One thing about intercollegiate athletics in the summertime is that it is all academic.
I’m thankful for something to fill some space and glad to list the kids at Furman who do two time-consuming activities at a time.
It’s not all academic. All I know about is.
Oh, there’s been the stray promotion. A commitment here, a season ticket there. A wrinkle in the transfer portal’s time/space continuum.
I’m so ready for some football that I’m wanting to talk about it. I’m wanting to be on campus, drinking some of wisdom’s fountain pure. I’m wanting to rally with all the sons and daughters ‘round our dear alma mater.
It seems like the dawning of the Age of Aquarius. Age of Aquariussssss! A-quar-i-usssss!
This is the mythological ranting of a maniac, or, the secret life of a Walter Mitty. I know little of astrology other than being a non-practicing Aries. I also care little for genealogy. Knowledge of from whom I came is a frightening prospect. It’s all I can do to keep my own head straight without bearing the legacy of generations. I’d just as soon be an anomaly.
I get no kick from champagne, but football! That’s where a fan gets his kicks.
It’s late July and hot as hell, but high-school kids are about to start tramping around on dew-covered grids, yawning till they get their juices flowing with the handy assistance of coaches who won’t lose their voices until late next week.
Football changes. Change happens quite often in life. Some aspects of the game never change, and that’s the secret why the kids keep playing and the old folks keep coming back.
This is the 24 Hours of the Running of the Bulls at Pamplona Presented by STP, or, more likely, Pepsi.
Remember, fans, before charging in your trusty Lincoln Navigator steeds to lay tasty siege on the stadium from the parking lots:
The other team is trying, too. That’s what’s going to make victory glorious.