An Imminent Intervention

I have a problem. Football has taken over my life. On Wednesday, I skipped Kermit Ruffins’ free show at Lafayette Square, so I wouldn’t miss the beginning of the Central Florida- Marshall game. Really? UCF and Marshall. I was the only person outside of West Virginia and Splash Mountain watching this game. Our once temporary living room setup of two TVs has become a more permanent fixture on the weekends. Even as I’m writing this, I’m watching Chris Collinsworth and Al Michaels ramble on about Peyton on one TV, and watching Herbstreit rabble as Rece Davis reveals the meaningless Week 7 BCS standings on the other.

Sunday morning, I made sure to refresh the websites for the Coach’s Poll rankings and AP rankings every 30 seconds Sunday to see if the once frustrating Bulldogs were ranked after they wrapped another one in maroon and white in a win in Gainesville- the first since 1965.

I also kept my phone handy to check the Twitter alerts for last minute NFL injury reports and the MSU beat writers’ blogs updates. Clinton Portis was once again inactive, and Mississippi State barely squeaked into the polls (including the BCS poll) at 24- the first time in almost a decade. After enduring the end of the Sherrill years, the “right way” era of Sly Croom, and ridicule from The School Up North (you know, the Rebels, I mean Fighting Yogi’s), it was about time for Mississippi State to start heating up.


I then canceled plans to go to the free Crescent City Blues and BBQ Festival, and stayed home and watched the equally frustrating Saints dominate the Bucs in a stadium that has about as much character as the Clearview Mall parking lot. I also had the laptop running ESPN's FantasyCast while watching my miserable fantasy team pile on the points for the first time this year. Oh, what’s that? Oh yeah, I was on a bye this week.

I hoard remotes and useless pregame analyses like a crazy old lady hoards dogs, and like Bill Belichick hoards future draft picks. What once was confined to just Thursdays, Saturdays, Sundays, and Mondays, has now consumed the entire week. Tuesdays have now been overtaken by the MAC and Sunbelt, and Wednesdays are now reserved for Conference-USA and the WAC. What used to provoke only minor mental anguish now generates physical distress and degrades my social dexterity.

I have a serious problem. I am certain, that in the near future, I’m going to be ambushed in a strange hotel room by an A&E producer.

Death of a Cowbell

The drive was longer than usual and Erin’s barbecue nachos from the night before were giving me fits, but, as soon as I saw the Shuqualak sign I knew we were home free.

It was late, I had just gotten iced, we had been on the road for 5.5 hours, and we had a 300 pound TV to unload, but we knew that in less than 12 hours we would be in the greatest place on earth. I figured after the drive I would have slept soundly, but waiting for the first home game was like trying to sleep knowing that Santa Claus was trying to fit his jolly ass down my chimney. Dreams of hard hits, and even harder liquor were intermingled with the nightmares of seasons past.

Once I awoke and realized that the Croom Era wasn’t just a freakishly haunting nightmare, I went for the breakfast of both champions and morbidly obese rednecks, a Bojangles Cajun Chicken Biscuit and Hashbrowns. After scarfing down an extra biscuit, I fell right back into the gameday routine I had grown accustomed to since becoming an alumnus- pack the coolers while watching Kirk Herbstreit evolve into the ultimate douche bag, pick up the few survivors from Friday nights’ debauchery, swing by Abner’s for chicken strips, unload all of our junk as we try to evade the temple guards and ignore Shrek’s demands to not stop our vehicle next to the curb and, and begin the marathon formally known as tailgating in the Junction. Luckily, we didn’t have to carry our tables and random assortment of chairs far. Just as we have the past 4 years, our tents were set up in a prime spot during the land rush the day before.

With the smoke from the grills hovering over the Junction, and the smell of whiskey and charcoal now filling our noses, I realized as I looked around that the tailgate had turned into a reunion of sorts. The entire 2004 and 2005 pledge classes had decided to join our expansive and now overflowing mass of tailgaters dressed in their Saturday best. After a few Bud Lights from a Solo cup, some boudin, and a green onion sausage poboy, fellowship had to be temporarily cast aside for the Dawg Walk.

Since we finally had non-student section tickets, it was no longer necessary to enter the second oldest stadium in college football 2 hours before the game. As soon as the final get back coach made his way through the tunnel of fans, we got back to tailgating basics before walking into the game- chicken strips and flip cup. With our water bottles filled to the bream with rum and our cowbells in hand (legally), we made it into the stadium just in time to catch the resurrected Dawg Pound Rock before the kickoff of the 2010 season.

The Bulldogs must have known of my Christmas-Eve-like anticipation and anxiousness for the day’s game as they “wrapped it in maroon and white”. Unfortunately, some of those nightmares from the night before came to fruition as the long, but now cool, fall-like night was ending. The cowbell I have had since I was a freshman didn’t make it through the celebratory night. I’m not sure if he was stricken by a heart attack from the shock of actually having a productive Mississippi State quarterback, or overworked and exhausted from all the touchdowns, but I knew things were taking a turn for the worse when he couldn’t take another swig of that $7.00 bottle of rum. May you rest in peace Pike/Vote for Haley Barbour Cowbell (2004-2010).