Bye Week Saturday

While the Tigers took the weekend off to prepare and heal their owwies, I had a free day. Opening the door to an already warm morning, I found an empty 40 ounce bottle of Camo Silver Ice “High Gravity Lager” on the patch of grass outside my house. This sounded like just the sort of exciting new product I would have to make it my business to try.

ESPN GameDay broadcasted from Athens, Georgia, where the #3 Bulldogs would square off in the evening against the #8 Alabama Crimson Tide. I couldn’t in good conscience be upset about GameDay skipping Columbia when there was no game being held there. The show opened with a blatant ripoff of the Hank Williams, Jr. “Are you Ready for some Football?” Monday Night Football number, this one titled, as best as I could ascertain, “Yes, we’re Cominnnnn’…to your Cit-aaaaaaaaaaay!” The song, or, really, hoedown, was delivered via the country-western duo Big & Rich while a cute girl with perky breasts pretended to play the fiddle. The lyrics consisted of reeling off a bunch of college town names, none of them Columbia. I'm no Simon Cowell, but by any prudent standard the performance sucked at a level normally reserved for Milli Vanilli reunions.

The Georgia campus appeared fired up and black. Not the people, who were mostly white, but rather what they wore. This had been designated a “black out” game, meaning that fans were encouraged to wear that color (or absence of) instead of their usual red. Same for the players, except that it wasn't optional for them—otherwise, the Bulldogs might take the field looking like a checker board. In theory, this fashion turn gives 20-year-old football players a mental edge by providing a tangible sign that they’re playing in a big game. And it often works—for the other team. Every time Notre Dame switches from blue to green jerseys, they get ground into a turfy paste.

So Athens, normally awash in red on football Saturdays, looked like a Ingmar Bergan film cast with perky girls. Every student seemed to hold a sign, and the TV crew did an amazing job of showing the non-offensive ones (the ones that use sentences beginning with “E,” “S” “P,” and “N”) and cutting away just when “Lee Corso eats fromunda cheese” floated into view.

Because I’m watching the program, I could safely assume that I’m the target of the commercials, too. That’s the marketing goal, right? So at several station breaks, I was steamed to discover that apparently I enjoy the Olive Garden. By any entertainment standard, Olive Garden commercials underwhelm even more than their food, which is prepared by the renowned chefs who comprise their randomly-selected focus groups. One of today’s efforts features a table of well-groomed, suburban 20-somethings preparing to order. Just prior to the fine dining experience, there’s this exchange:

DOUCHE BAG 1: “So, I’m doing the math on this never ending pasta bowl—42 different sauce and pasta combinations!
DOUCHE BAG 2: “You do the math. I’ll do the alfredo!”

Everyone at the table cracks up at this cutting-edge zinger. Somewhere in America, an Olive Garden brand manager must be smugly smiling, satisfied that in the clever guise of dinner banter, a hard-hitting copy point enumerating the ways Olive Garden can give you diarrhea was unleashed on an unsuspecting public.

Back from break, Chris Fowler, Kirk Herbstreit and Lee Corso run through their predictions for the day’s contests. Even though the Tigers weren’t suiting up, they garnered several mentions. Fowler pronounced the team “Missour-AH” one minute and “Missour-EE” the next, flip-flopping like a Show-Me State gubernatorial candidate. Chase Daniel hooked up for a phone interview and did his level best to say nothing controversial, inflammatory, or funny, inadvertently providing an audition tape for an Olive Garden commercial if this football thing doesn’t work out.

After about six hours of college football coverage and games, I get off the couch, my ass completely flattened, and take my semblance of exercise for the day—a 2-mile jog around Palmer Square that I've christened the “Hairy Palmer.” Thank you, I’ll be at my laptop all week.

Early that evening, I met my Cornhusker friend Heavy D for a Nebraska-Virginia Tech pub crawl. With the Huskers next on Mizzou’s docket, they merited my rooting interest. I wanted to ensure that they’d show up undefeated, ranked and ripe for a letdown next weekend. As we bellied up to the bar, the Georgia-Alabama game appeared side-by-side with Nebraska kickoff on the flat screens hanging above us. David R. was absent, sequestered in his Man Cave watching the Bulldogs and cursing the fact that his team took the field in black jerseys with plunging red necklines.

In rapid succession, both Nebraska and Georgia fell behind. The music in the bar grew louder in anticipation of the evening crowd and we suddenly felt ravenous. We made our way to Buffalo Wild Wings, proving that either a) I’m a hypocrite, and lame chain restaurant advertising actually works, or b) we wanted chicken wings. Nebraska trailed by 8 at the half but the blackout in Georgia had backfired to the tune of 31-0. Reminding myself to wash my hands several times so as not to remove my contacts with hot sauce-encrusted fingers, Heavy D and I called an audible, cabbing to the sports bars of Southport Avenue.

En route to our new destination, we received a text from a distraught David R. He predicted a biblical Alabama smackdown of 103-0. Further, he threatened to catch up with us before the Tide hit the century mark, an unprecedented evacuation of the Man Cave that would parallel Gus Grissom ditching the space capsule in The Right Stuff. Heavy D and I had our own problems. Surrounded by TVs, we could no longer find one showing the Nebraska game. We asked for help—every Chicago bar has someone in charge of the universal remote—but received none. My corn fed amigo fumed. Consumed with rage, he ordered nachos.

David R. caught up with us at Southport Lanes, a collared button-down covering the shame of his traitorous black t-shirt. The sports ticker indicated that the Nebraska game concluded with a 35-28 Husker loss. An uneasy feeling came over me. My friends’ schools had just lost their first games of the year, and I was the bastard sitting there undefeated. It’s akin to hitting a hot streak at a blackjack table while your friends sitting next to you pay for the casino’s lighting bill. You’re a dick by association.

By the time I hit the fart sack, sleeping on a compost heap of chicken wings and nachos, three teams ranked in front of the Tigers had gone down to defeat. Of the five teams featured on regional pre-season Sports Illustrated covers, Missouri now stood as the only one without a loss.

Reflections at a semi-arbitrary point of the season (Part 1)

The baseball season breaks neatly into sections like a Kit-Kat bar. Memorial Day marks the one-third mark. The All-Star break represents the halfway point. On Labor Day weekend, only the stretch drive remains, and teams can assess whether they’ll make a run or play for next year.

College football doesn’t have any logical break. There are games every weekend, and if you want to look backward or forward you just pick a time, sit back in your La-Z-Boy, tap your imaginary pipe on the side table, and analyze away.

Last week, Mizzou finished its non-conference schedule with a 4-0 record. This is a bye week, followed by the opening, on October 4th, of the Big XII conference schedule. Seems a perfect time to draw some early observations, musings that’ll morph into firm denials later.

OBSERVATION 1: Chase Daniel is the leading Heisman Trophy candidate.

Ballsy, I know. But I’m not sticking my neck out here, given the prima facie evidence. The media agree that Daniel’s the man to beat, and the media vote on the Heisman Trophy--therefore, the kid from Southlake, Texas stands as the frontrunner. Who are these faceless media? Or, as they say in Oklahoma, mediuhs?

Dave Matter of the Columbia Tribune called Daniel the “Heisman Trophy frontrunner.” Too local? ESPN.com called him, in a more clever turn of phrase, the “Heisman Trophy frontrunner.” Gene Menez of SI.com lists Daniel #1 on “Heisman Watch.” Heismanpundit.com, the internet bible of Heisman punditry, lists him #1.

Daniel came in fourth in the Heisman voting last year. So what happened?

Two of the players finishing in front of him graduated. Tim Tebow, last year’s winner, is putting up far less gaudy numbers—probably because the offense surrounding him decided to suit up. Concurrently, Daniel improved. He’s thrown 12 touchdowns for every interception. He led the offense to scores on 13 consecutive possessions—12 of them for touchdowns. He saved a nun falling from the upper deck. On top of all that, he enjoys name recognition from his invite to New York for the Heisman ceremony last year. Chase stood there, smiled, and looked, basically, like a nice young man in a suit—a perfect strategy for a 2008 run.

If the Tigers win the Big XII championship, Daniel wins the Heisman in a landslide. That's a big if.

OBSERVATION #2: Scheduling 20-point underdogs is a double-edged cream puff.

I blame this one on former Kansas State coach Bill Snyder. He pioneered scheduling non-conference throw pillows to pad his team’s victory total. Just look at KSU's first four opponents of 1995:

Faber College
Guys we Found Sleeping in the Park University
Squirrels
Scrimmage U

Hey, it worked. K-State went to eleven straight bowl games.

Mizzou took on a bona fide BCS Bowl team in week one, followed by three teams they were favored to put in intensive care. They swept all 4 games, but in struggling just a bit against the 34-point underdog Buffalo last weekend, Mizzou watched its ranking fall from 5th to 6th in the AP poll. Conclusion: choose your poison. Schedule a vicious non-conference slate and lose a game or two, or schedule grandma’s quilting bee and lose the respect of bitter, sedentary sportswriters.

OBSERVATION 3: Oklahoma is scary.

There’s a scene in the Coen Brothers film Raising Arizona, in which the hero, H.I. McDunnough, describes a nightmare about a villain he’d soon meet:

“I drifted off thinking about happiness, birth and new life, But now I was haunted by a vision of... He was horrible. The lone biker of the apocalypse. A man with all the powers of hell at his command. He could turn the day into night and lay to waste everything in his path. He was especially hard on little things-the helpless and the gentle creatures. He left a scorched earth in his wake, befouling even the sweet desert breeze that whipped across his brow. I didn't know where he came from or why. I didn't know if he was dream or vision. But I feared that I myself had unleashed him…”

That, in a nutshell, describes the Oklahoma Sooners. No team beat the Missouri Tigers in 2007—no team came especially close—except for Oklahoma, who did it twice.

Once again, the Sooners are destroying everything in their path. The Sooner offense looks every bit as good as the Tigers’. Their defense flies around like the ’85 Bears. And their quarterback has put up numbers that rival Chase Daniel.

Oklahoma plays in the Big XII South. The Tigers won’t play them this year unless they meet in the Big XII Championship. After four games, the two teams look like they’re on a collision course.

If there’s a silver lining in all this, it’s that Oklahoma looks frightening almost every year, and they usually manage to lose a game or two, probably due to the fact that they are, at their core, arrogant rumps. This attitude, embodied in their Nixonian coach Bob Stoops, might be their Achilles ass.

H.I. McDunnough beat his nemesis using the cinematic equivalent of a hail mary pass. Will the Tigers manage to exorcise their nightmare as well? At this point in the season, the only reason to think that they might is a) the Tigers may be better than they were in 2007, and b) the Big XII Championship will be played in Kansas City.

OBSERVATION #4: When everybody talks about your offense, you’d better work on your defense.

On Tuesday of the off week, Gary Pinkel traveled to Briston, CT to appear on several ESPN programs. The shows’ hosts gushed over him, and Pinkel did his turn on the catwalk it in a natty blazer and mock turtleneck (no visor, somewhat shockingly). The fawning consisted almost exclusively of questions about the offense.

That makes sense, since the Missouri offense leads the nation. But their defensive secondary has performed erratically. Much of that can be attributed to the Illinois game. Some can be explained by the absence of William Moore, Mizzou’s best defensive player. Nonetheless, out of the top ten NCAA quarterbacks in terms of passing efficiency, six play in the Big XII. The Tigers will either fix the problem or find themselves trying to outscore conference opponents all year.

Other earth-shattering events occuring at this time

With 49 days to go before the presidential election, Wall Street imploded. Merrill Lynch got sold in a fire sale for a markedly un-bullish price. Lehman Brothers collapsed. The housing market teetered on disaster, causing the U.S. government to stage the largest scale fiscal intervention since the Great Depression. In a blink, the economy became the central theme of both presidential campaigns. Barack Obama and John McCain squared off in Oxford, Mississippi, a debate which McCain tried to postpone because of the economic crisis (his campaign's view) or because he was a scairdy cat (the Democrats’ view). In a stunning debate development, both sides claimed victory. The highlight of the evening occurred when McCain became annoyed and muttered under his breath, according to different sources, either "horseshit," "'course not," or "I buried Paul."

Amidst the economic meltdown, pennant races raged and footballs were kicked off. And on a warm Thursday night in Corvalis, Oregon, the unranked Oregon State Beavers poked a hole in the USC Trojans, the number one team in the country. Prior to the game, Southern Cal possessed a clear path to the National Championship. Afterward, about 10 teams did.

Gameday: Evanston, Illinois

Tigers vs. Buffalo Bulls
September 20, 2008

Tiger AP ranking: 5th


Today the Chicago Cubs clinched the National League’s Central Division, once again providing hope for their long-suffering fans.

It seems appropriate to look back and examine how the once-powerful Missouri Tigers became their doppelganger in defeat, before, like the Cubs, reclaiming a winning attitude.

For decades, the Mizzou football program elicited respect. They led the nation in rushing using Don Faurot's innovative T-formation. The Tigers were the only major college program to lose no more than 3 games a season during the 1960s. In the 1970s Mizzou gave oddsmakers fits, upsetting favorites Alabama, USC, Ohio State and Notre Dame—all on the road. In 1981, they celebrated their fourth consecutive bowl appearance by beating Southern Mississippi in the Tangerine.

Then came September 14, 1985.

On that day, I walked out of Wrigley Field after a Cubs-Cardinals game and crossed Sheffield Avenue to the popular bar Murphy’s Bleachers. The bar's doorman was engaged in an animated conversation with another patron. As my friends and I passed, he blurted out, “Did you hear? Northwestern beat Mizzou!”

The news hit my stomach like a tainted hot dog. In the early 80s, Northwestern didn’t beat anybody. A few years earlier the Wildcats had set a modern NCAA record by losing 34 consecutive games (when they broke the mark, NU fans stormed the field and tore down the goalposts, chanting, “we’re the worst!”) Northwestern students were admitted to games free in a desperate attempt to fill the stands. Many decided against the gratis admission, spending entire games tailgating rather than submitting to watch another crushing loss. As game after lopsided game slipped away, the students who did attend would regale opposing fans with the cheer,
“That’s alright, that’s OK, you’re gonna work for us someday!”

Losing to Northwestern in 1985 meant that your team was terrible.

Woody Widenhofer was the new Tiger head coach that year. Widenhofer maintained that if the Tigers wanted to beat Nebraska and Oklahoma--and we did--he was the man for the job. It was hard to doubt a Missouri alum who owned 4 Super Bowl rings from his tenure as defensive coordinator of the Pittsburgh Steelers. He urged Tiger fans to “get on Woody’s wagon.” After a single losing season that resulted in the dismissal of his predecessor, fans were anxious to give the dorky slogan a try. This despite the fact that Woody looked like Chumley the Walrus from Tennessee Tuxedo.

The Tigers went 1-10 in 1985. Widenhofer, amidst rumors that he had no interest in getting on any wagon, lasted four years, ignoring the entire time another slogan, the one where Missourians say “You have to show me.”

By the time Widenhofer waddled off, the football program stood in shambles. Mizzou and their fans suffered through 13 straight losing seasons—hundreds of thousands of students entered school as freshmen and graduated without ever cheering on a winning team. Many of the loses came in such an excruciating manner that they were given names. The "Norman Conquest," a 77-0 loss to Oklahoma. The “Fifth Down Game” against Colorado. The “Flea-Kicker” defeat to Nebraska. The Tigers lost blowouts, they lost heartbreakers, but mainly, they just lost. Because of the high-profile or bizarre nature of some of the defeats, they began to resemble the hapless Chicago Cubs. Once a force on the national stage, the Tigers became a question mark as sports pundits wondered aloud, “Can any coach win at Missouri?” And the death spiral began with that loss to Northwestern.

How does a team lose the stigma of “Cubness”? Or worse, the college football equivalent of the Cubs' “Billy Goat” curse? One could argue that the Tigers’ demolition of Arkansas in last years’ Cotton Bowl eradicated it. But just to be absolutely, Jeff Wolfert extra-point certain, I decided to visit Ryan Field, home to the Northwestern Wildcats. While watching the team that jump-started Missouri's downfall, I would look into my heart and forgive Woody Widenhofer, the Warren Harding of head football coaches.

I gave my Mizzou-Buffalo tickets to my classmate Fly, who has to my knowledge never screamed in his life but assured me he would, at the top of his lungs, this game. After two straight weeks of crushing lesser non-conference opponents, there was no reason to believe that we wouldn’t roll over this last one before we opened the Big XII schedule two weeks hence.

The Tiger game, inexplicably, wouldn’t be carried anywhere on TV. While I admit that Mizzou didn’t exactly schedule the New England Patriots, the Tigers are the number 5 team in the country and TV should be a given. The Auburn-LSU game scheduled that evening would be aired nationally, and no one in the Midwest gave a monkey’s spank. College football, like identity politics, is personal.

Northwestern's opponent was the 0-3 Ohio Bobcats. If this game was on TV while Mizzou was not, I’d be furious--so I didn’t check. The Wildcats could move to 4-0 with a win, just as Mizzou was in a position to do. WHY AM I WATCHING NORTHWESTERN? I SHOULD BE IN COLUMBIA WATCHING THE TEAM I CARE ABOUT! DEEPLY! WHAT IN GOD’S NAME HAVE I WROUGHT, AND WHY AM I USING THE WORD “WROUGHT”?

A few deep breaths from the diaphragm later, I sat in my purple padded seat cushion. NU’s defense looked solid, as one would expect from head coach Pat Fitzgerald, a two-time Big XII defensive player of the year. With a 9-0 lead, the ’Cats finally crossed the goal-line late in second quarter, heading to the locker room with a 16-0 lead.

At halftime, I walked with my friend The Dude to “Touchdown Terrace,” an elevated area at Ryan Field overlooking the north end zone where families can take their kids to hit each other in the head with nerf footballs and their out-of-shape dads can strike Heisman poses. I leaned over the railing, watching the Wildcats stream out of the locker room and begin warming up for the second half. The weather was as perfect as it had been crappy last week. With the warm early autumnal scene before me, I gazed the length of the perfectly-manicured field, took a deep breath, closed my eyes—and forgave Woody Widenhofer. Somewhere, managing a Long John Silver's into bankrupcy, he sensed my selfless gift.

For a nominal fee, the Tiger Sports Report will text you the score at the end of each quarter of Mizzou games. Normally this is a worthless service, as you’re already watching the game and the phone vibrating in your shorts detracts from the viewing experience. The situation this day would make my subscription worth it.

The Mizzou contest kicked off at 1:00 p.m. – two hours after Northwestern started. At 1:47 p.m., I received this:

Quarter 1 ended. Tigers lead by 3. MISSOU (sic): 10 BUFF: 7

“MISSOU”? Was I getting updates from a temp in India? More alarming was the slow start, considering the pinball numbers the Tigers had put up thus far this season. I began ignoring the game in front of me and, since there wouldn’t be another update for a full quarter, pumping friends for a more information. Tim “Buddy” May texted, “Bad game. We only lead 17-14 and just fumbled.” “News” Hughes told me that we our receivers couldn’t hold onto the ball.

Quarter 2 ended. Tigers lead by 6. MISSOU 20 BUFF: 14.

The head coach of Buffalo is Turner Gill, a former Nebraska quarterback who’s nothing if not familiar with beating the pants off the Missouri Tigers. I texted “WTF?” to three different people I knew were listening to the game. Two of them texted back that despite the tighter-than-desired score, Chase Daniel was delivering one of his best performances ever.

After allowing the Buffs to hang around at 27-21 in the 3rd quarter, the Tigers began to pull away. Daniel finished 36-for-43 passing, at one point completing a conference record 20 in a row.

Relaxing in Tommy Nevin’s pub after a 16-8 Northwestern win, the details of the dog's breakfast of a Mizzou victory began to dribble in. The Tigers had fumbled three times in Buffalo territory. Their special teams allowed a 97-yard kickoff return. A roughing the kicker penalty extended a Buffalo drive—a drive that culminated in another breakdown in the Tiger secondary on a 32-yard TD pass. Dropped passes held Daniel’s completion percentage to an embarrassing 83.7%

I ordered a pint of Harp. In 1985, there were no bars here in Evanston, Illinois. Home of the Women’s Christian Temperance Movement, the town was dryer than a seminar about caulking. In the 80’s, the city council would have rather donated their kidneys than hand out a liquor license (the closest bars were the seedy P.M. Lounge and Tally-Ho Pub on Howard Street, the dividing line between Evanston and Chicago). Slowly, the devil’s lure of liquor tax revenue changed all that. Tommy Nevin’s massive Irish bar opened in 1990, paving the way for other public houses. With no reason left for Evanstonians to make the trek, the bars on Howard Street became more derelict than ever.

On one of the several flat screens not featuring Missouri Tiger highlights, the Cubs got the final out against the Cardinals and began celebrating their second-straight post-season appearance.

Times had changed for the better since 1985. For Evanston, the Cubs, and the Missouri Tigers.

Gameday: Columbia, Missouri

Tigers vs. Nevada Wolfpack
September 13, 2008

Every election year, the politically inclined keep score as to the degree their preferred candidate is getting the shaft from either the “liberal” or “right-wing” media. Mizzou fans—steeped in the paranoia of a journalism curriculum that exposes malfeasance in local dogcatcher elections—know that if you stacked all of the slights afforded McCain, Obama, Biden and Palin together, they would pale in comparison to the towering media dung heap shoveled upon the Missouri Tigers.

The liberal right-wing media’s preferred tactic for showcasing their open disdain of our program? Ignoring it altogether.

Exhibit A: ESPN College GameDay, the popular show hosted by Chris Fowler, Lee Corso and Kirk Hirbstreit. The plucky trio broadcasts each Saturday in the fall from wherever the big game of the day is played, effectively designating that campus, for at least that afternoon, as the center of the college football universe. GameDay’s tailgate atmosphere (each week raucous fans can be seen behind the set) gets ratcheted up by the fact that the location isn’t announced until the week prior. Like the Monkees, they may be coming to your town.

Except that, since GameDay’s inception in 1993, that town has never been Columbia, Missouri.

On September 6th, 2008, GameDay made its 11th trip to the University of Florida campus. They’ve made 10 trips to Ohio State and 9 to the University of Michigan. The cruelest snub of all came October 28th, 2006, when the crew passed on #19 Oklahoma vs. #23 Missouri to broadcast from Columbia. Columbia, South Carolina.

Someday, Oliver Stone will direct “College GameDay, The Movie,” exposing the evil that lurks behind the smiling corporate façade. Revenge will be served cold, with Wilford Brimley playing the part of Corso and preening peacock Dane Cook portraying quarterback pretty-boy Hirbstreit. Variety will break the story of Bill Pullman declining the role of Fowler.

In the meantime, the center of my personal college football universe remains Columbia, Missouri, and this week’s top media story involved not the College GameDay conspiracy, but Hurricane Ike. Making the 6-hour trek to the Missouri-Nevada game, each news broadcast led with the evacuation of Galveston and low-lying parts of Houston, causing me to wonder why the NCAA considers Native American team nicknames politically incorrect but killer weather system names (Miami Hurricanes, Iowa State Cyclones) hunky dory. Also, why Ike? Dwight Eisenhower was one of this country’s most popular presidents, expertly residing over the Cold War via a strict policy of playing many rounds of golf. Why name Hurricanes at all? If meteorologists insist that they be named, then why not name them after people nobody likes? I'll volunteer my old girlfriend, Hurricane Mean.

I had left Chicago early Friday morning to break the gravitational pull of the city’s morning traffic, but the driving sheets of water Ike was pushing through the midwest slowed me down. At one point I’m relatively certain I passed a twister, with Helen Hunt and Bill Paxton (who also turned down the role of Fowler) in hot pursuit.

But like my hero Barry Manilow, I made it through the rain, pulling into a garage catty-corner from Harpo’s in time for lunch. For decades, Harpo’s has been the most popular beer joint in Columbia—Sports Illustrated ranked it #2 on the list of best college sports bars. It’s getting a run for its beer money these days from cheeky upstart Shiloh’s, but it remains the old school heavyweight champion. When students tear the goalposts down, they end up here.

And so do I, taking a welcome break from sitting on my ass in a car for six hours by sitting on my ass on a barstool--a decided upgrade. I order a Bud Light and a cobb salad, both of which are served by an stupefyingly attractive bartender—another Harpo’s trademark. I dug into the Columbia Tribune, the arch nemesis of the Columbia Missourian. While newspapers die everywhere else, they hang on here.

What’s changed at Harpo’s since I was in school? For starters, there’s far more advertising on the go cups. Behind the bar sits what my bartender friends would call a Kevorkian—the Jaggermeister shot machine featuring three upside-down bottles feeding into it. And several additional beer tap handles. Other than that, nothing’s materially different, except that I no longer order Long Island Iced Teas.

A cute girl walked in the front door and asked the cute bartender if there were any (probably cute) keys left last night. The bartender chirped, “No, sorry—good luck!” A waitress carrying a tray of food and beverages cheerily excused herself around a fat guy blocking her path. Girls in Columbia are nice.

Dennis Harper, one of Harpo’s original owners, still works there. He stopped by several tables—and my barstool—to make sure everything was up to standards (i.e., your drink was cold and the food barely edible). He lingered a while at a table against the front door, and a few minutes later one of the waitresses made her way over and said, “Lunch is on Dennis.” It was then I realized I was sharing my barely edible lunch with Heisman trophy candidate Chase Daniel.

This wasn’t a complete surprise. I had read that Chase and his parents ate lunch at Harpo’s before every home game. If you're thinking, “where does hard-hitting investigative reporting end and stalking begin?,” rest assured that, other than making sure that Chase wasn’t taking hits off the Kervorkian, I had nothing to ask him.

Generally speaking I feel it’s a sound policy to leave strangers alone, especially those you only know from TV. Which may be why I struggled in Los Angeles, where you’re supposed to hand them screenplays. Truth is, many celebrities actually want to be noticed, which explains why Susan Sarandon once asked me where the elevator was while I was standing in front of it.

I paid my bill, leaving a tip which would be considered generous but not creepy, and ducked into the Harpo’s bathroom. It retains the same stench it emanated in my undergrad days. If you took a dump there, you would not hesitate to throw your pants away. A newspaper hung over the urinal and as I held my breath I read about the demise of the St. Louis Cardinals.

Re-entering the relatively fresh atmosphere of caked-on beer and Lysol, I strolled toward the front door. Unbelievably, that fucking Daniel family reached it at the same time. Looking back, it makes complete sense that they would park in the same garage I did, since there were no street spaces available. The ride up in the garage elevator confirmed that Chase is funny (a kid in a SEMO shirt couldn’t believe he had run into Daniel while wearing it, and neither could Chase) and a legitimate 6 feet tall—a bone of contention considering that most listed heights in athletics are padded.

The elevator ride took too long for me to maintain my silence. “Keep the ball dry tomorrow, Chase,” I sagely warned. He leveled a glance and solemnly replied, “oh, yeah.” I had done my part to ensure zero turnovers.

The Tiger Spirit store on 9th street was sold out of black-and-gold ponchos, so I had more time to kill before their afternoon shipment arrived. The logical place to hit next was Booches, a bar and billiards parlor that’s been around since 1884. I finished my Busch long neck, turned to head to the bathroom—and walked straight past Coach Pinkel, who was eating lunch with three other men. Rusty roofing nails protruded from his burger.

What were the odds of running into both the quarterback and the head coach within minutes of each other, I wondered rhetorically as I held my breath in the even more horrible Booches’ bathroom. Fueled by three lunch time beers, I was now a seasoned veteran at annoying my heroes. “Good luck tomorrow, Coach Pinkel,” I wisely intoned. “Thank you! I appreciate it!” he beamed. I think we both wanted to explore this conversation further, but I had a poncho to buy and Coach had last minute game plan tweaks to make.

The poncho still wasn’t there. I gave them my cell phone number and headed for Brady Commons, the student center housing the campus bookstore. They wouldn’t have ponchos, either, but if you want to know what it’s like to have a team that was #5 in the country, you have to see how t-shirts are selling. The answer came in the form of the line that snaked from the cashier to the back of the store. Everyone—students, professors, parents and college football stalkers—felt the urgent need to stock up on Mizzou scarves, pajama bottoms and face stickers. Finally, the poncho call came. I picked out a beauty.

Nevada, our weekend competition from the WAC conference, was no pushover. They had extended Texas Tech the week before, holding dark horse Heisman quarterback Graham Harrell under 50% passing and picking him off twice.

They’re also no Nebraska, so the bars on Friday night were well-populated but not shoulder-to-shoulder. I headed for Shiloh’s to watch the Kansas-South Florida game. Several patrons chatted me up, sensing my afternoon encounters with Chase Daniel and Coach Pinkel. South Florida came back strong after trailing in the first half, and when they took the lead, an excited fan knocked my beer over, drenching my arm and the bar. It was a classic enthusiasm spill, and the play was in front of me—I should have anticipated it.

I scanned the bar. Here’s a sign you’re getting old: you no longer have any concept about the workings of 21-year old breasts. Can they possibly be both that impressive-looking and real? Were after-market upgrades all the rage, even here in mid-Missouri? Could bra technology have advanced that much since you were an undergrad?

The KU-USF game entered the fourth quarter. Back at Harpo’s, a mini-contingent representing Marching Mizzou—complete with a tiger-striped tuba—strolled in around 10:30 and played a fight song medley, the patrons singing along. Now figuratively as well as literally juiced up, the crowd sensed a Kansas loss, which is the only thing Missouri fans relish more than a Tiger win. Malkon Bonani, the South Florida kicker, hooked a 43-yard field goal just inside the right upright with no time left on the clock. As the referee’s hands went up, conservative, churchgoing midwesterners chanted, “FUCK KU! FUCK KU!”

Perfect evening, and with an 11:30 a.m. kickoff, nothing left to do but turn in.

The next morning, the rain hadn’t hit yet, but looked like it could any minute. The humidity dictated that I change T-shirts several times from my hotel room to my car. I met my niece for breakfast at the Broadway Diner and headed to Faurot Field. Poncho? Check. Tickets? Check. Alcohol?

I had forgotten to make a run to South Side liquors. My preferred drink is beer, except for college football games. Too hard to sneak in. You can only accomplish it while wearing a big coat, and even then you’ve got to string the cans (always cans) around your torso like a bandolier. Plus, beer doesn’t mix with giant concession stand soft drinks. No, beer is for tailgates, a pint of Seagrams for the game.

But I had neither beer nor Seagrams, and anyway, what I really wanted was a bloody mary. It was around 10:30, and the tailgates were in full swing. I called Jackie Clark, the president-elect of the Mizzou Alumni Association who also answers to "Tiger Lady" due to her procurement of all manner of Bengal attire (boas a specialty and undergarments, I'm told, also MU-themed). No luck—she was partying in a sky box, as president-elects of all stripes are wont to do.

I decided to watch the game sober, convincing myself that it would be a character builder.

Inside the stadium, the rain finally came. Then, it stopped. Then it started again. My $7.99 poncho performed admirably, the hood flipping effortlessly up and down as advertised. As football games played in crappy conditions go, this was only about a 3 out of 10. Never did the soggy elements affect the play on the field, mainly because of my wise admonition to Chase Daniel.

On the fourth play from scrimmage, Derrick Washington broke a 59-yard run to make it 7-0. On the Tigers’ fifth play from scrimmage, Daniel hit Jeremy Maclin, who turned a nice gain into an 80-yard touchdown sprint. The Mizzou offense was operating better than it did against SEMO the week before, scoring every time they had the ball. The secondary continued their alarming trend of giving up a cheap touchdown late in the second quarter to make it Tigers 38, Wolfpack 17 at the half.

The second half opened with Jeremy Maclin drawing single coverage on a fly pattern. Here’s what that looks like: A cornerback running stride-for-stride with Maclin, Chase Daniel putting the ball well out in front of both of them, and Maclin separating by several strides and hauling the pass in like a Transformer in a Michael Bay movie. If I were that cornerback I would have tripped and fell and then cursed an imaginary seam in the turf so that nobody could see how much slower I was.

With the outcome well in hand, Chase Patton and Blaine Gabbert substituted for Daniel and rotated series, just as they had the week prior. They both directed scoring drives and played well, except that following Daniel, who was 25-for-28 passing, a normal completion rate makes the quarterback look like he’s struggling.

The rain came harder, and as the Tigers tacked on an early 4th quarter field goal to make the score 62-17, my niece clearly wanted to leave. She was right, of course, except that she doesn’t know the experience of watching the Tigers on the wrong end of games like this. We compromised, watching the end of the game at Booches over a celebratory burger and my delicious first beer of the day.

Afterward, I received a guided tour of the new journalism school addition. The unveiling the week before had coincided with the program’s 100th anniversary, and the detritus from visiting dignitaries remained. I asked her if the journalism professors seemed to favor Obama over McCain, and she told me the presidential campaign didn’t come up all that much. Then we walked past a photojournalism display of black-and-white pictures. One featured Obama looking resolutely into the future, his wife and children in fuzzy focus behind him. Next to it stood a shot of John and Cindy McCain being wanded for metal as they passed through airport security.

Driving home, the weather continued to deteriorate. The ESPN scoreboard update marveled at the Tigers’ offensive output, and Chase Daniel in particular. He had now directed scoring drives in his last 13 possessions—12 for touchdowns—vaulting him to the front of early Heisman trophy discussions. Maybe GameDay would make it to Columbia this year after all.

Gameday: St. Louis

Mizzou vs. Illinois

Opening Day of baseball season makes you feel warm and happy, no matter how cold the temperature is. Hearing the umpire bellow, “Play Ball!” means that summer isn’t far away.

Opening Day in college football makes you want to throw up.

That’s because college football has no pre-season games. Teams scrimmage against themselves and then take the field in games that count. The nausea factor increases because teams turn over a big chunk of personnel every year due to graduation (not an issue at the University of Oklahoma).

This year, head coach Gary Pinkel will play more freshmen than ever before. That can be a good thing, to borrow a phrase from college pigskin and correctional facility expert Martha Stewart. In 2002, freshman quarterback Brad Smith ran for 138 yards in the opener, on his way to rewriting the Missouri record book. In 2007, Jeremy Maclin returned a punt for a touchdown, on his way to setting an NCAA record for total freshman yardage. But generally speaking, freshmen are on their way to getting lost on campus and trying to purchase beer with a Best Buy card.

To add some churn to the acid reflux, the 6th-ranked Tigers were taking on the 20th-ranked University of Illinois in the only opening weekend game between ranked teams. The Illini went to the Rose Bowl last year, and despite the fact that they foolishly rode around on floats waving rather than playing in the actual game, they entered 2008 with a tough defensive line and a seasoned quarterback in Isiah “Juice” Williams.

The game was scheduled for a 7:30 p.m. national airing on ESPN. I drove from Chicago to St. Louis that morning, trying to become comfortable with the fact that one of the offensive linemen responsible for keeping our quarterback from getting killed was a freshman named Elvis. On route, I called my friend “News” Hughes, who immediately launched into play-by-play announcer mode: “Chase Daniel is down! He’s holding his right knee! He got blindsided and this, Tiger fans, looks bad. Very bad.”

I thanked him for the vote of confidence and hung up.

Anxious to get to the Gateway City, I flipped Sirius radio stations between classic rock, 90’s alternative, garage and, finally, 60’s pop hits. “Yummy, Yummy, Yummy” by Ohio Express feels almost like Zeppelin when you’re on I-55 doing 110 mph on Labor Day weekend.

To be honest, the contest is somewhat of a cooked-up rivalry, as evidenced by its promotional name--the "Arch Rivalry." True rivalries are not described by puns. Missouri and Illinois border each other, but the schools are in different conferences, and this game, for all that's at stake, doesn’t measure up to the nasty blood feuds like Ohio State-Michigan. Missouri borders seven states.* We can’t be mad at all of them.

*Missouri shares the state-bordering record with Tennessee. You’re welcome.

Despite its history, Illinois football lacks a certain je ne sais quoi (literally, “reason to watch”). They’ve spent lots of time bringing up the bottom half of the Big Ten, so Missouri fans should feel some empathy, and yet we don’t. Why is this? Perhaps it’s the university’s bold helmet choice, with “ILLINOIS” spelled out in an easy-to-read, conservative font. Maybe it’s their ex-mascot, Chief Illiniwek—a white guy in war paint and full head dress who the NCAA labeled as “hostile or abusive” when they banned him in 2007. They could have shut him down by labeling him “lame and uncompelling” instead, and few non-Illinois fans would disagree.

Plus, what’s an Illini? Kind of like a Phillie? As best as anyone can tell, the team was named after…wait for it…their student newspaper. Apparently, in the late 19th century, other football teams quivered at their scathing editorials. Post-Chief, I suppose you have to give the administration points for not stuffing a student into a big, fuzzy “I” with a press pass dangling from it and asking him to run around at games like a jackass. Still, a college football program with no mascot. Come on.

In fairness, the full moniker is “Fighting Illini.” Adding “Fighting” to a college team’s name always struck me as redundant. Isn’t it a given that all football teams are out there to fight for old State U? "Fighting" sounds generic, not badass. (The Fighting Irish earn a pass on this, since their logo features a leprechaun putting up his tiny magical dukes, and historically, the Irish have excelled in bar brawls.) If pre-nickname adjectives actually matched the team’s behavior, they’d be more far more interesting:

The Thuggin’ Hurricanes (University of Miami)

The Not Goin’ to Class Oftenin’ Sooners (University of Oklahoma)

The Not Winnin’ Muchin’ but it beats Goin’ to Iraqin’ Black Knights (Army)

Changing the name to “Fartin' Illini” would at least strike some fear in the opposition.

After crossing the Mississippi into St. Louis, I spent the afternoon hanging with mom on the Hill, the Italian neighborhood where she grew up. It’s only around eight square blocks or so, but peppered throughout with restaurants, delis and bakeries. Joe Garagiola and Yogi Berra grew up there, on the same street my dad did. Mom and I strapped on the feed bag at Zia’s (Italian for aunt) and as I sat there I couldn’t help but feel a little sad about the fact that, with her parents gone, she doesn’t really have much reason to come down there anymore. Not so sad that I didn’t ask her to go in the restaurant kitchen and whip me up something, though.

One pre-game nap, shower, and donning of a gold t-shirt later, I made my way to Dubliners, a bar in the shadow of the stadium. My first close college friend, Tim “Buddy” May, greeted me, resplendent in the Mizzou version of a Magnum P.I. Hawaiian shirt. “I’m wearing my lucky overshirt,” he beamed, and upon seeing another fan wearing something similar, added, “this one's vintage.”

The atmosphere in the bar consisted of excited Tiger and Illini fans setting a base with Anheuser-Busch (ok, Anheuser-Busch/InBev) products and avoiding eye contact with each other. Illini fans sensed that the odds were against them, and the Mizzou faithful didn’t feel confident enough of victory to remind them. On the plasmas, the Michigan Wolverines were dropping their home opener to Utah, which both sides seemed to enjoy.

We headed to the Edward Jones Dome, home of the St. Louis Rams. Domed stadiums fit college football like O.J. Simpson fits polite society. The Edward Jones Dome is no different, cavernous and capable of sucking the sound out of the crowd. Spanning the perimeter of the stadium is a “ring of fame,” featuring the names of both St. Louis football Cardinal greats like Larry Wilson and Roger Werhli, and Los Angeles Rams legends Merlin Olsen, Deacon Jones, and Elroy “Crazylegs” Hirsch. The effect, apparently, is to provide fans with a constant reminder that they had a team stolen out from under them and they had to swipe another city’s team to come out even.

Our seats were located directly over the Missouri locker room tunnel, which consisted of a branded “Arch Rivalry” plastic tarp stretched over the end zone corner exit. The position of our seats allowed us to see underneath the tarp as the team prepared to take the field, and possibly hand a beer to one of them, if necessary. The Tigers jumped up and down in the make-shift mosh, and then, almost eight months to the day of their Cotton Bowl victory over Arkansas, charged out to begin the 2008 campaign.

Our new starting tailback, Derrick Washington, scored the first points of the game, running as though he were in a hurry to make people forget graduated senior Tony Temple. But the Illini came back with a perfect fade pattern and an interception return, and led with a little more than 9 minutes left in the half, 13-10.

The knock on Illinois coach Ron Zook has always been that he’s a world-class recruiter but a mediocre coach. As if to confirm that, he instructed his kickoff team to boot it to Maclin. The Kirkwood High School speedster gathered the ball at the 1-yard line, and 99 yards later, the Illini’s only lead of the night vanished after all of 13 seconds.

The Tigers poured it on after that, leading 31-13 at the half and stretching that to 45-20 late in the 3rd quarter. Mizzou was toying with one of the top teams in the Big Ten. The opening weekend of the college football season was ours--until we looked over and saw Mizzou trainers on the field, working on Jeremy Maclin. We didn't see the hit--turns out there was none--but a few minutes later our tunnel seats offered the best view in the house of the worst thing imaginable. Maclin was carted off the field, a towel to his face, his legs stretched out in front of him and a trainer stabalizing his ankle.

The Tiger offense stalled and the Illini came back, as Juice Williams began picking apart the Tiger secondary. When the final gun sounded, he’d connected on 5 touchdown passes. It took a late interception return by Mizzou linebacker Sean Weatherspoon to ice the game. Final score, 52-42, with Illinois scoring their last touchdown as time ran out. The best news: Maclin returned to the sidelines on crutches, an ice pack on his bum ankle. An MRI the next day would reveal no damage--just a slight sprain.

We staggered, exhausted, into the street at 11:30 p.m., had one more beer (which tasted like…victory), and then crawled off to our respective gutters. The Tigers had played in one of the tougher contests of the weekend—and maybe their season—and lived to tell about it. We learned what Mizzou was good at (scoring quickly), what they were not (milking the clock with a lead) and what really needed shoring up (pass coverage).

Driving I-55 back to Chicago the next day, I stopped at an off-ramp Steak ’n Shake, grabbing a local paper for an account of the game. “How’s the steakburger?” the waitress asked, employing the franchises’ term for their chopped cow sandwich. I smiled and gave the mouth-full thumbs up, thinking about one of the chain’s old taglines, “Steak 'n Shake. It’s a meal.”

The Illinois game was a meal. Maybe a meal and a half.

Gameday: Chicago, Illinois

Mizzou vs. Southeast Missouri State

The non-conference “creampuff” portion of our schedule started on September 6th, when the Redhawks of Southeast Missouri State (SEMO) traveled to Columbia for the Tigers’ home opener. The Tigers were favored by so much there wasn’t even a betting line in the morning paper.

This had all the earmarks of a cakewalk, and a quick perusal of the day’s schedule revealed that most of the big-time football schools were following suit. The media love to rip major conference teams that pad their won-lost record by scheduling overmatched opponents, and yet they never come down on the program that willingly signs up to take a beating. Division I-AA athletic directors should be required to deliver pre-massacre pep talks:

“Men, we’re sending you out there today for the express purpose of being humiliated in front of 60,000 rabid fans—with many more at home rooting for your complete annihilation on TV. This isn’t due to the fact we don’t care, but rather because our esteemed competition is paying us a few hundred large to run roughshod over you, our valued student-athletes. We need that money so I can install a lobster tank in my office. But you’ll benefit from this unmerciful beating, too. We intend to spend up to $500 to purchase a used blocking sled on eBay so that we don’t have to strap together townies anymore. Now get out there and try not to rupture anything vital—that would make me look like a mercenary asshole. And for the love of Christ, don’t put up too much of a fight—we need to schedule more games like this.

Of course, this was Mizzou playing the cupcake. The Tigers have a history of losing to lightly-regarded non-conference teams. Bowling Green in 1995. Troy in 2004. Denver Athletic Club in 1893. Tiger fans know that while there indeed is no “I” in “team,” there sure as hell is a “me.” If playing a college with two directions in its name will ease the Tigers into the Big XII schedule with a 4-0 record, we’ll do it. Cynical? The University of Missouri houses the oldest and most decorated journalism program in the country. Yes, cynical.

The game was available only on pay-per-view. It would feel pathetic to sit at home and pay $29.95 to see SEMO (conversely, it doesn’t seem pathetic to sit at home and pay $10.99 to watch porn). Luckily, the Mizzou Alumni Club of Chicago sent out an email announcing a viewing party at a bar called “The Spread.” So rather than spend $29.95 on the game, I decided to spend $150 on beer and a bar buffet.

The Spread is located in the section of the city known as Lincoln Park. There are lots of Starbucks, Pinkberries and Einstein bagel franchises in Lincoln Park, so hipsters tend to look down their pierced noses at it. The block that houses the Spread is relatively eclectic, though. The Biograph Theatre, where J. Edgar Hoover once donned a red dress and gunned down John Dillinger, sits right across the street. On the other hand, with a name like “The Spread,” the odds were high it’d feature appetizers with cutsie sports monikers like “two-minute warmings.”

The game didn’t start until 6 p.m. But after watching ESPN analyst Lee Corso stick his gigantic squash into a Gator mascot head that morning, I was ready to watch some gridiron action. So I made a pre-game trip to my friend David R.’s man cave.

A few years ago nobody had heard of a man cave. Now, it’s the only thing keeping the housing market from imploding. The man cave phenomena can be explained thusly: since many wives only give their husbands one room in the house, some man-genius decided that room should be the basement, since that’s where husbands are hiding, anyway. Our fathers didn’t need man caves, of course—they had workshops. But since most men today know that Home Depot is full of shit about doing things ourselves and we’ll just chop a finger off if we try, we have no need for one.

David R.’s man cave decorating theme is early Georgia Bulldog. On any given Saturday he’ll be holed up down there, drinking Miller Lite, flying his university flag, and casting fleeting, homoerotic glances at his Hershel Walker Sports Illustrated covers. When I arrived, he was watching the Dawgs manhandle the Central Michigan Chippewas and their intimidating “streaking C” helmets.

At a slow moment in the first half, the camera crew cut to Georgia’s new bulldog mascot, Uga VII. The previous Uga—Uga VI—died of congestive heart failure on June 27th. Bulldog Nation sat shiva, eating nothing but Popeye’s fried chicken and kosher grits, until the home opener. David R. assured me that the ceremony that day was respectful and, dare he say, moving. A man of the cloth extolled Uga VI’s accomplishments, which included two Sugar Bowl victories, two SEC championships, and the successful romancing of a University of Mississippi cheerleader’s leg. Uga VI is now interred by the entrance to the stadium, stacked vertically with Ugas I through V like above-ground coffins in a New Orleans graveyard.

After a brief second-half sortie from the man cave to a Georgia Bulldog bar (we departed through the secret man cave exit), David R. and his 3-year-old Russ drove with me to The Spread. Russ’ complete disinterest in potty training fairly guaranteed that if game got exciting and one of his grown up cohorts couldn’t make it to a urinal, we could blame the floor puddle on him.

We walked into bedlam, crossing the entrance to The Spread about 30 seconds before kickoff. I’ve attended alumni watch parties where the crowd consisted of me and two guys wearing Beetle Bailey shirts (Mort Walker, class of ’48). Now, with the team in the top ten, we stood shoulder-to-shoulder with hot, bandwagon-hopping women sporting the latest in Tiger fashion. The bartenders wore Missouri gear, too, and mini-pennants hung from bar mirrors. This wasn’t one of those bars that cordoned off a section for different schools—every TV had the SEMO game on. My friend Kitty (retired stripper, kept the name) texted me from 15 feet away asking where the hell I was. Her first words over the din were, “this is scary.” She meant “torch-carrying mob” scary, but I assured her that this was a happy mob, and if anybody got crushed to death we’d all laugh about it later.

Somehow we caught a break and found stools at the bar, David R.’s red Georgia t-shirt swallowed up by a gigantic, pulsating black and gold amoeba. I was wrong about The Spread. Other than the flat screen TVs, it looked like a classic public house. Tin ceilings, check. Ornate wood back bar, check. Bottles of alcohol, check.

The scrappy Redhawks battled Mizzou to a draw all the way until the Tigers’ first possession. Then Chase Daniel and the offense scored five times in a row, with the defense tossing in a pick-six for good measure. The crowd lapped it up, but not in a mean-spirited, kill the opposition way. No, this was the satisfaction of seeing exactly what you anticipated you’d see, like attending a James Bond movie. We were watching one of the best spread offenses in the country operating at near perfection. Nine different receivers caught the ball, yet the running game kept the linebackers from helping out with the coverage. The experience was not unlike lifting the hood of a BMW M3 and gawking at the revving S65 engine—you may not understand it, but you can’t help but feel a rush in your nether regions.

With the score 42-0 at halftime, the SEMO coach jogged off the field and was intercepted by an on-field reporter. The bar’s sound system blaringly cut in exactly as the reporter delivered his question, making the on-air query sound like, “WE’RE AT THE END OF THE FIRST HALF, AND MISSOURI IS KICKING ASS! HOW’S THAT FEEL?” just as he stuck a microphone in the coach’s face. The Spread erupted with laughter, the effect far funnier than lining up the audio of Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon with the video from Wizard of Oz (except if you’re really high, in which case it would be equally funny. I’m told.) The important bar announcement (something about eating or drinking, I think) segued into Springsteen’s “Glory Days.” Enjoy it while you can, the Boss warned the Tiger faithful, because in the blink of a young girl’s eyes you may be losing to MAC schools again.

In the second half, the Tiger second and third string got into the game. Freshman quarterback of the future™ Blain Gabbert got his redshirt yanked and ran the offense like, well, a freshman quarterback. Chase Daniel traded his helmet for a baseball cap and headset and swapped recipes with Bob Christiansen, the offensive coordinator up in the press box. A camera caught one of the other assistant coaches filling out a Jumble. I kept drinking Bud Lights and accepting slaps on the back and high fives in acknowledgment of the score—and the fact that I was wearing a Shakespeare’s pizza t-shirt, which made me somewhat of a campus insider.

After 3 quarters, the scoreboard read 45-0. Hard to tell if you’re beating the spread when there is none. A call came in from some other bar-hopping friends to meet them. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, so I took one last look around and pulled a Houdini, pushing through the euphoria and taking a little of it out with me.

The rest of the season won’t be like this. We’ll have tough games in Nebraska, Texas and some other surprises besides those. But today was ours. And even if this was more a scrimmage than anything else, the Tigers performed like rock stars.

Glory days.