we were Kentucky, we couldn’t beat anybody most of the time. But I went onto UA for grad school, and I remember the day I told Dad I was heading to Tuscaloosa.
“Let me tell you about a coach we run off that eventually made his way back home to Alabama.” And I learned about Bear Bryant, and the Crimson Tide. Luckily, I could still hate Tennessee.
This weekend, there will be another football fan in the house. I won’t be able to cuss, but I’ll be able to sing, and cheer, and eat too much. I think I’m much better off for it.
So, thank you for saying what I couldn’t put into words. Football season has begun.
"They had it before you, they had it during you, they'll have it when you're gone." - Al McGuire
by ShreveportCatFan on Sep 2, 2010 3:28 PM EDT reply actions
Also, damn it all if, living in Shreveport, I have to put up with Cowboys, Tigers AND Saints fans.
I can live with LSU fans, though.
"They had it before you, they had it during you, they'll have it when you're gone." - Al McGuire
by ShreveportCatFan on Sep 2, 2010 3:31 PM EDT up reply actions
Your background is eerily similar to mine
And my dad said that same damn line about Tennessee.
We’ll get ’em this year.
We will.
The new year approaching, click in. Let’s facelift bar! Open the wardrobe is not yet found love after another the right clothes? So, also waiting for? Immediate action bar!
Beautiful.
@GochFaceKiller on Twitter
by Screwface on Sep 2, 2010 3:30 PM EDT via mobile reply actions
Great Piece
But if you really want to experience the dawning realization of “finite,” just wait until little Magnus Warhammer is safely packed away in Gainesville and you’re staring down 5-0 like a shotgun loaded w/ double-aught! Not for the weak-hearted.
My uncle dropped my little cousin (his first) off at Auburn two weeks ago and he’s still not over it. Never seen him like it. I mean, I have no idea myself, but this seems right.
by Cleveland Frowns on Sep 2, 2010 3:38 PM EDT up reply actions
JESUS DUDE
EDSBS is the gold standard. It’s the only CFB site I visit daily (if not hourly – the last few weeks).
To quote the greatest entertainer on earth, DLR of course, “bottoms up!”
Go Bucks!
I still see Jerry Moore falling down
And Randy Peschel catching that damned 4th down pass that saved Texas in Fayetteville, watching the Hogs lose the national championship that was theirs, and remembering that when Mom saw Nixon show up to give the trophy to Texas, telling me to turn that damn thing off.
Then, for the first time ever, a month later, the Hogs made me cry when they lost to Ole Miss in the Sugar Bowl, and I’ve hated the Rebels ever since.
I think I’m ready for the season to start.
Finally registered
Just to say mad ups.
There’s a certain familiarity that comes around this time of year; one that puts us all a little closer to friends and re-kindles things a little. We no longer have that sad feeling that we’re missing something, and instead have the wide-eyed and hopeful feelings that got us all here in the first place.
Beautifully done, Orson.
Great piece! Reminds me of watching Hawkeye games with my Grandpa and uncles.
I can’t believe today is finally here.
Oscar worthy? Emmy maybe? Pulitzer at least
Truly an awesome post Orson. This football season will also be the first with my kid (a son) and I can’t wait to teach him some of the things that he needs to know.
To football. To life.
Here, here.
(Raises imaginary frozen mug of Yuengling)
"I learned long ago, never to wrestle with a pig. You get dirty, and besides, the pig likes it."-George Bernard Shaw
Amazing.
Dr. Ausgiano schools me in the classroom and on the field of battle
by MarioVanPeebles Republic of China on Sep 2, 2010 3:50 PM EDT reply actions
As always, beautiful, Orson.
I think what makes me so excited about this time of year is the collective excitement and joy, no matter how good or bad your team may be. If you are a fan, you will always have fellow fans (of your team or others) to enjoy the games with.
I only played in high school, but my best memory of the game was how it brought together, as cliche as this sounds, a group of guys who otherwise would not have ever associated with each other. And I remember loving those guys like they were my own kin. I also remember bawling in parking lots after crushing losses and final games for seniors. I remember that for every joy there was pain and vice versa. Yeah, this sport is a great analog to life.
And that’s why it is the greatest sport in the land. Because every fan can agree that the sport is genuinely moving.
by That 5.0 Guy on Sep 2, 2010 3:52 PM EDT via mobile reply actions
My grandpa
He wasn’t a college boy, he was a railroad man through and through. We recently took him to the Kinzua bridge and his 90 year old face lit up. His daughter, my mom, attended PSU with my father, and I’ll be damned if I don’t discuss PSU football with him every time I see him. I have no idea how he sees the television, but he’ll be perfectly content to ask me about this player or that player for as long as I want to.
College Football is the best because it means so many different things to so many people.
Excellent work Spencer.
WE ARE!
"I'm colonel cool! And I'm the captain on this rocket to the stars!"
nick saban
does not have time for this shit.
He does however,
have time for Jenga.
"I'm colonel cool! And I'm the captain on this rocket to the stars!"
by psuphiman80 on Sep 2, 2010 3:54 PM EDT up reply actions 1 recs
Fantastic
Every year, over and over, I wish I were going to a Mizzou game with my grandfather. He bought our first set of season tickets in 1946 and, starting in the late 1960s, sat in the very seats that we have today. Unfortunately, he died six months after I was born. I’ve never forgiven Kansas for the fact that the last game he saw was a loss.
Beautifull....
Thanks for what you do Spencer/Orson—all us losers out here count on you to get us to September.
You were brought up by your grandfather to hate UT
I always heard mine say “Son, I don’t pull for anyone west of Texas or north of Virginia, unless they play Georgia Tech”
As for today, Happy Football to you all, even Bama fans. Tomorrow, I wish most of you nothing but ill-will :)
by A Bullet from Burger on Sep 2, 2010 3:55 PM EDT reply actions
@ sjs
The “Big Shootout” was my defining moment as well. I’ll never forget sitting on the living room floor crying my eyes out at the end of that game. Ten years old and what had been a pleasant diversion became a lifelong obsession. I fell in love with college football, all of the pageantry, pain and unbelieveable pleasure. Orson’s piece made me think about my own daughter, and how during her senior year in high school we went to our first Razorback game together. Not just any old game, but the “Miracle on Markham” against LSU in 2002. Man it’s dusty up in here…….
“God help me, I do love it so. I love it more than life itself”
by D-Macs LoveChile on Sep 2, 2010 3:56 PM EDT reply actions
Fantastic
Not sure how football gets to be so ingrained. Looking back, I remember watching Clemson – UNC during the 1981 season. The score was 10-8. The television was black and white, maybe all of a 12" screen. I was eleven. Parents divorced so no dad there watching the game. How / why does an 11 year old watch a game like that? Getting older, I remember listening to games on the radio before/during September dove hunts and then at college, of course, traveling to games or sitting around with an apartment full of guys cramped around multiple TVs. Somehow, now near 40, this is the time I look forward to the most and now even more so than earlier than life.
Cheers on a very well written piece.
Happy football season to all, except you little brother (Sakerlina)
by tommybowden.can.suck.it on Sep 2, 2010 3:59 PM EDT reply actions
Slow clap
Well, well done, sir. This is golden, salty greatness.
by Infield Elephant on Sep 2, 2010 4:02 PM EDT reply actions
Great, now I'll have "Live" in my head during the games tonight
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xsJ4O-nSveg&ob=av3e
I know I’m new to this party but a fine piece of writing,Orson
by Trouble's A Bruin on Sep 2, 2010 4:04 PM EDT reply actions
There are worse songs that could be stuck there.
"I like the taste of danger most of all." - Jonatha Brooke
WVU fan I presume
Is the haystack empty today?
http://www.everydayshouldbesaturday.com/2007/06/05/edsbs-hof-comments-w-fn-va/
He joined SBN just to leave the same comment on two separate posts.
Flattering, really.
Because college football is too important to be left to the professionals.
i thought it spoke to your piece rather well....
in both instances. Transcendence and intertwinement and all that. Ya know, “your piece of shit school of choice blows, but i respect that you understand tennesee does too.” And I joined to leave that comment as I deem desirable until I am banned. Your sentimentality is stirred in the same pot as my hatred.
by No Legs Larry on Sep 2, 2010 4:18 PM EDT up reply actions
I used to be a radio guy
And the first letter I got when I started my first job after college was a hastily-typed screed about my programming choices that used all-caps CRAP seven times. I enjoyed it immensely, and may still have it.
See, ever before the internet was invented, you could get the all-caps troll hate. It just took longer to arrive in your mailbox.
by Eric Angevine on Sep 2, 2010 5:38 PM EDT up reply actions
DevilGrad: I'm lost, why would you preume that?
"I like the taste of danger most of all." - Jonatha Brooke
No idea about the haystack being empty...
But I’m sure the barnyard must be. All the four legged animals must have run when they say No Legs coming.
He's a snake in the grass,
I tell ya guys. He may look dumb, but that’s just a disguise.
Them that don't know him won't like him and them that do sometimes won't know how to take him. He ain't wrong, he's just different but his pride won't let him do the things that make you think he's right - Ed Bruce
by Steve from Umatilla on Sep 2, 2010 4:38 PM EDT up reply actions
He’s a mastermind in the ways of espionage.
Stop dying, you cowards! -- Zapp Branigan
by An 'eer with a beer on Sep 2, 2010 7:07 PM EDT up reply actions
yeah i didnt get it at first
but now i’m insulted.
by No Legs Larry on Sep 2, 2010 4:26 PM EDT up reply actions
Dammit, Uncle Larry,
who rolled you over to the computer and gave you the password?
"...when the devil says to you: do not drink, answer him: I will drink, and right freely, just because you tell me not to."
— Martin Luther
Mandatory Reading
I can’t offer any higher praise than to say I’ve shared this on every form of social/collaborative media to which I subscribe.
leaving work early to get right with the world.
thanks Orson and all for getting me through another off season. RTR.
Beautifully done...
This is the way that I wish I could write. I absolutely do not have the talent for it, and it saddens me that the ways in which I can create something in this style cannot be easily shared with the world.
+100 cocktails to you Orson, and +10 to all of my EDSBS friends, for we are at the start of another glorious football season, and there’s nothing quite like it.
"I think so, Brain, but how are we going to get the bacon flavoring into the pencils?"
I hope you do this for a living
I too will share this far and wide. What a great piece of writing. And to cite Camus so many times is simply genius.
The greatest accomplishment is not in never falling, but in rising again after you fall.
Vince Lombardi
My personal blog:
Very nice...
See you do understand why the Game being played in late November is so important.
It was that way for my Dad. It was that way for his Dad. It’s that way for me.
And it will be that for my son.
It doesn’t matter how many football games the SEC wins. We will always look down on you.
Great stuff...
Enough material for a good short story I’m sure. September is something to look forward to (football) and at the same time something to get through (Hurricanes). God bless us with no hurricanes coming to La. anytime soon—or any where else. 08 sucked without power for the first two weeks of football season—some guys from Ohio got our power working as the remnants of Gustav rolled through Ohio with 70 mph winds probably knocking out their power. Everything was so fucked up I did not even know the scores and I said, “Go Buckeyes” and one of the guys looked at me sadly and said, “yes except we just got pasted by SC.” God bless those guys wherever they are. It looks like we will at least make it to the first weekend without anything coming this way and again God bless anyone who has to deal with any—NOAA site does look scary from time to time http://www.nhc.noaa.gov/, so I’m going to watch and enjoy as much football as possible as I drink and eat a lot. Geaux Tigers!!!!!!!!!!
Spencer
you talk write purtier than a $20 whore.
I have so many memories of my own and all of them surrounding going to, listening or watching Ohio State are vivid in my mind going all the way back to 1961. You stirred a lot of them up. We all owe you a debt of gratitude. You make it awful hard to hate the Gators.
My Grandma ...
was the biggest sports fan in the family, Chicago Bulls and Cubs mostly. We knew to call her before or after a game because we knew she’d be home and by the phone. It went on that way for years.
She’s been gone almost 10 years. Even so, whenever someone calls me when a game is on I half expect it to be her.
Excuse me for my bellicosity. And spelling. Bellicosity and spelling.
by Blackheartnopants on Sep 2, 2010 4:36 PM EDT reply actions
Physics Lab at 6:00
But damn if it isn’t time to sit on the couch and drink. I’m sure the TA will understand. Cheers!
I have a feeling...
…that grandfathers are a key part of all our football type memories and affiliations. In my case, my grandfather went to UF, left without his degree to go train pilots for WW2, and never made it back. He remained a life long Florida fan though, and was dismayed when, late in life, he seemed to be the only one in the family that was. My father, having grown up a Florida fan, had left the fandom in disgust when Doug Dickey became the coach and become a Miami fan. My aunt went to FSU, so all of her side of the family, my grandmother, my oldest cousin, and even my mother (who didn’t become a college football fan till after spent a lot of time around my grandmother) all became FSU fan. By the time my cousin and I came along in ’81 he was fed up with standing alone and wasted no time in making sure instil in us not only a deep and abiding love for football, but also an equally deep love of Florida.
You can image how much fun some of my Saturdays were growing up, my little sister and I both Florida fans, my dad a Miami fan and my mom a FSU fan.
My grandfather died 7 years ago, having lived long enough to see my sister also become a die hard Florida fan and both my dad and my mom abandon their “heretical ways” to become Florida fans, something that amused him to absolutely no end.
That picture is an exclamation point of pure joy.
Well written, sir.
My grandfather died when I was in sixth grade, around 1996. A few years before he died, he came with grandma down to Florida for vacation. Before they left, my dad made each of them record a quick message into the microphone on the computer, one sentence that we could save as a little legacy. For grandma it was “Love my grandsons!” Grandpa: “We are. ND. Gooooo Irish!”
Fantastic
This and the post a couple (few?) years ago just before the national championship achieve the impossible and somehow rise above even the usual standard of awesome over here.
Thank you for that, although it makes me a bit jealous, not having an older family member who drummed all of this into me or kids vulnerable to my own drumming. I’ll keep pounding away, though.
by Joel Hollingsworth on Sep 2, 2010 4:54 PM EDT reply actions
Wow.
One of the first phrases I learned growing up was, “God Damn Hawkeyes.” I had no idea what it meant at the time—only that my father (an Iowa alumn) yelled it at the television on the weekends. As I grew older and learned about football, I came to fully appreciate the phrase. Like during the Ronnie Harmon Rose Bowl. Or being in the Pasadena stands for the ‘91 debacle. Or watching an absolute Dream Season be wiped off the map by the birth of the USC juggernaut in the Orange Bowl. After each setback, the phrase has taken on more significance- “God Damn Hawkeyes” wasn’t just an angry epithet; it was the expression of layers of pain caused by a program that mostly seems to come up just a little bit short more often than not.
Like so many others, Dad is battling cancer these days. He’s somewhat stoic, and Iowa football is one of the few things he really gets excited about. So even though I am a Jayhawk through and through, and I’m not very pleased with the Big Ten right now, you can bet your ass I’ll be blasting “Living in America” while watching Stanzi pull another fourth quarter miracle comeback out of his ass. It’s time to put “God damn Hawkeyes” to rest.
"Got a bill that's big enough to twist the Tiger's tail. Husked some corn and made those SORRY HUSKERS BAIL!"
by KennyGregoryRockThaCradle on Sep 2, 2010 4:57 PM EDT reply actions
Sons
Shortly after my son was born, I was sitting in the living room watching SportsCenter and they ran one of those mawkish human-interest pieces about two high school football teams that conspired to let a mentally challenged kid score a touchdown. My wife found me there with tears streaming down my cheeks, despite all prior evidence that I was dead inside.
/chang’d
'87 Hetfield-type metal here, Orson - Thanks!
hjkl – I assume you say that bc he chose to commit suicide, which is your own opinion. You should understand: the good doctor brought a lot of joy to a lot of people throughout his long life, despite how he chose to end it (like many others who commit suicide); and that should be respected. You certainly cannot say he sucked for the life he led and the amazing work he accomplished.
Orson, you have truly outdone yourself. Some of the most poignant writing I’ve read in a long time.
by victory drive on Sep 2, 2010 5:07 PM EDT reply actions
It sucks
that my Grandpa died before I got too into sports. I didn’t come around until a few years after he died but I remember him sitting in his chair with a cigar every possible second that anything sports related was on. It didn’t matter WHAT it was, he was always there. Your post made me remember how much I wished we’d have gotten to watch a game together. Beautiful words, Spencer.
What do we do if somehow Colt McCoy ends up on an NFL team starting against Vince Young?
Another entry into my "best writing" folder.
My wife will look over disapprovingly when I seem unnecessarily absorbed in something on the computer; my typing noises long concluded. But if she looks over my shoulder and sees EDSBS, she murmers her assent, gets a cold one from the fridge and hands it over. Life is really good right now. Long live the fall.
Undeserved Blessings
Two sons whose Crimson loyalties make my aged fanaticism pail in comparison – sons who have arrived at this spot absent the direct knowledge of the “glory” years and who have weathered the storms and earned their right to gloat. Two bright-eyed grandsons that know a chicken says “cluck”, a dog says “woof” and an elephant says “ROLL TIDE!” And a wife who thinks, in the great scheme fo things, season tickets should come before life insurance. LET THE GAMES BEGIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
My grandma also
knew proper football etiquette. Grandma grew up in Green Bay; Grandpa grew up in Chicago. One winter, when grandma and grandpa were visiting, long before I knew anything about Packers, or Bears, or the warmth of true hate, I wanted grandma to see my new sweater. I loved my new sweater, and I knew grandma would too. Only, it was a Bears sweater. “Oh God, that’s the ugliest thing I’ve seen in my life,” I was informed. I was 5.
oops
pale…not pail. Something else to be thankful for….the kids are a lot smarter than I am.
In a world of Mark Mays, Lee Corsos, and other stammering idiots...
… your writing is almost too good for the present state of college football.
Thanks Orson
thanks for writing this, and thanks to you (and Holly) for getting us through our long exile
Not to get all alliterative
But there really is something special about fall, football and family. Everything seems just a bit brighter and wilder on a brisk fall afternoon, whether it’s the colors flashing across the grass of the gridiron, the electric yellow of oak trees in decline, or the conversations around the dinner table as the dense and wonderful smell of cooking poultry wafts in from the kitchen. I think you dont realize how truly satisfying it is until you’re locked in the throes of winter, or just idly watching summer pass by. Mad props for the piece; made me feel like I was there already. Cheers.
Thanks, Spencer.
This post touched me in so many ways. I’ve been struggling to write a comment for the past thirty minutes, but I just can’t adequately express the chill bumps.
I wanted to tell you about how my dad and uncle went straight from my grandpa’s funeral to Legion Field only to witness one of the most legendary Iron Bowls ever (Punt, bama, Punt).
I wanted to tell you how I too felt that cold wind of awareness and reality for the first time this past January when my wife and I left Dekalb Medical Center with our newborn son.
All I can say is, this post is the reason why I read this blog. Thank you, sir.
Thank you very much.
Football, Winter & Family
2006 Big 12 Champ game in KC. With my dad, brothers and brother-in-law. My dad had just beaten cancer, my bro-in-law lost a son a couple years earlier. That’s a lot of tough shit for a group of German Catholics unable to express emotions. But drinking together in freezing temperatures for 7+ hours has a way of healing.
Despite the Husker loss, we had a great time. I saw the world’s biggest pile of steaming vomit and a fat Sooner fan struggling to remove a camp chair from his ass in the standing position. He could reach around to knock it off and was saying: “I know you fuckers are laughing at me and I can’t blame you, but I can get this damn thing off me!”
"When a guy takes off his coat, he's not going to fight. When a guy takes off his wristwatch, watch out!"
- Al McGuire
www.anonymouseagle.com
God Bless Us, Everyone
While we all remain undefeated for these few remaining hours, it is an awesome thought that one sport can bring a wide and varied fanbase together to see how special this day is to each and every one of us. May COTG not touch your teams (sorry UNC), may your quaterbacks remain healthy and uninjured, your wide receivers catch everything as long as it’s not communicable, may your offense proliferate and your defense obliterate all obstacles in front of them. Cheers to you, Spencer, Holly, and Doug, and the rest of the EDSBS commentators (even the trolls) who, in a few short weeks, will commence the trash-talking and baiting in true fan fashion. Let us remember today, and the camaraderie, which brings us together every fall to celebrate all that is good and right in the world, and college football.
Thank you!
Its scarcity is its value; its pleasure is in its ultimate end. Its consolation is its rebirth and continuation.
Exquisite!
To distrust Saban is to love him!
Really Amazing
I wish the obsession I have ran deeper in my family, but alas it seems to only have really arisen in my generation
I have a cousin who was his high school’s starting quarterback in the late 80’s, and he definitely held his own. I was only about 2 at the time, but everybody in my family has a story about going to his games. He ended up going to college at Texas Tech, where he was killed by a drunk driver.
When my oldest brother came of age to start playing football, he wanted to be a quarterback, and took the number 9, which was Jeff’s number. I didn’t get many memories with Jeff, but I definitely have countless memories watching my brother play on friday nights, then eventually on saturdays, and now on fridays again as he coaches high school ball. They are some of my most cherished, and i will forsake/have forsaken many things in my life to get the opportunity to see him in action.
It is from my two older brothers that I learned how important football can be. We are brothers, we love each other; but football is what bonds us. Our favorite season is once again upon us, and I can’t wait for when they come up to my new home in Oregon for our very first Civil War
How you say. . . . wah wahhhhhhhhh
Bravo!
Exceptional story telling. Huzzah, to you sir.
My meager addition is that my grandmother now passed 8 years wouldn’t let us watch the Notre Dame games if we congregated our large Irish Catholic family at the “compound”. (my father is one of 16 kids…) She went to a game once and a fight broke out. She thought good Catholic boys shouldn’t be fighting. It took a few seasons before Grandpa, a huge ND fan, finally let us watch the game there. He would go sit in the study and listen to the game on the radio. Happy 87th Football Season Grandpa!
Football is violence and heart. Champions figure out when each of these is required.
Spencer, this is a grand piece of writing. Exquisite!
To distrust Saban is to love him!
You know it.
________________________________
I will give my shirt for Tennessee today.
by Holly Anderson on Sep 2, 2010 6:47 PM EDT up reply actions
Beware the reflection in that old cathode ray tube TV screen
Much less stay the fuck away from the coal grate in the basement.
>uncontrollable shivers<
And birthday parties in Mexico City.
Well, whaddayaknow? It IS Saturday!
Woodsmoke, hot biscuits and Grampaw's sweet coffee on a frosty football Saturday in the backwoods of West Alabama
Please, God, make them dump me on my Grampaw’s doorstep again.
And let me dream with perfect recall of the Saturday after Thanksgiving in 1960 riding poppa-ta poppa-ta up Old Highway 11 from the Druid City to Elyton Village with my other grandfather and his entourage: my father the wheel man in a ’56 Buick (avec quarter panel portholes), my cousin and his father and grandfather, all of us wearing Sunday clothes; all going to see Alabama and Auburn play football at Legion Field in 1960; and causing a huge traffic jam on Graymont Avenue as the car lurched to a halt and the four older gents stopped and physically, indignantly fought over who would pay $1 for parking; and the piss steamed in the cold air in ancient pissoirs; and no one could move the ball, much less score; and finally the pigskin arced and tumbled down through white-painted H-style wooden goal posts; and Alabama won the day, 3-0, my earliest football memory.
Spence, you have officially exorcised last year’s SECCG demon. Huzzah and congratulations – I hope one day you can enjoy riding together with your son (grandson?) to watch them ole bull gators play.
The new year has finally arrived.
Well, whaddayaknow? It IS Saturday!
more thanks Spencer, that really touched me
and more ND/Grandma/having kids talk:
My grandma (a Depression era girl from a southern Illinois coal town) loved ND games and watching Hee Haw on her Magnavox too. She died at the age of 90 and the last word she ever said was “Lizzie” as I showed her my new-born daughter with that name.
Can’t wait to go with my dad to see ND/Army this November in Yankee Stadium 64 years after he went as a 9-year old to see the same teams play in the 0-0 game of the century.
I read this, I read the commments...
…and I’m somehow reminded of the ancient South Central Bell commercial with Bear saying at the end “Be sure to call your Mama, I sure wish I could”. (As do I).
Rammer Jammer, y’all.
You are truly peerless
in your writing skills, Orson; +1,000,000 cocktails. I don’t have a college football story from growing up, as my parents were KU graduates. But maybe I can help make some for my kids, if I have any someday. Go Irish, Beat Boilers!
Absolutely awesome, Spencer!
I buried my Daddy on Aug. 9 – he was 85 years old.
I remember sitting in the living room behind the wood stove in Southern Missouri in 1960 listening to the Missouri Tigers on an old console AM radio. Sometimes we had to go out and sit in the car in the driveway and listen on the car radio so we wouldn’t wake up my baby sisters from their naps.
Life will go on, and I will always be a Tiger fan . . . but who do I call now for a two-hour wind-down after one of those wonderful Saturday afternoon games that leave you filled with adrenalin and emotion?
It will never be the same . . .
I hate that you're a Gator, Swindle
Because I wish you were one of us.
Hallucinogenic love drugs, sir. The pagans were taking them. We were trying to fit in.
My PawPaw passed in '07 at 92.
He saved every single Dallas Cowboys Weekly ever printed (um, pre-interweb, boyz). And he took me on my very first road trip to Bourbon Street. Fun times indeed. Peeps, keep those tires rotated on your Big King Ranch 4×4 in the sky. Love you.
exemplary writing, Spencer
as a father, that emo-chip is sometimes embarrassing, but i wouldn’t trade it for the world. as a (so far) restaurant lifer, that was a perfect metaphor. as the grandson of a man that played for Robert Reese Neyland, go fuck yourself.
brilliant piece, though.
happy eternal September!
thanks to denial, i'm immortal
by thetennesseethumper on Sep 2, 2010 8:34 PM EDT reply actions
Beautiful writing Spencer...some of your finest work.
I wish I had gotten into football before my granddaddy died when I was 17. I remember being a little girl playing with paper dolls while Papa would have a game on tv with the sound turned down, and either the Rebels or Razorbacks on the radio at the same time. A doctor told him to stop watching sports (for his heart), but then realized Papa was more stressed when he couldn’t watch or listen to the games.
A small blessing…he died before Arkansas joined the SEC, so he wasn’t forced to make that choice between them and Ole Miss. Mom thinks he would have pulled for the Rebels ’cause that where “his girls” (my mom, me and my sister) went to school.
Yes, I live in Starkville...WHO did I piss off in a past life?
by Queen Hoka-Hotty-Toddy on Sep 2, 2010 8:46 PM EDT reply actions
I appreciate these stories
My grandfather is a Vanderbilt alum, and because of that I’ll always have a special place in my heart for the Commodores.
He turns 83 this year, and has suffered several strokes lately. I’m steeling myself for the fact that this is probably his last football season. I think I need to go make a phone call.
Wonderfully written Spencer.
My parents made me into the Gator fan I am. Some of my earliest memories are getting all decked out in the orange and blue, piling into the car early on Saturday morning and driving to Gainesville for the game. Our whole family, aunts , uncles, cousins, were die hard fans and we’d schedule outings and get-togethers around the games.
I was attending UF in 1994 when the Gators lost to Auburn in the closing moments of the game, knocking the Gators out of #1. It was the first time I saw grown men cry over a football game. Not only did it solidify my obsession w/Gator football, but it instilled a hatred of Auburn that burns to this day.
As for Tennessee…there was absolutely no pulling for Tennessee. Peyton Manning played for the Vols while I was at Florida. I HATE Peyton Manning.
My husband, who was never much of a sports fan, can’t understand the commitment and love of the game, but I’ll make sure my daughter grows up doing the
Gator Chomp.
Wow...
Thanks Orson. This post inspired me to register and comment. This reminds me why I fly cross country at least 2 times a year to see old friends and watch 20 year old men run into each other. Football is the glue that keeps my friends together, despite the years and the miles between us. Even though we are all die hard Notre Dame fans, we have a tradition of attending one big non-ND game every year. We traditionally have chosen SEC games, due to the great weather and attractive women in sun dresses. However, when the weather is good and the season is young and filled with optimism, we’ll all go to South Bend, as we will this coming weekend. In the long distant future, I believe we’ll all continue these traditions with our own Magnus Warhammers. Assuming we can all find ladies who are extraordinarily patient or share our passion.
Since I started seriously following college football, my mom and dad have hopped aboard the crazy train. Now I can understand why my 63 year old mother has become a huge college football fan. Since I used to live in Florida and am a closet U fan, she likes Jacory Harris’s swagger, but I feel like there’s more to her fandom than Jacory’s weekly fresh edge. I have to believe that I’m the only reason a 5’0" 63 year old white lady from the Midwest is familiar with terms like “swagger,” “fresh edge,” and “zone blitz.” In other news, my mom is the greatest.
I’ve probably read this post 8 times today, and it has brought me to tears every time thinking about the people I love and follow college football with. And I last cried about 3 years ago.
Good show, sir.
beautiful
This brought a tear to my eye and it summed up everything perfectly. I sent it to my dad, who is a diehard Michigan fan (who has never missed a game in 37 years as a season ticket holder). My brother and I were indoctrinated at a very young age and could both sing Hail to the Victors when we were 4 years old. College football Saturday is a sacred event, and to me, it always will be. The spirit, the rivalries, the stories, the celebrations and defeats.
A common thread….
It was beautiful, and heart-warming and cathartic...
that we all had this moment together.
But now that the season has started, if any of your teams come up against my beloved Mountaineers you may eat shit and die!
"I like the taste of danger most of all." - Jonatha Brooke
There is very little...
one could add to that. Very poignant…football season as life….sublime and short. A Very Merry College Football Season to you all…..
No one's really gonna to be free until nerd persecution ends - Gilbert Lowe
Well said. Well said.
My experience with fatherhood is exactly the same; the significance of EVERYTHING is magnified tenfold, even the insignificant stuff. I’ve learned that landmark moments of my childhood memory were likely just one of the zillion daily triumphs and tragedies my mother went through while raising me. I’ve learned that just the luxury of being able to cover my Cherry Coke habit while we jump and yell and clap and cry with the Spartans was something my mother spent nearly every other minute fighting and clawing and scraping for.
She tells me now she laid awake nights in sheer panic wondering how she was going to pull it off. She tells me now it was was a constant struggle to keep the wolves at bay. I realize now exactly how much I mean to her, because I know how much my children mean to me. I realize that my task now is to work just as hard as she did to make things just as easy for them. And, just as my grandfather taught my mother what the only colors are, and as she taught me, I teach my kids.
Here’s a picture of my little guy after last season’s Meet the Spartans autograph session. The players were headed down a hallway to the parking lot where their buses were at, and we were maybe a hundred feet behind them, our van parked in the same lot. Without a word, my son sprinted away from us to join them, and walked silently in their midst for a while (“I wanted to be with the other football players, like me,” he’d later say). We snuck up behind, and my wife got this shot just as they noticed their newest walk-on:
I don’t know if this is will be a landmark moment in his childhood memory, or something long forgotten by the time he’s in my shoes—but as for me, I get chills every time. Tomorrow morning, we’ll all be tailgating. Here’s to all of you who’ll be doing the same.
Peace
Ty
http://www.thelionsinwinter.com
by ty@thelionsinwinter on Sep 3, 2010 10:23 AM EDT reply actions 19 recs
That's wonderful
And he’ll always remember it.
by Etch Westgrin on Sep 3, 2010 11:05 AM EDT up reply actions
all right, folks
let’s get this post green for the little Sparty, shall we?
"...when the devil says to you: do not drink, answer him: I will drink, and right freely, just because you tell me not to."
— Martin Luther
Much appreciated, folks!
http://www.thelionsinwinter.com
by ty@thelionsinwinter on Sep 3, 2010 1:34 PM EDT up reply actions
Rec'd, rec'd, rec'd
I wish I could recommend this three times and more.
Yes, I live in Starkville...WHO did I piss off in a past life?
by Queen Hoka-Hotty-Toddy on Sep 3, 2010 3:08 PM EDT up reply actions
August: best time for your lady to get pregnant
Cool weather during miserable trimesters and a sober driver throughout football season. Works well for all parties.
Nick Saban is my BFF
Amazing.
Undeniably a brilliant piece of prose.
And since we’re all sharing….
My father was born and raised on in the wilds of the Texas Panhandle. His entire family were raised as die-hard Red Raiders fans. But he told me that he was on a bus heading to fall high school football scrimmage, listening to the Big Shootout on a transistor radio. From that day on, he would only bleed burnt orange.
We moved around a lot when I was younger. Dad was never made it to college, but found his calling in the oilfield. Without a degree, the only path to advancement was the willingness to relocate. So we did. From north Texas to western Oklahoma to south Texas to southwest Louisiana and finally ending up back in western Oklahoma.
The Horns had some pretty rough years in the 90s, when I was old enough to understand the importance of college football. They got even rougher in the early aughts, especially living in Sooner Country. UT was too expensive a destination for college, so I trekked north to Stillwater. I had never been able to see a Texas Longhorns football game in person before, but I got my hands on season tickets, and naturally invited my father up to stand beside me on the rickety metal bleachers at Lewis Field.
In 2005, by mere chance, I managed to get my hands on a pair of Texas student tickets to the National Championship. I had a ton of buddies clamoring to go with me, but there was only one person I wanted to take: Dad. I gave him the tickets on Christmas morning, and we spent the next week jittering with one another about the trip. He has a severe aversion to flying (especially following 9/11) so loaded three ice chests with beer and road tripped from tiny Sayre, Oklahoma all the way to Pasadena.
We tailgated with a horde of good natured USC fans, and even some less good-natured Horns fans, and sitting in the stands, surrounded by a sea of burnt orange, we bore witness to one of the single greatest football performances anyone had ever seen. When Leinart’s pass hit the ground, we went apeshit.
Fortunately for me, Dad is still here and still kicking up dust in the oil patch. But I know that one day he won’t. I won’t have anybody to vent to when Greg Davis runs a draw play on 3rd and 8 or the Longhorns falter in October at the Cotton Bowl. But I’ll always have that trip.
Bless you Spencer, and Hook ’em Horns.
"If you've got them by the balls, their hearts and minds will follow."
by Vespasian on Sep 3, 2010 11:14 AM EDT reply actions 2 recs
Beautiful sentiments
This was a beautifully written piece. My family had the same behemoth of a Magnavox television set, encased in wood, always tuned to college football on Saturday afternoons in fall (such afternoons are without fail, in the South, when the splendor of God’s creation is displayed at the peak of its magnificence). We were forbidden from rooting for Georgia. As a child, on a long drive to Miami Beach, my father drove slowly by Florida Field in Gainesville and pointed out the stadium, “Look, Susan, that’s where the Gators play.” I knew my destiny had been written. In the South, your team of choice is determined by lineage. There is no choice.
Great piece Spencer
Thanks for sharing man. The evolution of a man is a crazy thing.
Damnit, Spencer.
I’m sitting here bawling my eyes out when my boss walks into my office and catches me. My boss also happens to be my dad. Naturally, he wants to know what’s going on and why the hell I’m crying, so I show him your post. He reads it, it gets real quiet in my office and I look up at him. He’s got tears running down his face.
I’ve seen my dad cry all of one time in 30 years, at my sister’s funeral. You’ve got one hell of a pen, Spencer. Bravo.
I’ve got way too many family-related college football stories to share in a post, but I can say you hit the nail on the motherfuckin’ head. I grew up in a football family, but married into a basketball family, so it was a tough row to hoe in getting them to understand my family’s…dynamics, but I’ve managed to at least get my wife on board. In fact, she’s the one now arranging our schedule so events don’t fall on Auburn home games.* My cousin, an Alabama grad, announced he was getting married on 10/10/10 a couple of weeks ago (WTF?!?!?). Unfortunately, we’ve had plans to go to the AU/Kentucky game in Lexington (tickets/non-refundable hotel room). While I was prepared to scrap the trip in order to go to the wedding (this particular cousin is like a brother to me), she looked at me like I was crazy and suggested we go to the game on Saturday and swing by Birmingham for the wedding on the way home Sunday.
I love my wife.
*This is a huge 180 from her attitude while we were dating. When I declined to attend some family function in order to go to an Auburn game, she thought it was an incredibly rude gesture. Now she’s the one scheduling stuff to fall on off weekends, or, at the very least, away-game weekends. God bless her.
I'm afraid I have no choice but to sell you all for scientific experiments.
by boddagettaflyer on Sep 3, 2010 2:05 PM EDT reply actions 2 recs
Very well put...
and War Eagle. I have to deal with my better half being a Bama grad.
by Terry Bowden's Shoe Lifts on Sep 3, 2010 2:11 PM EDT up reply actions
Very well said Spencer
BC guy here, I saw my first game with my dad vs Staubach and Navy in 1962, 40 years later I saw my last game in the stands with him also vs Navy, he was a Prof at BC for years, taking emeritus status once my mom got sick. She had passed away 6 weeks before that game in 1992…and a few weeks after that a couple who were dear friends of them invited him to go to South Bend for the BC/ND game…where that evil little lisping troll ran up the score and fake punted when up by 35 (and if by some chance you read this post Holtz, DIE)
the following year, the same people invited him to go again, but he passed, so he and I sat in his den and watched the single greatest event in my life (before 10/27/2004) as David Gordon’s kick went thru to send ND into the death spiral it is still in today. We sat there with tears streaming down our faces as we ran to the phone to call my sister in London with the news…
and on 10/27/2004 as Foulke speared that ball and threw to first, I was able to do what I always wanted to do, pour 3 fingers of Bushmills, walk into the back yard, raise the glass, slam the whiskey, drive the mile to the cemetery, and open the champagne pouring some out on the ground and the rest into me
as a long time season ticket holder, every time I walk on campus, I feel the old man with me
Bawling a month later
What can I say.
Thank you, Spencer…
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