Game Day: Kansas City, Missouri

Tigers vs. Oklahoma Sooners

December 6, 2008

Tiger AP ranking: 19th

(With apologies to Ernest Lawrence Thayer.)

The signposts didn’t point toward a Missouri win that day:
The point spread stood at seventeen. On eBay tickets lay.
So when Corso and then Herbstreit took turns calling for a rout,
The Sooners drew the accolades. Missouri, counted out.

But still the Tiger buses they pulled into Arrowhead.
The players strolled serenely off, their eyes not tipping dread.
And tailgaters flew Tiger flags and ate with all their hearts;
And pierced the chilly evening air with Tiger beer-fueled farts.

Nearby, a long stretch Hummer, that of crimson and of cream,
Arrived, and toothless Sooner fans let out a whooping scream.
And then the 5-star athletes one-by-one did disembark.
To do what they do, game or not—spark mayhem in the dark.

And still the Tigers did not flinch. Their destiny awaited.
So through the tunnel they did speed to face a curse so hated.
They lost the coin toss at the start and kicked it high to Murray,
And Tigers fans there braced themselves against the Sooner fury.

The Tiger defense held, allowing just a three point score.
Then Sooner Schooner stalled just like a well-worn metaphor.
So when Maclin hauled a slant pass in and ran it home to sweet "ohs!"
The Tiger faithful came to life. Fiesta Bowl! (Tostidos)!

The Oklahoma head coach frowned, for this was not as planned.
His charges were the best that could be bought in all the land.
Stoops cursed and vowed that just as sure ’twas “Big Game Bob” his name,
He coached only in blowouts, and tonight would be the same.

It was in the second quarter with a field goal separating,
That Sooner QB “Heisman Sam” plum ended the debating.
Tucked snug behind offensive guards the size of missing links,
Sam sent his team to four straight scores and Tiger fans to drinks.

But the drinks were not forthcoming, for the beer taps all were dry.
So Tiger boosters warmed their toes and cursed the halftime sky.
And with the spread at 31 all hope turned to damnation,
’Cept that the Tigers’ pride might halt a rout by Sooner nation.

“Bwaa ha ha ha!” sneered Big Game Bob, “We’ve only just begun.”
He strutted ’round like Kim Jong Il, his game plan dialed to “stun.”
The Sooner throng they yelled for blood; their band played loud and strong,
As many struggled with the lyrics to their two-word song.

It wasn’t fair nor just that this Mizzou squad lose this way,
For weren’t they picked to win the league and play past New Years’ Day?
But fair is not what drives the fates nor fair the king anoints,
And fair was not on Sooners’ minds in racking up style points.

“Go Sixty! We want Sixty!” Sooner fans did warmly chant.
And Heisman Sam obliged them, dodging Tiger d-backs scant.
Yes, maybe with a big lead other teams’ first string would leave,
But Stoops does not coach other teams, and so, more down field heaves.

The final gun fired mercif’ly, no need for post-game wrap.
Still, Heisman Sam could not resist a verbal post-game slap.
Coach Pinkel and Coach Stoops met at midfield, their hands to shake,
With Pinkel showing great restraint to not a widow make.

But in Co Mo no one this sees, the channel long since flipped.
’Cause fans there know the drill when glory from their grasp is ripped.
To be a Tiger fan’s to know for whom the scoreboard tolls,
And when to hit the bars and toast those bids to minor bowls.

Game Day: Ames, Iowa

Tigers vs. Iowa State Cyclones November 15, 2008

Tiger AP ranking: 12th

The 2008 football season entered its 12th week in far less topsy-turvy fashion than the season before. Perennial powerhouses Texas, USC, Alabama and Florida beat their second-division brethren with the reassuring dependability of an atomic clock. Replacing the 2007 mayhem, the country’s economic meltdown provided the nation with its giant-fall-down-go-boom fix. The $700 million government bailout of financial institutions didn’t budge the credit market. The Big 3 Auto CEOs flew to Washington in private jets, groveling for a handout. Triple-digit Dow plummets became commonplace, leading to citizens reacting to “brokers with their head in their hands” photos with a collective, blasé shrug.

No longer did economists argue whether the nation was in recession. The D word got thrown around a lot, too. Across the U.S., people completely stopped buying cheap crap that breaks easily—a frightening prospect for retailers with the holiday season fast approaching.

An economic slowdown of gargantuan proportions calls for decisive action. My bold plan: to crap my drawers and stop spending money. The austerity program would begin with Missouri’s game against the Payless Shoe Store of the Big XII, Iowa State University.

There are lots of discretionary costs that can be cut from attending football games. Do you really need a cushy cushion and seat back? Cousin Jimmy would say yes, but the austerity program responds with “Bring a blanket, or sit your ass on the metal bleacher and take it.” Must you buy beer? Not if there’s an unattended cooler (code word "UC") in the tailgating lot.

The biggest single cost to attend an away game, of course, is travel. One downside of the Tigers’ recent popularity involved the late announcements of kickoff times. If a game took place in some god-forsaken outpost—let’s call it “Waco”—you didn’t know whether it would start at 11 a.m. or at 7 p.m. until after your travel plans were locked in. Often, the only viable option involved getting to town on Friday night and staying Saturday night. That was my plan—until the austerity program.

ISU and Mizzou were set to line up for yet another night game, this one kicking off at 5:30 p.m. I decided to drive from my lean-to in Chicago to Ames, watch the game, and drive back, all in the same day. According to Google maps, that’s 722 miles of my sexy America.

It may come as somewhat of a jolt that it’s not easy to find a driving companion for 361 miles of flatness each way to see a game in 20 degree weather where your team is a four-touchdown favorite. Heavy D turned me down. The Dude guffawed and asked if I was really going to drive both ways in one day. I assured him that the austerity program calls for sacrifice, and that driving a long distance in a warm car, on an interstate highway, does not equate with Evil Knievel jumping the Snake River Canyon.

The night before the trip I met up with David R. to discuss the automaker bailout. On the way there I left a message with another friend, on the hope that he might be prone to an impulse road trip. A text came back immediately:

“When are you driving tomorrow? I’m a big believer in helping pass highway time. And there are things we need to discuss."

The hook had been set. I relayed the particulars, including the chilling but necessary “wheels up at 10 a.m.” part. My friend immediately switched to radio silence. By the time I asked David R. if he was interested, I wasn't even serious about it. After several beers, we concluded that bringing back the El Camino could well reverse America’s economic fortunes.

I loaded my M3 with warm weather gear and Trader Joe snacks and backed out of my garage into the borderline freezing weather. The possibility of snow never materialized save for some sparse flurries. As I drove down the Kennedy Expressway out of Chicago, I noted that gasoline in the city cost $2.95 a gallon. I am turning into my father.

Beside me sat the kitty. Not my friend Kitty—she laughed at the road trip idea, too—but rather an envelope containing four $20 bills, one $10, one $5 and five ones. On road trips, the kitty allows all the participants (me, in this case) to enjoy a jolly ride without thinking about money. The kitty works like any ante system: Everyone puts in the same amount, and then all group expenses are paid out of the kitty. If there’s money left over, it’s split evenly. If the money runs out, everyone re-kitties.

Once free of Chicago's gravitational traffic pull, I opened up the E46's 333 hp, heading west on I-88. The tollbooths began piling up by the buttload. That’s why you need the smaller kitty bills. I always take tolls as a sign that you can speed, because all of the law enforcement is concentrated around making sure that no one runs the toll gates. This reasoning gets me plenty of tickets.

Road trips on the austerity program require the purchase of gas in places like Rock Falls, Illinois, where it’s 87¢ less than Chicago. With the money you’ve saved, look for a deli with a reclining dill pickle on its logo and you're in for some fine road dining. Arthur’s Garden Deli in Rock Falls sells a turkey and cheddar sandwich that sets you back less than three large. The austerity program not only builds character, it includes haute cuisine, so long as you can eat it while driving. Excuse me, brother trucker, may I borrow your Grey Poupon?

After visiting some of the finest bars the Big XII has to offer, am I concerned about missing out on the nightlife of Ames? Not really, because Ames nightlife is pretty much an oxymoron. There’s rumor of a reverse curfew in Ames to encourage the townspeople to stay out past 8 p.m. Like the Missouri Tigers, executing my austerity game plan with a minimum of drama requires singular, pinpoint focus.

The drive across Iowa takes me past towns with names like What Cheer. The picturesque barns and golden fields may look boring to some, but I find them beautiful. Monet spent months in fields such as these, painting the same stack of hay at differing times of the year and different times of day. Many of us spend our days in ergonomic chairs, in antiseptic offices, and think artists crazy. Monet knew otherwise.

To get to Jack Trice stadium, you hang a Ralph at Des Moines. I didn’t allow myself much pre-game time, lest I be drawn into sin and depravity by the siren song of the Ames honky-tonks. Parking across the street from the stadium costs $15 and is worth every penny, because this is where you want to be prior to an ISU game. Ames proper may be duller than laundry day, but the opposite holds for the flood plain surrounding the field. ISU tailgaters always arrive in force, unorganized and spirited, many in team color striped bib overalls. As I pulled on my Soreil boots and trudged across the grass lot, I passed students shotgunning Bud Lights with one hand and heaving cornhole beanbags with the other (they missed on both ends). Their team hadn’t won a conference game, and the faithful could not have given less of a flying fuck at a rolling donut. Walking through the grinning, sometimes painted faces, you couldn’t help but feel sorry for fans who root only for frontrunners. Cyclone fans rock like a hurricane.

Dusk fell on a game day temperature that felt cold but not bitterly so, thanks to the modest wind. Important, because the stadium’s wedge design and sparse surroundings turn the slightest breeze into a whipsaw gale force. I tracked down Mizzou Alum Association President-elect Jackie Clark’s tailgate. Jackie's the Holly Golightly of tailgating, always showing up at the right party with a tiger boa and a joke. This gathering featured a 22-long converted hearse limo with gold pinstripes down the side and a life-sized tiger affixed to the roof. The beer, cheese and crackers were all gratis, fitting the austerity program budget like the Thinsulate gloves I was wearing.

The Iowa State Cyclones have been housed in the same conference as Missouri since 1908, but it’s a friendly rivalry. ISU posted losing records in 2006 and 2007, and at 2-8 coming into this game, they had locked up a third. But during that time they’d largely defanged the Tigers. In 2005, Mizzou quarterback Brad Smith got knocked woozy by the Cyclones, and a freshman named Chase Daniel had to come in off the bench to lead the team on two touchdown drives, salvaging a 27-24 OT win—the second year in a row the Tigers beat the Cyclones in overtime. In 2006, Mizzou provided ISU with its only conference win as a potentially game-winning touchdown was called back on a controversial holding call that the Big XII later admitted was a boo-boo. No matter the state of the Cyclone program, they seemed to play the Missouri Tigers even up. Head coach Gene Chizik (“the Chizzer”) was donning an official ISU stocking cap for his second year, and the fan base seemed genuinely excited about their young team. Between the cold weather and ISU’s weird voodoo that they do on ol’ Mizzou, it was difficult to find a Tiger fan expecting a blowout.

Stadiums named after people can generally be divided into two categories: those honoring benefactors and those where a legendary coach has been chiseled into the façade. Jack Trice was neither—he was the first black athlete to play for Iowa State. On October 6, 1923, the night before he started his first game, he wrote a letter. “Everyone is expecting me to do great things.” it read, “I will.” The next night he suited up against the University of Minnesota. Early in the game, he broke his collarbone. He continued to play, but was trampled by three Minnesota players. He still insisted that he could play but was removed from the contest. Trice died three days later from internal hemorrhaging. His legacy was sadly forgotten until ISU students discovered a dusty plaque commemorating him in the 1970s. A groundswell to rename the stadium gradually gained momentum, and in 1997 Cyclone Stadium was renamed Jack Trice Stadium—the only NCAA Division 1-A stadium honoring an African-American.

Jack Trice would have been proud of the effort his team exerted this cold November night. They hit hard, blocked well, pursued the play until the whistle blew, and several other coaching clichés that actually win football games.

But the Cyclones were also inexperienced and prone to mistakes. The Tigers took the field with the knowledge that Texas had methodically crushed Kansas earlier in the day, meaning that if Mizzou prevailed they’d clinch the Big XII North Title outright. The team played like they were in a hurry to claim it. Maclin returned the opening kickoff 37 yards to the 41. Daniel completed his first 16 passes. Early in the second quarter, Mizzou led, 14-0. The ISU student side, which never came close to filling up, began to empty. The smart money said that several shotgunning, cornholing tailgaters never made it inside.

This represented my first time viewing the new ISU uniforms in person. The team’s old uniforms fell just a mite short of the understated Penn State look. The pre-2008 red helmets featured a red cyclone with the head of a cardinal (the ISU mascot has been a cardinal for years, perhaps because dressing up an undergrad as a weather system is cost-prohibitive). The team used to bow to the temptation of wearing all red—or, officially, cardinal. Red jerseys, red pants, red helmets. If you think that might look clownish, bingo. But now the unis featured the retro-Iowa State combo of red jerseys and gold pants. Classic. So classic, in fact, that if you didn’t notice that the Cyclones jumped offside constantly, you might mistake them for the USC Trojans. Replacing the Cyclone on the helmet was the new “I STATE” logo. Unimaginative, but a boon to the merchandising department.

ISU did not go quietly into the soft, cold night. Early in the second quarter they picked Daniel off on a deflected pass that should have been caught. Three plays later, though, William Moore returned the favor, stepping in front of a receiver and batting the ball to himself, gliding in 17 yards to make it 21-0. For all practical purposes, that was the football game. But the Cyclones never let up, performing like a team that wanted desperately to improve. They moved the ball through the air—with the large deficit, they had no choice—and ended up posting 336 passing yards, only two less than the Tigers. Other than the precision of the Tiger passing game, the story of the night belonged to Derrick Washington. He averaged over 11 yards per carry, including one against the grain cutback for 52 yards, with Maclin providing an escort into the end zone.

At roughly 9 o’clock, Mizzou cornerback Carl Gettis intercepted the Cyclones again. With the score 45-20 and Missouri grinding out a final drive, it was time to start the long ride back. I skedaddled back to my car, beat traffic out of town, and loaded up on cheap gas and cheaper coffee as I listened to Mike Kelly and John Kadlec call the final minutes of the game through Sirius.

The winner of the Missouri-Iowa State game receives arguably the stupidest trophy in sports, the Telephone Trophy. It came into being following a cross up in the lines to the press box that allowed the coaches to hear each other’s plays during the 1959 game. The problem was fixed before the game started, but Ma Bell decided that their screw up was worthy of commemoration with a phone on a wooden block. The cradle of the phone is painted Mizzou colors on one side and Iowa State hues on the other. A trophy is a trophy, I guess, and the players embrace the weirdness.

More important, The Missouri Tigers had won the Big XII North title and would take on either Texas, Texas Tech, or Oklahoma in the championship game on December 6th. But the Big XII North trophy did not make the trip to Ames, so, boys, rally 'round the telephone.

For long stretches, I had 88/80 all to myself. I bumped up the cruise control and made the most of the fuzz’s absence. Even more tolls stood in my way than the front end of the trip, and the change rattled in the kitty envelope. Rolling into Chicago around 1:30, I trudged up my back stairs to greet my dog, Georgia. She is not on the austerity program, and had earned raw hamburger as a treat for her patience. I slumped in a chair and tallied the cost:

• Gas $57
• Tolls $12
• Lunch $3
• Parking $15
• Brat & hot chocolate $5
• Road coffee & sandwich $4

I slapped the $3 and change remaining in the kitty on the kitchen table, and crawled upstairs into the fart sack. The austerity program, like all character-building activities, isn’t for sissies.

Game Day: Columbia, Missouri

Tigers vs. Kansas State Wildcats

November 8, 2008

Tiger AP ranking: 13th

At 10 p.m. on Tuesday, November 4th, Wolf Blitzer took center stage on the CNN set and announced that Barack Obama had been elected the 44th President of the United States. Following a gracious concession speech by John McCain and a brief moment in the sound-proof booth provided to all new Presidents so that they can scream “WOOOO! I CAN NUKE FRANCE!” Obama greeted his supporters in Chicago’s Grant Park. The warm night drew a quarter of a million supporters, the air crackling with energy and hope. I briefly considered attending, but knew that Oprah might be in the audience and didn't want her runny mascara to ruin a perfectly good shirt.

The next morning, it was impossible to find a Chicago newspaper. Sure, you can get news from the internet, but when a major story breaks the online experience lacks the permanence of an old-fashioned press run. And while you can take your laptop into the toilet, the screen doesn’t fold well.

So in the wake of the election, most citizens of Chicago were news-deprived about nearly everything else. Mid-afternoon, I received my first non-presidential headline in the form of a text from Tim “Buddy” May:

“Ron Prince out at K-State.”

Criminy. Mizzou has faced rashes of teams immediately after those squads’ head coach had stepped down, and history has shown the Tigers don’t handle ambiguity well. Former Kansas State head coach Bill Snyder announced he was hanging up his headset on November 15, 2005, and Missouri obliged his retirement party by handing him his first victory in the hurriedly-renamed Bill Snyder Family Stadium—only his second win in conference play that year. In 2006, Iowa State coach Dan McCarney pulled the same stunt, going public with retirement plans the weekend before the Cyclones played Mizzou. He didn’t get a stadium named after him, but his team won its only Big XII game, knocking the Tigers out of contention for the North division title.

Of course, there’s a pronounced difference between a coach stepping down and a coach being shitcanned with several weeks left in the season. From all reports, Ron Prince’s firing was, as college football icon Martha Stewart might say, a good thing. K-State drove its busses into Columbia sporting a 4-5 record, a three-game losing streak, and a stumbling performance against Kansas the weekend before. The Tigers only seemed to struggle against emotionally-charged teams, as when a beloved coach rode off into the sunset. Still, the K-State players might feel that they cost their coach his job. No telling what mental state the Wildcats would show up in. My hope was drunk and sleepy.

The Tigers had their own Klennex moment to contend with. November 8th marked Senior Day, the last appearance of the most successful class in terms of total games won in the school’s history. Twenty-three upperclassmen would run from the Faurot Field tunnel to embrace their coaches and parents. A touching, bittersweet moment, but nonetheless one followed by a proverbial “must-win” football game. Still, you had to like the Tigers’ chances. Against inferior teams—and K-State certainly qualified—they had proven about as emotional as professional assassins.

This would be my last trip of the year to Boone County—a dollop of blue surrounded by red on the election map and a school where the elite liberal media were taught to walk, talk, and lob cynical asides at Republicans. It also happened to be my birthday weekend. Far better as an alumnus than an undergrad, when my birthday seemed to always land the day before mid-terms. AD flew in from Los Angeles and I picked her and her 500-lb. suitcase up at Lambert Field in St. Louis. We made it to Columbia in time for a fancy-pants dinner at a restaurant called Sycamore. The temperature had dropped like a General Motors pension fund over the last 48 hours, and the wind whipped up to 20 mph. We followed my friend Heavy D’s edict of ordering the cheapest wine on the menu. There’s sound logic behind this: All dining establishments know that many patrons are on a budget yet still want a bottle of vino. It’s just good business for them to enjoy that bottle and want to return. Therefore, the cheapest wine on any upscale menu, without fail, is a carefully-selected one worth far more than its price would indicate. Still, any need for the vintage to “breathe” was trumped by my need to warm my belly as fast as possible.

I was doubly pleased to note that Sycamore offered a beet salad. A lot of my friends think beets taste like dirt, which draws into question how they came to that conclusion. I believe that beets can’t be beat. They’re full of vitamins and, besides, how many deep magenta foods do you get the opportunity to gnaw on? Bonus points to beta vulgaris for producing a far scarier special effect encore than asparagus.

Dessert arrived with a candle in it—the whole meal was AD’s treat. As I enjoyed my coffee and made my wish (a BCS bowl bid over something hard to measure like world peace), I glanced up just in time to see a Marching Mizzou trumpeter double-timing it down the sidewalk. I grabbed AD—she had paid, hadn’t she?—and double-timed it after the tardy soloist. Sadly, we arrived at Harpo’s just in time to hear the closing strains of the Missouri Fight Song coming from inside. Apparently lots of other band members missed the wake-up call, too, as there were several of them milling about outside with us. AD took it all in stride, assuring me that she caught the gist of the performance. She’s either incredibly low-maintenance or doesn’t give a stale beet about Marching Mizzou. Quite likely, both.

The next morning’s gray skies rolled in even colder. Over furnace-stoking hotcakes at the Broadway diner, the counter topic of choice involved the layering of clothes and an end to the near-perfect weather the Tigers had enjoyed thus far in the 2008 season. Tonight’s game would be contested in temperatures dipping well into the 20’s. This represented a drop of over 60 degrees from the previous week, with the stiff wind rendering lip balm and snot rags de rigueur. We browsed the Tiger Spirit store in search of a stadium blanket. I opted for the Mizzou plaid, “the official plaid of the Missouri Tigers.” Let it be noted that the official plaid of the Missouri Tigers features an Oklahoma crimson stripe, a KU blue stripe, and plenty of holiday evergreen. Maybe there’s some obscure tartan code that plaids must adhere to, but count me among the traditionalists who contend that Mizzou plaid should be black and gold on a white background, and that, in addition, there shouldn’t be something called “Mizzou plaid.”

AD asked me what I would normally do to kill time before a game. Um…er…that would be drinking. But with a post-game drive back to St. Louis in front of us, responsibility reminded me of just how much fun you can have on a college football weekend without alcohol: somewhere between “none” and “hardly any.” I strategically incorporated stops to Booches and Shiloh’s under the guise of warming up. We also made a hot chocolate run that made me pine for the peppermint schnapps of my undergrad days. Walking through Greektown toward the stadium, I felt confident that between the blanket and the four layers of clothing I wore—the bottom one comprised of cutting edge wicking material—there would be no problems with the weather.

The senior introduction went as expected, which is to say there wasn’t a dry eye in the house (in fairness, some tears may have been triggered from the cold). Undergrad football players lined the field leading out from the tunnel and the parents of the seniors waited at the end of the run. Lonnie O’Neal, father of the late Aaron O'Neal, came out first, to an ovation that he did not or could not acknowledge. The three Chases—Daniel, Coffman and Patton—were each given their bleacher-rattling due. The crowd showed Jeff Wolfert just how much it appreciated his boring automatic placekicking. Athletes and parents mingled and hugged—as private moment within a public one. The next day’s papers would show the emotion contorting Coach Pinkel’s face as he put his hand on O’Neal’s shoulders and, moments later, embraced and sent his Heisman-candidate quarterback to the field for the last time.

As one could expect after such a ceremony, the game began sluggishly. Less expected was that it would remain that way. Daniel took a hit as he released his second pass—a long sideline patter—and the underthrown result was picked off. The Tigers punted on their second possession. On the third, the offense began moving the ball, maybe because their eyes were finally clear. The Missouri defense forced six first-half punts, one of which they blocked. The majority of the others forced Jeremy Maclin to call for a fair catch.

If Maclin was stymied on punts, he took it out everywhere else. Finding a seam in the defense, the speedster turned a modest pass into a 42-yard foot race, and he doesn’t lose those. On the next series, with the team’s big toe, Chase Coffman, on the sidelines nursing his big toe, Maclin did his best Chase imitation, snaring a 16-yarder while falling backward in the corner of the north end zone.

Mizzou chugged into halftime with a 21-point lead. My date looked increasingly blue, and I knew that I’d have to balance my desire to watch the Tigers annihilate an opponent with hers not to lose any appendages. I wrapped her tight in the Mizzou plaid blankie and headed for the bathroom. The men’s room line snaked out the door and down the concourse, no doubt slowed by the layers needing to be shed to take a squirt. It looked like a Flomax commercial casting call, and once inside the urine fumes could fell a rat. The experience got me to thinking, how bad can adult diapers really be? Based on the convenience factor alone, Depends would seem a wise game day decision at any age.

The third quarter unfolded in proper Mizzou-rah fashion with the team driving down to the six yard line, stalling, and kicking a field goal. 24 points up, and the Mizzou plaid blanket was creeping up higher and higher on AD’s face. If the Tigers could just score just once more, we could leave. The Wildcats punted. Then, the Tigers punted. Then the Wildcats punted again. Then the Tigers punted again. The wind swept through the stadium like an Apache attack copter. I looked out of the corner of my eye to see AD staring straight ahead, her eyes barely visible over the blanket, shivering.

Once upon a time, on the studio backlot used for Gilligan’s Island, we produced a commercial for Budweiser that required us to shoot at night. The script called for the main actor to be thrown into the lagoon and then resurface with a funny expression. Warm California days can turn into bone-chilling nights, and after a few dunkings the director pulled me aside and told me that the talent may be becoming hypothermic. My response was that actors are pussies and we needed another take or five.

I knew then that I would never see the actor again. In tonight’s situation, if we didn’t leave with a 24-point lead and 3 minutes left in the third quarter, I might never see AD again, and the choice would be hers, not mine.

Walking across campus, our brisk pace masked my desperation to get to a car radio. By the time we buckled up and tuned in, Jeremy Maclin had taken a direct snap from center and rushed 56 yards for a touchdown to start the fourth quarter. Maclin would finish the night with three touchdowns and 278 all-purpose yards. The red-shirt sophomore may as well have run out with the seniors—projected as a first-round NFL draft pick, this was probably his last game in Columbia.

Warm as toaster waffles and barreling down interstate 70 ahead of the crowd, the biggest surprise left in the game was when Ron Prince, the lame-duck Kansas State head coach, called for an onside kick while trailing 41-17 with just over a minute left. Bold strategy, Coach Cleats. Don’t let the angry mob of alumni kick you in the ass on your way out.

Back in St. Louis, we found a late-night kitchen open in the Central West End. AD, her lovely form somewhere in the 98-degree range again, toasted the official advancement of my age at midnight. We crashed in the Union Station hotel, slept in, and scarfed down pancakes and bacon in bed the next morning.

Under any circumstances, getaway day is best done quickly. I dropped AD off and trudged to my gate.

There’s a scene in “Defending your Life” in which Albert Brooks’s character rationalizes his decision to spend his birthday by himself.

Brooks: You were born alone, you should celebrate it—celebrate aloneness. That’s what birthdays are for.
Friend: Gee, I never thought of that.
Brooks: It’s a pitiful theory.

I bought an airport turkey sandwich and sat down to wait for Southwest flight 2838. The skies remained overcast, and for the first time all weekend I felt old. Albert Brooks is right.

Gameday: Columbia, Missouri

Tigers vs. Oklahoma State Cowboys
Oct. 11, 2008
Tiger AP ranking: 3th

The joke in Green Bay was that the most useless guy on the sidelines every Sunday was Vince Lombardi. It wasn’t a knock on his coaching ability, but rather recognition of the hall of fame coach’s inexhaustible pregame prep. Lombardi made certain his players were the best-conditioned athletes on the field. He drilled them on the most basic of plays until they could execute them in their sleep. He motivated so completely that his team feared not only losing, but disappointing him in any way. If there was anything in a football game that could be controlled, Lombardi found a way to control it.

Lombardi died of cancer in 1970 at the age of 57. Twenty-seven years later, the Green Bay Packers won Super Bowl XXXI—their first since he had coached them. The city held a parade to honor their heroes, and a photo of the celebration ran in newspapers across the country. Off to the side stood a middle-aged man, a bit removed from the festivities. He wore an overcoat and a brimmed hat and appeared to be taking in the moment with great pride.

The man looked exactly like Vince Lombardi.

In sports, there are things that can be controlled, and then there’s the heebie-jeebie stuff. More often than not, there’s no heebie-jeebie stuff at all—the team that’s expected to win does. Sometimes there’s a single defining heebie-jeebie moment, like the 1980 Notre Dame-Michigan game. On the last play of the game the Irish attempted a 51-yard field goal into the teeth of a 15-mph wind. The wind had been blowing all game, and as the kicker counted his steps from the placeholder, the flags at the top of the goal posts suddenly went limp. Harry Oliver’s boot cleared the uprights by a foot, giving the Fighting Irish a 29-27 victory and leading to many eyewitness accounts of Touchdown Jesus intervention.

Sometimes, there’s no defining heebie-jeebie moment. Something just feels right. Or wrong.

My trip to Columbia began uneventfully. That is, until I realized that my tiger tail was missing. Mizzou fans hang one from their trunks as they make their way to the games. My father always did, anyway, as he drove the two hours on I-70 from St. Louis to Columbia. I continued the tradition, honking at other fans who did the same. But on Thursday I realized that my friend Kitty still had my tiger tail from last weekend’s trip to Nebraska. She offered to make arrangements for me to pick it up, but I decided that I could do without it for one week, in effect thumbing my nose at fate.

I was traveling to see the Tigers take on #17 ranked Oklahoma State. Oddsmakers had slated Missouri almost a two touchdown favorite, largely because the game would take place in Columbia and OSU hadn’t yet played a team worth a sheet of detergent coupons.

Oklahoma State always struck me as sort of an odd team. For starters, they go by a grab bag of names. The Cowboys. The Cowpokes. The ’Pokes. OSU. Okie State. Okie Light. Their campus is located in Stillwater, where polite folks admit there isn’t much to do and less polite folks call it “Stoolwater.” Their primary benefactor is Forbes list hedge fund guy and alternative energy TV spokesmodel T. Boone Pickens. He’s given $265 million to the OSU athletic department, and apparently when you do that, they name the stadium after you. I don’t know the reason they decided to drop the “T” and call it Boone Pickens Stadium, but it doesn’t sound all that removed from dropping Jethro Bodine’s middle initial.

OSU’s team mascot is “Pistol Pete,” a mustachioed cowboy who totes a pair of six-shooters. That’s not so odd, except when you consider that there are two other Pistol Petes, one at the University of Wyoming and the other at New Mexico State. Wouldn’t it be confusing for fans if they ever scheduled each other? Should I cheer for this mascot or throw kettle corn at him? I suppose the issue could be settled with a duel. These bowlegged muppets already have guns, for crissakes. Why not give ’em real ammunition and square them off at 20 paces? Winner gets to keep the big head. I’m not condoning the killing of mascots, of course. Rather, let’s see who can shoot off the other’s giant mascot cowboy hat first. Whoever loses can give a slapstick western comedy double take, along the lines of, “Dang gum it! I just had a hat!” This would be a real crowd pleaser, because everyone loves slapstick western comedy.

On the (tailless, trunk-nude) trip down, I listened to the news. The past week had been the worst in Wall Street history. Coupled with the $700 billion government bank bailout and a presidential race less than a month away, talk radio enlisted a parade of experts who declared that while they had no idea what to do, it must be done quickly. My personal take is that we got into this mess largely due to Americans’ eternal optimism. As a nation we think nothing of borrowing from a banker named Lefty.

Pulling into Columbia around 8:30 Friday night, I made a beeline to Harpo’s and ordered a giant cup of Budweiser. The bar began to fill up with middle-aged men and beautiful young coeds. It was either father-daughter weekend or a bunch of stockbrokers sold General Motors short last week. As I waited for “News” Hughes to show, a guy dressed up as Captain Morgan swashbuckled in (the Captain does not “walk”) and began handing out beads and trinkets. Historically, Harpo’s has discouraged on-premise promotions, but times being what they were, maybe they felt that a guy dressed as a swishy pirate might draw in more patrons. Still, his presence sent another sign, albeit small, that things were slightly off this weekend. What if Oklahoma State had a little Captain in them?

"News" showed up, and we worked our way down Broadway. We grabbed the corner elbow of the bar at Teller’s, ordered drinks, and talked about the election. News’ usual cocktail, a Tequila Sunrise, always strikes me as hilarious. After a few minutes we noticed that the girl seated next to me was passed out cold. Two bartenders and a waitress took turns trying to revive her, their concern not so much for her safety as to avoid a potential lawsuit. Her balance, as though she were Crazy Glue’d to the bar, struck me as all the more impressive given the violent manner in which they jostled her. Finally, she came to and raised her head, a strand of drool extending from her mouth to the bar like Spider-Drunk. Refusing the pint of water offered, she straightened up, shook her head to clear the effects of too many Red Bull vodkas, and walked out under her own power like a trashed superhero. Ah, the recuperative power of youth.

Saturday dawned and I parked myself in front of a Booches’ bloody mary in time for the 11 a.m. OU-Texas kickoff. This was a matchup of #1 vs. #5, and Mizzou would face off against the Longhorns the next weekend. My friend Pops, who I’ve known since the 8th grade, walked in minutes before game time. He would have come up the night before but—and it pains me to say this—he had to take care of his and/or his wife’s three cats. We made our staple order of two Booche burgers and chips. A few orange-clad OSU fans sauntered in, and then a few more. Their team would be well supported tonight.

We caught up with News at Shiloh’s for the second half. Texas answered every Sooner score and finally took control in the 4th quarter. It has always been my conviction that Oklahoma is so accustomed to blowing its opposition out that it struggles in close games. I make this assertion because I can’t stand Oklahoma. Texas, conversely, was making a statement, as sportscasters love to say. I interpreted the statement as, “our uni’s look spiffy, our cheerleaders are masturbation-worthy, our quarterback’s got a bitchin' name, and we’re about to become the #1 team in the country.” Or words to that effect.

It was approaching game time, the Tigers’ second national primetime start in a row. News and I argued about whether I should give him a lift to a tailgate he wanted to attend, a debate that concluded unsatisfactorily for him when I used the ironclad logic that he had his own car. Pre-game tensions were rising.

I had another problem. The Missouri Athletic Department has requested that Mizzou fans wear gold to the games, which, of course, means that many attend in purple or something camouflage. I, conversely, am nothing if not a Mizzou Athletic Department tool. Problem was, with two hours to go, my undefeated gold t-shirt lay helplessly in my motel room. Knowing full well that the expedient thing is rarely the correct one, I bought a cheapie gold replacement at the Tiger Spirit store. “Cheap” being a relevant term, for with the Tigers so highly ranked, face decals were going for around $500 a cheek. I was also knowingly violating my anti-chafing rule of never wearing a t-shirt without first washing it. Increasingly, the events of the last few days—each one just a tad off the norm—began to strike me as some sort of Mizzou Bizarro World. Something was amiss.

Pops and I found our seats. The Cowboys were lined up on the yard markers of Faurot Field, stretching and clapping in unison. They looked calm and collected, but then, so did the Tigers. Chase Daniel wore #25 rather than his normal #10. This was to honor Aaron O’Neal, their teammate who collapsed and died of lymphocytic meningitis during a practice session in 2005. Aaron would have been a senior this year, and the other seniors had voted to rotate wearing his number. Tonight was Daniel’s turn. No one knew which senior would wear the honorary jersey each week, but I had heard the rumor it would be Daniel earlier that day, and it gave me goosebumps.

The Tigers won the coin toss and chose to receive. Jeremy Maclin ran the kickoff out short of the 20, and Mizzou started their first drive of the evening with the knowledge that a win might vault them to number one in the country.

The Tigers, who had scored on every opening possession this year, marched down the field before stalling at the 1-yard line. One OSU offside penalty later, the ball sat little more than a football away from the end zone, third and goal-to-go. Despite the short distance, Mizzou remained in the shotgun, with running back Derrick Washington, not Daniel, taking a snap at the 7. OSU stopped him at the goal line, forcing fourth down. This led to a call that would be debated that night, the next day, and maybe the rest of the year. Rather than trying to punch it in on fourth down, Coach Pinkel opted to kick a field goal. It didn’t seem like that big a deal at the time, but the call did seem to take a little air out of the crowd. Still, with over 9 minutes remaining in the first quarter and the Tigers averaging over 50 points a game, most people in the stands figured the Tigers would be in the end zone quite a bit.

The Cowboys answered on their opening drive, marching down the field to make it 7-3. Most sports pundits looked for the game to be an offensive explosion, but the defenses for both sides stiffened. OSU slowed the MU running game and pressured Daniel from the sides, forcing him to use the middle of the field. At the half, the score stood at only 10-7 Mizzou.

The longer an underdog team hangs around within striking distance, the more they start to believe they can win. In the second half, the Tiger D continued their early season pattern of alternating big stops with giving up huge slabs of real estate. The ’Pokes burned the deep secondary for touchdown strikes of 40 and 31 yards.

More concerning was Chase Daniel. The Heisman frontrunner possessed his normal Lasik surgery accuracy, but despite his deep set-ups, OSU was finding ways to get a rush on him. Because of this, when Daniel wasn't hitting Tiger receivers, he found Cowboys. He threw two interceptions in the second half, and was fortunate to narrowly miss another that would have resulted in a touchdown. Cousin Jimmy texted me from St. Louis: “does Chase have a mustache and a Mohawk?” I had good seats, but not that good. If this was true—my TiVo later confirmed a feuxhawk—perhaps the combination of the new number and hair experimentation represented too much change for one week. Never alter a winning game plan. Wear the honorary jersey against an unranked team. And quit giving your new ’do the Fonzie thumbs up in the mirror while there's game film to study.

On kickoffs and punts, Maclin seemed off, too—more tentative than an about-to-be-dead guy in a M.Knight Shyamalan movie. He had gotten up slowly in the first half and had us wondering if he was a little banged up. Or maybe the OSU team witch doctor had thrust a pin into the hammy of a Jeremy Maclin doll. Both seemed equally plausible.

Even placekicker Jeff Wolfert missed a pair of field goals, and he hadn't missed any in Big XII play. Granted, one of the attempts was from Kingdom City, Missouri. But still, c'mon.

I gazed up into the perfect, clear night. The moon was almost but not quite full. Maybe that meant that the waves of weirdness would merely give us a scare—one that could make the Tigers a tougher team but didn’t cost them the game.

With 4:27 left, Daniel led the team down the field and threw a gorgeous 7-yard touchdown to Danario Alexander, making the score Okie State 28, Missouri 23. The defense held, and the OSU punter shanked one. Mohawk or not, this was Daniel’s moment. The crowd, awkwardly unaccustomed to seeing Mizzou struggle at home, came alive and shook the stadium. The Tigers took possession at their own 35 with 2:40 remaining—an eternity for Mizzou’s hurry-up offense.

Daniel immediately completed a pass for a first down. This drive had all the makings of sparking a celebration that would require copious amounts of Anheuser-Busch products, both spilled and chugged. Two plays later, a Cowboy lineman leveled Chase with what appeared to be a helmet to chin shot. Daniel remained on his back for an extended period as the refs marched off the 15-yard penalty. With just under 2 minutes remaining, Daniel took the snap from the OSU 37-yard line, rolled right, and tried to squeeze a pass into tight coverage. Too tight, it turned out. Interception. Game over. Stunned team. Stunned onlookers.

Filing out of the stadium, fans played Sunday morning quarterback (very little of Saturday night remained, anyway). Why hadn’t Pinkel gone for the touchdown in the first quarter? Should Daniel have been removed from the game for a play or two after taking such a vicious shot? Why had Mizzou all but abandoned the running game in the second half? And had Oklahoma State provided other teams with film evidence of how to slow arguably the best spread offense in the country? The Tigers would drop in the standings, probably out of the top ten. The only silver lining was that next week they’d have the chance to climb right back up when they played Texas.

I returned to my car and found a parking ticket, care of Columbia’s finest. For the record, they come in Tiger colors. I crumbled it, drove away, and threw my 0-1 t-shirt in the cheap plastic motel trash bin. There had not been one signature heebie-jeebie moment, but there were little ones to knock the crowd and the Tigers off their rhythm. Upon arriving home Sunday night I opened an email from Cousin Jimmy:

“BTW, my lucky charm was not activated last night…something always goes wrong when it’s not ready... need to make sure it’s activated next Saturday evening...”

So I wasn’t imagining things. One week you’re on top of the college football world and the next you find yourself in the dungeon of Saw, ankle-chained to a Lee Corso. Nobody knows why.

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.