Time to Move On

I did something today that I haven't done in...a really long time. In fact, upon racking my brain for all of fifteen seconds, I couldn't think of the last time when I did this.

I didn't try to watch the beginning of the Notre Dame game.

I just couldn't bring myself to it. I worked in the yard early this afternoon, and then I went to get some food for the abbreviated week. On the ride home, I turned the radio on and discovered that ND kicked at 2:30 instead of 3:30 like I thought (you know, like they've done all season). And then when I got home, I put away the groceries and went back outside with the kids. I cleaned up my mess, swept off the driveway, and then we cooked some chicken. Finally, the chicken was done and it was too cold to stay outside, so we came in, about halfway through the third quarter.

I then sat down and watched the rest of what was the perfect topper for this farce of a season. I wish I could say I was upset at the outcome (Connecticut won in double overtime, 33-27), but instead I sat there and watched the final drive with quiet resignation. A season that had me so geeked and excited has turned to sadness and the quiet acceptance of yet another underpreformance. Pretty much the hallmark of Charlie Weis' tenure as the head coach of Notre Dame football.

Anyway...

I did a good deed today. I only say this because it's a bit unusual for me. I went to Target to get the groceries (as I mentioned earlier) and when I loaded them and the kids into the car, a woman approached me and asked if I could give her a ride to the north side of town. She gave me some sad story about having to buy a shirt and that she didn't have money for bus fare and she didn't want to walk.

And as my mind churned over all the excuses I could give her as to why I couldn't give her a ride, in my mind's eye I saw her walking up the rather busy road that takes you to Duke's stadia (football and basketball). And then I thought of my wife's friend Eric who was killed a month and a half ago trying to cross a busy road, and all I could see was this young woman lying in the middle of one of the roads with her life cut tragically, violently short as well. My heart broke and I relented.

Well, she was very nice. She talked to my kids, she told me I had a very nice car, that I seemed like a very nice person, that she wouldn't have asked but she knew I was a good person because of the way I acted with my kids. It all made me feel good...in a Becky the Usurper sort of way. I took her to her place of work and let her out and wished her a Happy Thanksgiving. She smiled and thanked me and wished me the same.


I won't lie. It was probably a very irresponsible thing to do, and I was a little nervous to do it. But, when she got to work safely and, more importantly, my kids and I left the parking lot, I felt a lot better.

And then I kind of hated myself for assuming she was going to slit my throat while we were driving.

Oh well. I'm alive and she's alive and my conscience is a whole lot lighter because I actually helped someone out who was in need of some assistance. It's a far cry from Batman, but then I'm also not the head of a mutli-billion dollar industry.

Now, on to more important issues: anyone know if the tuna up there can coach football?

Done

My only question is this? When filing for unemployment, will his enormous ego also be qualified to collect benefits?

Football Sucks

Not only did Notre Dame lay a tremendous terd--which isn't too difficult when you're completely outplayed and outcoached--on the field yesterday--again--but then Green Bay allowed an otherwise winless Tampa Bay to beat them.

Seriously? I thought Aaron Rogers was the second coming of Roger Staubach (see how I tip the hat to Navy...again?), and that was why we had to push...Him...out of Green Bay in order to bring in Aaron Rogers. For this? How craptacular.

And I haven't worn any green over the past two days. How the hell could this be happening? Maybe it isn't me and my wardrobe, after all. Maybe I just root for shitty teams.

Anyway, I was busy mowing so I couldn't watch the game. Of course, it's not like we could watch the game down here in Patriot country. What? Wait a minute. This isn't Boston? Then why do we keep getting the Patriots on the regional broadcasts?

Apparently, I should have mowed yesterday, too, so that I could miss THAT travesty. In honor of Notre Dame's incredibly underwhelming performance against Navy, I thought I'd revisit a little something I wrote last year after Notre Dame's impressively underwhelming performance against Syracuse.

As for the writing, which I usually feature in these weekend posts, I actually did make some progress this weekend. I'm still wrapping up the scene at the Oracle of Delphi. This could be the most I've ever invested in research for a book, but I wanted to get the pomp and ceremony surrounding the visit to the Oracle, as well as her pronouncements of prophecy and advise, correct. It involved a lot more killing of sheep than I had originally envisioned, and fortunately I've found a few things that described the interior of the temple where she sat upon her tripod and raved madly while slowly being poisoned by the noxious fumes wafting up around her handed down her advice. I'm actually pretty happy with how the scene played out and how the king took the news (hint: not well), so I should be able to move on into the next phase of the story, which involves the interplay of the gods with humanity and the birth of our hero.

Now...if only the Oracle could tell us who a good pick would be for the next football coach at Notre Dame...

8294 / 100000 words. 8% done!

A Flagon of Ale and Forgetfulness, Please

I know everybody loves sports posts and because there are just so few blogs out there in cyberspace dedicated to sports, I thought I'd do a quick little one here on a Saturday. I mean, seriously...no one has an opinion or seven million on sports in this country?

Anyway, this little gem comes from The House Rock Built, which is a Notre Dame football blog. It's appropriate for today, since today is the day Notre Dame and Navy square off in their annual tilt. So, enjoy the video.

Delete the Wikipedia page...

There's a bunch more over at The House Rock Built. If you're a Notre Dame fan, you'll appreciate them all. If you're not, I'd still recommend the video from the week after ND lost to USC, mostly because we've all been sad clowns and tried to forget our misery via mini candy bars before. Plus, the music on the video is R.E.M.

And, since it's Navy weekend, that usually means that stupid ass college football fans start bitching about how Notre Dame is scheduling weak service academy teams in order to pad their BCS resume. Most of these dipshits are ACC fans, so they wouldn't know a football team if it slapped them in the face. First of all, how is this different from the one or two Division I-AA schools that you schedule every year in order to pad your numbers just to make it to a bowl game? Oh, that's right, Navy is Division I-A. My apologies to the USNA.

Second, Notre Dame and Navy have a long history together. During WWII, a sort of perfect storm erupted over South Bend, IN. Young men (Notre Dame was not co-ed at that point) were being sent off to Europe and the Pacific to fight our enemies and protect our shores and defending our allies from tyranny and totalitarianism. This meant fewer students were on campus, and the lack of students meant a lack of funds, putting a huge financial burden on the school.

Now, as the branches of the military were swelling with more and more recruits and enlistees, there was a pressing need to train officers to command these men in the course of battle. Notre Dame's president, Fr. Hugh O'Donnell, seeing this as, perhaps, a way of solving the cash crunch, opened Notre Dame's doors to serve as an officer training school. He first approached the army, who politely declined. However, Admiral Chester Nimitz liked the idea and immediately took Fr. O'Donnell up on the offer. Notre Dame then became a training facility for officers in the US Navy. The cash crunch was solved a the school and the navy got to train their soldiers. Both parties were happy.

Nimitz (who has a street named after him in South Bend...I used to live off it) and O'Donnell then agreed that Notre Dame and Navy should play football every year. O'Donnell promised that Notre Dame would always keep a spot open for Navy on the football schedule. Sixty-three years later, and we're still upholding that promise (the current series is scheduled until at least 2016, and will be renewed again when it's time). Yes, the luster has come off the football program at Navy, however it is still a rivalry game. Not so much like the hated rivals of Michigan and USC, but a rivalry borne of mutual respect and friendship. Do the two schools want to beat each other to a pulp during each game? Absolutely. But after the game is over, we shake hands, joke a little bit, congratulate one another on a hard-fought game, and promise to see one another next year.

So, to cocksuckers like John Feinstein, who whines about how Notre Dame is a bully for scheduling an overmatched Navy team every year, you can just shut up, eat dick, and maybe--just maybe--take a little time out of your daily need to make up for your tiny dick and have a little respect for a time-honored traditional football game between two friendly rivals.

Alright, Irish. Let's go! Beat Navy! Make it 45 in a row because, as we saw above, 2007 never happened!

Also a little note. Monday will mark one of those really rare occurrences in the universe: I will actually be rooting against Indiana basketball. Why? Because my alma mater will be playing them in an exhibition game, that's why. Do I expect the purple pumas of St. Joseph's College to beat Indiana? No. But then again, no one expected LeMoyne to beat Syracuse, either.

Go Pumas! Beat Hoosiers!

TMI Thursday: Terrible Date POV

If this does not sate your thirst for awesome TMI stories, then check out all the other glorious tales of things we probably shouldn't tell at LiLu's home for the staunchly raunchy, TMI Thursdays!

My wife was not the first undergrad I illegally dated at Notre Dame. See, we weren't supposed to date any of the undergraduate population because they might have a friend who could potentially be a friend of one of our potential students, potentially. Being that my hormones were more of a driving force than my hunger for a higher degree (which is why I have only a MASTER's degree), I decided to spit right in the eye of this law. What a rebel am I.

To further push the boundaries, I engaged in some illicit tutoring. See, I had this student, Sheridan, who was awesome. She had two room mates who were also in the organic chemistry class that I taught. When they were preparing for the finals for the first semester, they asked if I could come over and help them study and have me there as a valuable resource. Since Sheridan was awesome (and, yes, rather attractive), I was going to say yes, anyway, but then she bribed me with Taco Bell. Taking any payment from the students--monetary, culinary or sexually--was expressly forbidden in the TA charter. Also expressly forbidden? Tutoring in a student's dorm room.

I was off to do both.

To avoid a long and boring part of the story, nothing happened in the room, other than studying and chemistry and shit like that. Oh, and I met this girl named Margaret.

Margaret was pretty, with dark hair and dark eyes. She was shorter, but she was very nice. I crushed on her right away. She lived across the hall from the girls I was tutoring. She would pop in and out of the room from time to time, because she was friends, and six girls shared a couple of rooms, so they shared a lot of stuff. Consider her the Kramer to my friends' Jerry. Except, you know, a lot less crazy.

Anyway, as I was leaving the dorm, I passed her, and I actually manned up (figuring I wouldn't be back there any time soon, should I fail to execute) and asked her if she'd like to go out whenever she was done with finals. To my surprise, she blushed, smiled, and said yes.

Elated, I went back to my apartment and waited until the next day. I called her (I had a university directory that I stole from one of the libraries on campus) and we set things up: we'd go to dinner. Since I had wrapped up my first semester of grad school and I had just scored a date with a very cute undergrad, I planned for some steak. I wasn't shooting for romantic so much as celebratory: the semester was over, Christmas was looming, it was time to celebrate.

On the night we planned--it was a Thursday, after all her finals were done, and mine too, and before we both planned on going to our respective homes for the Christmas break--I arrived at the dorm, showered, shaved, smelling nice, and dressed for the occasion. I called up to her room, and a few minutes later, she came down. She looked beautiful. We weren't formally dressed up, but we both looked nice, she moreso than I.

Dinner was great. The food was delicious, the conversation was loose and easy, and I had a good time. When we were done, we drove back to campus and walked around south quad for a little bit. It was chilly, as Decembers in northern Indiana tend to be. So, we cut our walk short and I returned her to her dorm, fully expecting the date to be over. I was going to be smooth--I had just eaten steak and a salad with onions!--and I wasn't going to try and kiss her or anything.

But then, as I was preparing to say good-bye, she said, "Do you want to come up to my room. We could watch a movie or something."

Fuck and yes.

So, up to her room we went. The dorm itself was spooky quiet--a lot of people had gone home. Margaret, who lived near Chicago, was heading home the next day. Incidentally, my friends and I were having a party the next day, and then Saturday I was heading home. Anyway, we got to her room, took off our coats, and then settled on a movie. It was Never Been Kissed and though I'm not a huge romantic comedy fan, I went with it. It was her room, and, remember, I look like fat Tom Green, so the Drew Barrymore connection was too good to pass up. Well, basically I kind of shrugged and said, "Yeah, that's fine" when she asked.

I think it's at this point that I should write that, when I read about some of the awful dates that many of the fine women of the blogosphere recount in their blogs almost daily, I take solace in the fact that I had never been on a date as terrible as the ones they tell of.

Except for this one.

Things were going great. A few minutes in, she apparently thought I wasn't the raping and killing type, so she put her head on my shoulder. Feeling brave, I held her hand. She didn't back away. Things were going better than I ever could have imagined.

And then because I was feeling good and happy, fate decided to intervene and fuck me over.

My stomach rumbled. Not a hungry rumble. No, it was more of a "Hmmm...we don't like what you've put in here, chief." I paid it little mind. I smiled away the rumble. She smiled back. I decided to--awkwardly, admittedly--try and kiss her. She didn't pull away. Our lips touched.

My stomach rumbled again. This time, however, it twisted itself in knots. Things were suddenly not going swimmingly.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"Yeah," I said, hesitantly. I really didn't know what to do. This was back when I still had a gall bladder, so it wasn't like I was about to shit myself from here to kingdom come. At the same time, I've never really had a history of indigestion like this. Heart burn, yes. Acid reflux, sure. Rumbly tummy that didn't involve hunger pangs? New to me.

My stomach settled down and we went back to watching the movie. About fifteen minutes later, it really went to town. It sounded like some kind of gutter echoing with flood waters. I was immediately embarrassed.

"I'm so sorry, Margaret," I said. She looked confused.

"It's okay?" It was more of a question than a consolation.

This is when my dumbass decided to try and kiss her again. I leaned in, closed my eyes, felt my lips touch hers...

...and my stomach pushed it's contents up my esophagus.

Okay, the bad news first, this date was ruined. My chances with Margaret were gone. Kaput. Over. Finished. I knew this when the vomit hit the back of my throat.

The good news? I was able to hold the puke in my mouth as I dove for her trash can (which, thank God, had a liner and was made of plastic). I emptied my guts into her trash can. What this poor girl was thinking while the guy who had been smooching her a moment before was emptying the contents of his stomach, I shudder to think.

Did I ever mention I'm a loud puker? Especially when I'm sober? I tend to retch before bringing it up. A lot. Kind of like a cat does when puking. You know, that whole body contortion, contraction, and then the loud KAFF and puke? Yeah, that's me. Cat Puke Man in my secret identity.

The smell? Terrible. Again, like the night me and Mr. Wodka got cozy, it came out my nose. I could feel it dribbling from my nostrils.

"I'm sorry, I think I should go," I said weakly when I had control of myself.

"Are you going to be okay?" Margaret asked.

"Yeah," I said, partially laughing. I was trying to make it look like I was laughing to cover up the fact that I was crying. I was crying because I nearly puked on this really sweet, really nice girl that I really liked, I had ruined the date, I had stunk up her room, I had filled her garbage can with bile, ichor, vomit and a whole host of other digestive juices, and I was crying because I hurt. Plus, I just puked steak. Do you know how that shit clings to your throat when you puke it up? Like a fucking tentacled sea monster. It was horrible.

I gathered up the bag o' vomit and grabbed my coat. I walked to the door and she followed. She asked again if I was going to be okay.

"I think so, now," I said. "I'm going to take this" holding up the bag o' vomit, its contents sloshing in the sack "out to the dumpster." I heaved a sigh. "I had a really good time, Margaret," I tacked on hastily at the end.

"I had a good time, too," she said, then, somewhat timidly, "until...you know." She offered a pained smile.

"Merry Christmas," I offered.

"Merry Christmas. Oh, and happy birthday!" I smiled back at her.

"I won't even bother asking if you want to go out again," I said. "I pretty much ruined that chance." I hefted the bag o' vomit again. It sloshed. Again.

"No, no," she tried to reassure me. I could see the fear in her eyes that I would believe her. I could sense her fear, smell her longing to scream "EWWWWWW!" and run to the shower. "Maybe...you know...sometime...after we get back."

"I'd like that." I offered a half smile. Puke still was dribbling out of my nose. "Good night. Thank you, again." I turned, trudged down the hallway, and out into the night. I tossed the bag o' vomit in the dumpster behind the dining hall on my way by. The splattering sound it made when it hit the cold, hard interior metal was reassuring and cathartic.

I returned to my car, still weepy, weakened and sore. I went home, cleaned up, and went to bed.

I never called her back.

TMI Thursday: It Tastes Like...Victory!

If this does not sate your thirst for awesome TMI stories, then check out all the other glorious tales of things we probably shouldn't tell at LiLu's home for the staunchy raunchy, TMI Thursdays!

When I was in grad school, my chemist buddies and I tended to hang out with the physics guys a lot. It made some sort of sense, really, since the physics department was in the building adjacent to the chemistry building. In fact, our library was in their building, so we'd see them a lot in the halls.

It was this passing in the hallways that got us invited to their parties. And you know what? This is going to be counter-intuitive, but the physics guys threw some good parties. I guess they had to. If there's one department in the graduate school that has a worse male:female ratio than chemistry, it's physics. I know, shocking, huh? Anyway, in order to lower that male:female ratio, the physics guys would invite pretty much every warm-blooded, breathing female they could find to their parties. And then they'd ply everyone with alcohol. So, yes, physics is exactly like a douchebag frat. And they would have parties all the fucking time! I guess when your life revolves around numbers and Greek letters, all you have to look forward to is the sweet relief that booze offers.

This particular story takes place at a physics party.

There was this cat named Doran who was a physics grad student at the same time I was there for chemistry. Doran was older, with a real stocky, husky build and salt-and-pepper hair that trended more toward salt than pepper. Rumor had it that he had once been a physics teacher for a high school, but he got fired or retired or something. The details were a little fuzzy, but he was at ND to get a higher degree so that he could teach college or something.

More than anything in the world, I think Doran just wanted a friend. Well, and he wanted to get laid. Doran had this dating policy that we called "Flood the Market." He would ask out every female he met. And his pick up lines, while not extraordinarily lame, were pretty white bread: "Hi, my name is Doran. Would you like to go out Friday night." I guess it worked because he eventually got someone to say yes. How that panned out, I'll never know.

Anyway, Doran would also wander around the student center, asking everyone at a table if they'd like some company for lunch. And finally some poor sap would agree and Doran would sit down and chat this guy up like they were the oldest buddies. It was odd, and slightly creepy, and somewhat desperate, but he seemed happy. Except for that whole not getting laid part, which is pretty much how I knew him throughout most of my ND experience.

So, anyway, we're at a physics party, and there's Doran over in the corner, looking as shady as ever. The apartment wasn't exceedingly large, and there was one bathroom near the kitchen/laundry room that pretty much everyone used. So, I was standing there chatting with the ringleader of the physics parties, this guy named Hoop. We were discussing something male-oriented--Tia Carrere admitting in an interview to Maxim that she was hairless from the neckline down--when Doran passed by to use the bathroom.

I know you're having your doubts, but the events of that five minutes are pretty much indelibly chiseled across my memory for eternity. Plus, at the time, I thought Tia Carrere was pretty hot.

Anyway, Doran finishes up in the restroom, comes out, nods to us, picks up his half-finished beer and heads back to whatever corner he had crawled from in order to Flood the Market some more. That's when this other guy, whose name was Mark, walked into the restroom.

"Ah, Jesus!" Mark yelled. "Who pissed all over the floor?"

Hoop and I knew exactly who had been in there. Hoop (the owner of the apartment and the host of the party) called Doran on it immediately.

"Doran, you asshole, you pissed all over the floor!" Hoop yells.

"No, I didn't!" Doran exclaims.

"Look, there's piss all over the floor. It wasn't there a minute ago, and you're the only one who has been in there! You pissed all over my floor!"

"That's not piss. It's probably from where I washed my hands!" Doran saunters back across the apartment, steps into the bathroom, and looks down at the puddle on the floor beside the toilet.

That's when he set his beer on the vanity and knelt down on one knee as if he was about to propose to the toilet. He dipped a finger in the puddle...and then he tasted it.

...

Still with me?

"Yep! That's piss, alright!" Doran exclaimed. He got back up, picked up his beer, went and got a handful of paper towels, and cleaned it up. He flushed and was back in the corner.

The whole time, I stood there with a look of Oh my fucking God, he just tasted pissed off the floor written on my face, as did Hoop and Mark. And pretty much everyone else in the apartment.

And then it dawned on me.

I turned to Hoop and said, "In order for him to know that that was piss--"

"He would have to have tasted piss before!" Hoop finished my thought.

Then we shared an audible shudder.

"Jesus," I said, "Let's hope his next trick isn't to drop a turd on the ground."

"Regardless," Hoop offered, "I think this is the last party I invite Doran to."

As far as I know, it was.

Shadows of the Past

One of the unfortunate drawbacks to having picked up so many new readers and followers over the course of the past year is that many of you were unable to bask in the glorious triumph that I celebrated at this time last year. And let me just say, that t-shirt is one of my absolute favorites. I mean, it does taste gloriously of victory and free, which are two of my favorite things in the world (right after boobs and bacon logs), so maybe the t-shirt has an unfair advantage.

Fortunately for me, my knowledge of college basketball is almost as vast as my desire to get free shit. Again this year, the concierge service ran the same contest. Again this year, I won. I am, in fact, just that fucking awesome.

I hope like hell that I won for knowing that the most points you can score on a single play is 3. That's so much better than knowing that you only get five fouls.

Last year, I chose an Indiana shirt (they are my favorite NCAA basketball team, after all). This year, I went for the alma mater, proving that someone from Notre Dame can fucking win something (hear that, football, basketball and hockey teams? I'm rubbing it in your face! Try stop being a bunch of cockfaces and put forth an effort already! And maybe suck a little less while you're at it!).

The other thing that I've proved is that, unlike Notre Dame, winning a free t-shirt is never overrated.

I swear, all I did was type the word "winner" into a Google image search!

An Irish Saint and a Confession

I have already detailed the life and times of St. Patrick (or was it Saint Palladius?), so I won't rehash old posts, merely provide you with the link. However, do remember that today is the feast day of the Patron Saint of Ireland, which means lots of drunken revelry coupled with the phenomenon I like to call "Erin Goes Bra-less" along with countless sad motherfuckers stumbling around bars strapping on fake accents and asking the fair, drunken lasses "Pardon me, dear one, but do ye have any Irish in ye? Would ye care for some more?" God, horny drunks are so creative.

I, however, won't be participating in such activities. Not that I wouldn't mind bedding a fair Irish lass--oh, wait, I already have one...wan, fair complexion, red hair and a filthy mouth all included! No, this whole drinking thing isn't for me, not any more. Oh, don't worry, I'm not going to get all high-and-mighty on your sinners asses, no, not today. The reason for my teetotalism isn't out of some overdevelop sense of higher morals, it's strictly physiological.

It's with a heavy, sober heart that I come before you and admit: I've developed a wicked allergy to hops.

If you know me, you know that I love beer. Not the macro-swill that you pound down at a tailgate in order to be able to stomach the sad state of affairs Bob Davie and Tyrone Willingham have put on the field...no, I love craft brews. I've sampled well over a thousand beers in my day from 37 different states and 17 different countries (if you count Scotland and Wales as their own countries, that is). I even drove way the hell out of my way in order to stop off at a crappy microbrewery in West Virginia so that I could add one more beer and one more state to the list.

That microbrewery trip was the one where I finally had to start facing up to the truth that I had a problem. See, with the merest sip of a beer these days, my throat begins to close, my breathing becomes ragged, and my stomach lurches. The sad thing is, I used to absolutely love my beers with hops. I've had 90 Minute IPA from Dogfish Head shot through Randall the Enamel Animal where the hops was so powerful, it felt like I could pick them from my teeth. I've had a slightly chilled Stone IPA where I thought, "Hmmm...yes, that's about right", despite the fact that Stone's beers are typically offensively hopped (as much as I love hops, some beers are ruined by an overabundance of their oils). Research even says that hops could be good for the heart and most likely they would exhibit positive anti-oxidant levels in your blood (hops are antioxidants for beer, thus their use as preservatives). But none of this is for me. Not any more.

60 Minute IPA is what the Gods themselves drink.
I used to run my own beer blog where I was attempting to review beers, breweries and beer-based books. I even used a picture of a naked woman festooned with strategically-placed hops as the "mascot" of said blog, but as the hop allergy became worse, I had to suspend my work and, with a heavy heart, delete my beloved blog from the blogosphere. Even now, I'm tearing up a little.

So, my friends, while you're out in the bars wearing your plastic green bowlers, pretending to love Guinness and pinching the asses of those ladies who had the bad foresight not to wear green tonight, I ask you to down at least one pint and think of me. I'll be at home sipping on my Diet Dr. Pepper and watching Notre Dame piss away their first-round NIT game.

Regardless of my personal afflictions, let me wish you all a Happy Saint Patrick's Day! Also, happy birthday to my old drinking buddy Pat, aka Dr. Assy. Hopefully, he got a replacement laptop for the one that was stolen from his apartment and can read this once more.

Revenge of the AD

The main doors to the Notre Dame football offices open, bathing the darkened internal hallway with bright, white light from outside. A cowled figure is silhouetted against the light streaming in from outside as he walks boldly, confidently down the hallway. Two assistants approach, barring the way. With a wave of his hand, the cowled figure pushes the assistants to the side and continues on his path.

Out of the gloom appears three time Heisman winner and current quarterbacks coach Ron Powlus. Powlus utters something that the cowled figure ignores. Pushing past Powlus, the figure continues on, causing Powlus to scurry behind him. Guttural noises continue to issue forth from the Quarterbacks Coach, until finally the figure stops and looks toward Powlus.

"I must speak with Charlie," the figure says.

Powlus stops, utters something, and shakes his head. The cowled figure raises his hand.

"You will take me to Charlie now," the figure says.

"I will take you to Charlie now," Powlus says, turning and leading the way down the hallway.

"You serve your master well."

"I serve my master well," Powlus responds.

"And you will be rewarded."

Powlus leads the figure into the head coach's office. Charlie is asleep at his desk before a flickering television revealing an endless loop of Tom Brady highlight films. Jimmy Clausen is on the ground before him, chained to Charlie's desk, wearing a slave's outfit. Former Notre Dame head coach and current homer Lou Holtz is standing behind Charlie.

"At last, Master Swarbrick is here to rescue us!" Holtz sputters loudly.

Powlus slinks up beside the dozing head coach and touches him lightly on the cheek.

"Master," he says, causing the head coach to jump. Powlus motions toward the cowled figure now standing before Charlie. "Jack Swarbrick, Athletic Director," Powlus says, introducing the cowled figure swathed in black.

"I told you not to allow him!" Charlie bellows, swiping at Powlus. Powlus ducks and motions to throw the ball four rows deep into the stands.

"I must be allowed to speak," Swarbrick says, stepping forward. Powlus, with a dazed look in his eye, turns to Charlie.

"He must be allowed to speak."

Charlie roars again, smacking Powlus, sending him sprawling on the ground. Powlus whines about a late hit, but slinks off into the shadows.

"You weak minded fool! He's using an old athletic director mind trick on you!" Charlie roars.

Swarbrick stares intently at Charlie. "You will return control of the program to me."

"Your mind tricks will not work on me, boy!"

"Nevertheless, I am going to take the program and its friends: Touchdown Jesus, Notre Dame Stadium, the pride and tradition of the nation's second most winningest program! You can either profit by this...or be destroyed. It's your choice, but I warn you, do not underestimate my powers."

Charlie laughs, loud and mean. Holtz pops up, waving his arms meagerly behind Charlie.

"There will be no bargain!" Charlie bellows.

"Master Swarbrick, watch out, you're standing on..." Holtz begins, but is cut off as the floor falls away below Master Swarbrick. He reaches out to try and steady himself, but his hands grab John Latina, the Offensive Line Coach for Notre Dame.

Swarbrick is dumped into a chamber inhabited by the hulking ghost of Knute Rockne. A small scuffle ensues in which Latina is swallowed whole by Rockne's ghost. Swarbrick appeases the ghost with a cigar and a shot of whiskey and promises to set right what once went wrong. Rockne fades into the background. Rob Ianello, draped in banners commemorating Notre Dame's 11 National Championships over his shoulder, comes in and whimpers at the missing ghost. Corwin Brown and Jon Tenuta--Notre Dame's co-defensive co-ordinators--issue into the room, grabbing Swarbrick and pulling him from the dungeon.

"Bring me the honor and tradition of this once fine program!" Charlie bellows. "Bring me Tyrone Willingham, so that I can use him as a scapegoat once more."

The scene shifts to the Grotto at Notre Dame. Charlie is sitting on his golf cart. Powlus stands at his left hand side, Holtz to his right. Clausen is still chained to Charlie. Swarbrick stands before them, along with Touchdown Jesus, Fair Catch Corby and We're Number 1 Moses. Holtz steps forward.

"Oh dear," he sputters, "His High Exaltedness, Charlie the Robot Genius, has decreed that you are to be terminated immediately. You will therefore be cast into the Grotto, where you will slowly burn over a thousand years with the hundreds of candles that people light on football saturdays."

"You should have bargained, Charlie," Swarbrick says, a bit cocky. "That's the last mistake you'll ever make."

Charlie laughs and points toward the Grotto. "Put him in!"

Swarbrick jumps, but suddenly grabs onto the ledge over the Grotto and hurls himself into the air, spinning, and catching a golden helmet from midair. A host of Charlie Apologists issue forth from behind the head coach, but are quickly knocked into the grotto by Swarbrick's mastery with the golden helmet. Bill Belichick steps forward, raises his hand to shoot Swarbrick, hesitates, and then turns and fades back into the chaos, returning to the NFL.

In the chaos, Jimmy Clausen suddenly heaves on the chain, looping it around Charlie's massive throat and pulling it tight. Charlie grabs at the chain and tries to pull it away from his throat, but Clausen is too strong. Finally, Charlie's eyes goggle and he slumps forward, causing the golf cart to lurch. Swarbrick smashes the chain with his helmet, and Clausen is freed. The golf cart continues to move forward until it topples into the Grotto, flipping end over end and landing with a meaty thud at the bottom. Clausen, Holtz and Swarbrick stand on the edge of the Grotto, triumphantly looking down into the Grotto.

"Come on, let's go," Swarbrick says, "And don't forget the history and winning tradition." Swarbrick begins to walk away.

"Where are we going?" Clausen asks.

"To find a new coach. I don't care if we have to resurrect Knute Rockne himself, we're finally going to find the man to fix this broken program." He hesitates, looking at Holtz, who is beaming. "And who isn't ancient."

Looking hurt, Holtz's face falls. "When 800 years old you reach, look as good, you will not, hmmm?"

Laughing, Swarbrick and Clausen begin the long march back across the campus. The scene ends with the lowering sun gleaming off the Golden Dome standing proudly over Notre Dame's campus.

My Interview With Charlie

This weekend, in case you were lying under a rock, sleeping or watching a guy get coconuts dropped on his head, Notre Dame suffered an ignoble defeat at the hands of the mighty Orangemen of Syracuse. Presumably, if you were under that rock, fabricating a lifestyle in preparation for your parents' imminent arrival, you might not know that Syracuse is pretty much the worst team in Division IA football.

Amazingly, though I have very little in the way of press credentials, I was able to secure an interview with the larger-than-life head coach of the Notre Dame Fighting Irish. Stunningly, the coach was very candid in his interview, though I was a bit no-holds-barred in my questions. Thanks for the Sports Information Department at Notre Dame for getting me in with the coach, and allowing me to reprint the interview.

MJenks: Coach, a lot of fans are angry after this loss.

Weis: I'm angry, too.

MJenks: What's caused you to be so angry?

Weis: I can't see my forehead. What's your problem?

MJenks: Well, most of the fans are upset over the lack of running game, development of the offensive line, regression of the quarterback, repeated failures by the defense to stop one of the most anemic offenses in the country...all of this in spite of the number of high-level recruits that you seem to be bringing into the program. Any thoughts?

Weis: What's wrong with you people? Afraid to look ugliness in the face? Well here, look at it! It's ugly, isn't it? Here! You look at it! Look at it! Look at it! Look at it! I want all of you to look at it! I bet there's no line at the snack bar!

MJenks: Do you have any plans for how to address these issues?

Weis: Hmmmm...I'd get an ice cream.

MJenks: One other criticism is that your team seems to make very few halftime adjustments, as was evident during the UNC game through today's game against Syracuse. Are you getting out-thought by the other coaches, are your adjustments just not making a difference, or are the other coaches able to adjust fast enough to counter your adjustments?

Weis: So you mean to say they’ve taken what we thought we think and make us think we thought our thoughts we've been thinking our thoughts we think we thought? I think...

MJenks: Uh...

Weis: You know what the problem is. You've got it set to M for Mini, when it should be set to W for wumbo! I Wumbo, you wumbo, he, she, we, wumbo, wumbo, wumboing, I'll have three wumbo, wumbora, wumbology, the study of wumbo? Its first grade, SpongeBob!

MJenks: Moving on...you took over offensive play calling from Mike Haywood recently and you said you would do it until the end of the year, yet the offense has continued to sputter. Are you going to try and mix things up, perhaps get a little more fancy in your playcalling, put some more air under the ball?

Weis: Do you mean she puts on airs? That's just fancy talk. If you want to be fancy, just put your pinky up in the air like this. The higher you hold it, the fancier you are. Higher! Now that's fancy!

MJenks: Are there going to be any changes to your starters going into the last game of the season and a possible bowl game, or are you going to stick with the same guys who got you here?

Weis: It's for me to know and for you to never find out. You may be an open book, but I'm a bit more complicated than that. The inner machinations of my mind are an enigma.

MJenks: Have you seen the stat line for today's game? I have it right here, in case you don't have a copy.

Weis: Hand over the goods, BoxBandit, and prepare for your most unpleasant pillow fight of your life!

MJenks: I'm sorry, Coach. It shows that you guys only gained 41 yards on the ground, but they [Syracuse] have allowed an average of over 200 yards per game. Is there something wrong with the offensive line?

Weis: Pretty good, SpongeBob, but its lacking basic construction, and your perspective leaves a lot to be desired.

MJenks: It seemed that Syracuse and even Navy, Boston College and Pitt all wanted the games more than you did. Is there any way to try and get the team fired up? Like, maybe a pep talk or a good chewing out?

Weis: Classy sophisticates like us should not stain our lips with cursing.

MJenks: What about a team meeting where you sit down and try to talk about the direction the team is going? Motivate them, maybe?

Weis: I know what that word means! That's one of those sentence enhancers. You just sprinkle it on anything you say, and Wham-O! You've got yourself a spicy sentence sandwich!

MJenks: Switching gears a little bit, what are your plans for this week? Will you be having a Thanksgiving dinner with the players or are you focusing only on the upcoming USC game?

Weis: It’s just all fun and games with you. Nothing really matters. Oh, let’s go jelly fishing! We don’t have any work to do. Life’s just a big bowl of assorted cashews and nobody has anything to dust or to clean or to wipe… or fabricate!

MJenks: So then, you'll be scheming all through the week to try and find a better game plan. Will you be tapping into some of that renowned Robot Genius?

Weis: But don’t genius live in a lamp?

MJenks: Does that mean you'll be changing things up, and, if so, can you give us a glimpse of what to expect?

Weis: Hmm...Yeah...I've got it! Let's get naked!!

MJenks: Perhaps I'll leave the genius scheming up to you. What about the team's pre-game meal?

Weis: Some chicken, some roast beef, some pizza...

MJenks: And for you?

Weis: Some chicken, some roast beef, some pizza...

MJenks: Doesn't that seem excessive?

Weis: I'm a big man, Sponge. A big, big man!

MJenks: Given the schedule this year and the expectations not being met, are you feeling any heat from the hot seat?

Weis: No...I'm warm.

MJenks: With the results on the field and the fanbase souring toward you and the coaching staff, do you feel any danger of losing your team?

Weis: Hmmm. I sense no danger here. How can they be dangerous? They're covered with free cheese!

MJenks: Have you heard any of the names of other coaches that have been put out there as your possible replacement, guys like Brian Kelly or David Cutcliffe?

Weis: Nobody likes those guys. All they do is blow, blow, blow on their stupid whistles, rub, rub, rub that white stuff on their noses, and show off their grossly misshapen bodies. I'm going to the snack bar.

MJenks: Some have said you're not qualified for the job as you never had head coaching experience before.

Weis: I thought this was Spanish class.

MJenks: Some have speculated that losing to Syracuse like you did could sound the death knell for you and this program. Losing to Syracuse was also the "final straw" for your predecessor. Any thoughts?

Weis: What’s so great about being a big pink loser? Exactly. I was never closer to an award than the minute I started copying you.

MJenks: So, do you think you've improved this program since the day you inherited it?

Weis: You know what's funny? My pickle started out in a jar, and now it's in one again! It's like a pun or something.

MJenks: What would you like most right now in order to help fix this team and set them in the right direction?

Weis: I know, you want olives. Oh, I’m sorry. I was just talking to my old community college buddy, Flats. I bumped into him at the soda store, isn’t that funny? It must have been years since we’ve seen each other. Well, let me get going. He’s got to go back to school soon. He says he’s going to kick somebody’s butt. Hello? Is this Pizza Castle?

Reaction

Tee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee!

*breath*

Tee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee!

Looks like it was naked circles in the front yard while making airplane noises.

Swing and a miss, Michael Phelps...swing and a miss.

Maybe this will make you feel better:

Let the Games Begin

Okay, I haven't done a sports post in a long time, party because some people were whining about it, and partly because it's baseball and MLS season here. While I love soccer, not many people give a damn about it here in the states, and pretty much the rest of the world plays soccer during the winter. So, there you go. The soccer of any import isn't being played now, and what am I going to do with baseball? Tell you how the Cubs will find a new and inventive way of screwing it up this year? Place odds on whom the next Bartman will be? With football season just over the horizon, I thought maybe I'd do a few quick little stories that have popped up recently. You might have heard a few of them. One of them is about a guy named Brett. Screw you, Milwaukee Bait and switch, baby. The first entry is about the Cubs, mostly because they're rolling off a four game sweep in which they dominated the Milwaukee Brewers. I really don't have too much against Milwaukee, and despite the title, I kind of like them (Jesus, they're the Brewers...how can you truly hate them? Their mascot makes beer and happiness!), and they play in one of the finest ballparks in the majors. Still, screw you, Milwaukee. Nothing like seeing your hopes disappear in one second and suddenly turn into five games back in another. I think the true joy in all of this is that I read some obnoxious White Sox fan talking about how, after the series in which the central leaders in both leagues were playing the second place teams, only one of the Chicago teams would still be in the lead. I guess he was right. So, I guess I should be saying, "Screw you, stupid White Sox blogger!"

I'm a Sports Radio Whore It's true. I'll admit it. And here's why. All summer long, I have faithfully been listening to the two AM stations here in the Triangle, 850 the Buzz and 620 the Bull. The big draw was 850 had Bomani Jones covering their afternoon drive home time slot, and I've been enjoying his take on things since he was writing for the World Wide Leader. Well, now he's down here, and I've been loving it. Unfortunately, Friday is his last day, and August 4th we get ACC Douchebag David Glenn back. It wouldn't be so bad if Glenn wasn't a horrific ACC Homer (I get it, he loves it, yay for him), but his voice is annoying AND he asks hard-hitting questions to coaches and players along the lines of "If you were a tree, would your leaves be green? Unless of course you were a pine tree, then would your needles be green? And, if you don't want to talk about the color of your leaves and/or needles, feel free to tell some other cutesy story, and I'll guffaw like a senile old man with my teeth in my pocket." The biggest thing that gets me about this asscock is he's willing to give Roy Williams and Mike Krzyzewski as pass on every little negative blip on their radar, but he talks about what an asshole Bob Knight is. Yeah, I get it. Coach Knight was a dick. But you know what? He's also the winningest coach not named Pat Summit in NCAA basketball. So, eat dick already.
Couple the fact that David Glenn comes back with the obnoxious Billy-show run by Mark Packer, son of nefarious h8er Billy Packer, that plays in the afternoon on 620, and I start thinking of things I'd rather be doing than listening to sports talk radio around here, like having my testicles pulled slowly out of my nose with a crochet hook, for starters. Ugh.
Then, however, I turned over to the FM radio show today just in time to hear that they've picked up a contract with Westwood One radio. Do you know who is on Westwood One radio for football? That's right. Notre Freaking Dame. The guy announcing this promised every Notre Dame game every week. I about had to pull over and rub one out right there. Of course, 850 and 620 have to counter, so they are carrying...Duke football and North Carolina high school football games. Wow. The high school football games will be more interesting. So, there. Guess what, 99.9 the Fan? You've just picked up a new faithful listener. And you didn't even have to put on fishnets.

Speaking of Billy Packer... CBS got wise and told that antiquated curmudgeon to hit the road. Billy, of course, complained about how they got it wrong, declared it was over, and then shuffled off to eat his bran flake ice cream cone with extra prune. Good riddance.

Speaking of Good Riddance... Jesus, Red Sox fans, why did it take you this long? Let me back up. I passionately hate the Red Sox, mostly because the only Red Sox fans I've met in real life redefined the word "obnoxious". I believe it now means, "fat, ugly, and loud in a ball cap with a red 'B'". Of course, I've only ever met one Red Sox fan I can stand...probably because he kicks so much ass...mine, too, I'll assume, if I keep ragging on his team and 'nation'. But, don't worry, Red Sox nation, there is another group of fans who take obnoxious to a whole new level. Sorry, Hap. Anyway, it seems the annual drama has been shipped out West. The fact that Theo Epstein could convince anyone to take that mess of his hands is a major coup. I thought it was a deal when the Cubs dumped Sammy Sosa after his little tantrum...and Manny's been throwing these for years. Good riddance, I'd say. The mess that is Manny Ramirez was traded to the Dodgers today as the trading deadline came to an end in major league baseball. You got a decent pitcher outfielder (sorry, I was confusing him with Zach Duke) out of the deal, Red Sox nation, but I imagine the sudden relief of the migraine disappearing is better than Jason Bay. Unfortunately, David Ortiz is never going to see another hittable pitch in a clutch situation, but there you have it.

Stop me if you've heard this one... Danica Patrick picked a fight with another driver in the pits recently. This one with fellow female driver, Milka Duno. However, Milka, not having to abide by the by-laws of chivalry, threw a towel in Danica's face...twice...and then told her to leave the pits. This, of course, is not the first time Danica's picked a fight with someone. Famously, in the Indianapolis 500, after she wrecked out...again...she got out of her car and stormed down toward Ryan Briscoe's pits to confront him. She's had a history of punching other drivers--all male--knowing full well that they can't hit her back, and then when the guy talks about it, she insults his manhood. Also, ever notice how none of these wrecks are ever Danica's fault. I guess that's what you get when you have a bitch storming around with a false sense of entitlement. She keeps talking about making the jump to NASCAR, and I'd love to see it, because I can't really see Chocolate Myers taking her shit for too long before he hauls off and knocks her jaw loose.

More False Sense of Entitlement I see Michelle Wie is taking some more solid career advice from Daddy Dearest and skipping the major event on the LPGA tour--the tour on which she was won exactly zero events--to once again compete in a PGA tour. This will be her fourteenth attempt to play with the boys. She's made the cut in exactly zero of these competitions, but continues to play in them. If you'll pardon me, I'm going to go tell my daughter to enjoy being a little girl for as long as she wants. Look, I'm all for equality and all, but, seriously, Michelle...maybe you should focus on winning an LPGA event rather than just trying to make the cut on the PGA tour. If that's too much for you, maybe you can focus on signing the right scorecard for once.

A Man Named Brett George Brett, that is. We passed the 25th anniversary of the "Pine Tar Incident", wherein Brett showed the world that he was crazy. If not crazy, then he showed the world what a crazy face looks like, at least one without make-up and nasty scars on the cheeks. In case you forgot about it (or weren't born yet), basically Ole George used the sticky too high up on his bat and was called out after hitting a go-ahead two-run home run. His was the last out of the game. George came tearing out of the dugout to confront the umpires in a scene that was played over and over again during the opening scenes of This Week in Baseball throughout the entirety of my youth.

Purple Number 4? So, Brett Favre is...quasi-retired? What a fucking circus this has turned out to be. At first, I was like, "Brett, just walk away." But then the whole thing came out that Ted Thompson, GM for the Packers, and Mike McCarthy, head coach for the Packers, pushed Favre into retiring. If that's the case, then they should either let him come back, or outright release him. If it's false, and Brett really wanted to retire, then he should stay gone.
However, I can't understand the Packers' position here. They are rock solid, dead set on Aaron Rogers taking over in Green Bay. McCarthy has said there's no quarterback controversy...Aaron is our guy. Wow. Versus a hall-of-famer who owns ever passing record? Really? I mean...every team in the league has quarterback competitions, except Green Bay, Indianapolis and New England. To tell me that Aaron Rogers is on par with Peyton Manning and Tom Brady is fucking ridiculous. I mean, you've seen this guy on the field, right? Not to mention, he's a Jeff Tedford quarterback. Those guys always turn out to be great NFL stars, right Akili Smith and Joey Harrington?
Yeah, it's gotten ugly and comical, but my favorite is when Favre was going to call the Packers' bluff and show up at training camp. Thompson talked him out of it, saying "If you show up at camp, Brett, I'll lose my job." Okay, yeah, because when you're not making the playoffs this year with Rogers, and Favre is leading some team to the playoffs, your head isn't going end up on a pike in Green Bay. Good luck with that, buddy.
Honestly, if Brett ends up in Minnesota, I will root for him to beat the Packers. I know, my loyalties should not lie with one man, but the Packers bungle-fucked this long ago. I want to see Rogers fall flat on his face and I want to see McCarthy eating shit pie. Sauerkraut is optional.
Check it out. I just switched allegiances again...and still no fishnets. Although, I'm thinking someone out there might need to put on a pair to help cement my ties to the Purple People Eaters.

I think that should just about do it for alienating every one of my readers.

A Dream Dies

Sorry for the silence on this end of the spectrum. I've been on a vacation, of sorts, since last Friday. Except, we didn't go anywhere, so according to CNN and their online 'writers', I wasn't on vacation, I was on stay-cation.

Which I, of course, read as "stay cat ion" and immediately think "well, that's dumb...it would immediately go searching for an anion or, at the very least, a lone pair of electrons." Whichever, it's a lame word.

My kids, of course, are also on vacation as my daughter shuffled off this scholastic coil back in early June, and they're quite pleased to have me home. So much so, that they wake when the very first ray of dawn peeks itself over the edge of the world and filters through the trees that surround our house. It wouldn't be so bad, but they begin fighting immediately upon waking...maybe not fighting, but it involves lots of little screechy 6- and 3-year old voices being raised above a comfortable level for human ears.

This isn't too much of a problem, but these tiny voices usually culminate in the coup de grace, wherein Tank, my three-year-old son, comes into the bedroom and demands politely asks for me to make him breakfast. This is nothing new, as he requests of me every day that I make his breakfast. I'm fairly used to it as it's a daily occurrence, so it's not much of an issue.
Except for the other day.

See, the other day, I was having that dream again. You know the dream. The one where I'm playing football for Notre Dame. Oh yes. Chubby Chuckles [1] liked me, because I was a leader on the field, barking commands back and forth with the other players. Normally, I'm an offensive guy, but this day, I was special teams and defense. I remember screaming "No blocked punts! No blocked punts!" up and down the line, and, after we punted the ball away, trotting to the sidelines where Chubby Chuckles himself slapped me on the helmet with the color-coded play-chart of genius and told me good job. I went back out on defense and after a series of plays, I nabbed an interception off a deflection, but I caught it in stride. I came around the lines yelling "Blockers! I need a blocker! Block that guy!" The offending would-be tackler was taken down, and there was nothing but open grass and the end zone before me.

I should, at this point, tell you that the offense had managed to push the ball deep into their zone before my deft interception, so I had a long way to run lumber before I could score the touchdown, but I knew it would be no problem as I heard the entire stadium going nuts (this was a home game) screaming for me, chanting my name, bringing me home. I even saw someone on the edge of my periphery, and I changed directions late and high-stepped out of his tackle. My team mates were screaming, jumping, yelling, pumping me up with their enthusiasm, and there, sprinting down the sidelines like a big, fat ghost was Chubby Chuckles himself. And I heard one voice, above all others calling for me:

"Daddy, can you make me some breakfast?"

And there, inches from the goal line, enveloped in my finest hour, with all the glory and tradition of Notre Dame football basking down upon me, my reverie disappeared in a single, sudden, soul-crushing "pop".

Instead of adoring fans, cheerleaders, guys dressed like leprechauns or overzealous teammates, I was greeted by the beaming face of my three-year-old pride-and-joy. As the last wisps of the dream faded into the ethyr, despite my desperate attempts to cling to them, to wrap them around my mind like a suit of protective armor, the gossamer lines of my early morning dreams blew away like dust on the wind. The words "Do we have any Pop-Tarts?" ground my morning bliss into nothing more than a memory whose colors were already fading.

Defeated and demoralized, I pulled myself from my bed, yanked a shirt over my head, and staggered downstairs where I prepared three bowls of Coco Puffs--one for each child and another for myself--and as I curled into a ball on my couch, came to the conclusion that I was decidedly not cuckoo for Coco Puffs.


[1] Until the stain of 3-9 is atoned for, I shall refer to him as this.

Adieu

College football wraps up tonight with the championship game between Louisiana State and the Ohio State University, a game in which the Bayou Bengals are favored by four points (at last check). Frankly, for me, I'm ready to see football go away. This year has just been kind of bad all over...unless you're a fan of the Ohio State or LSU, I guess. Even these teams have had their high and low points this season. The BCS, itself, needs this to be a good game, since most of the other high profile bowl games have been either bad games (VT/Kansas) or games where the outcome was known pretty much from the kick off (Georgia/Hawai'i, USC/Illinois). Personally, I'm not sure which it's going to be.

The Buckeyes were, of course, in this same position last year...with one less loss and a Heisman quarterback behind center. We all know what happened, so no need to repeat it here. A lot of people seem to think that the same will happen again, since LSU supposedly has a lot of "team speed" and OSU's quarterback isn't nearly as mobile as Troy Smith was last year. However, I think one thing that everyone is overlooking is Jim Tressel. The Sweatervest is a good coach, and pretty smart, as well. Yeah, OSU got beat bad last year by Florida's faster defense. I'm pretty sure Tressel has heard that a few (thousand) times since last January, and will have prepared his team appropriately.

The one problem that Ohio State might have issues with is that it's been 52 days since their last game. 52 days. That's over seven weeks. That's almost two months. That's a long damned time to sit and prepare for a game. A ridiculous amount of time, but that's the flawed system we're under now. Get to play for the national championship...and wait. Wait wait wait. I think it's unfair for the teams that have to play in the national championship game (LSU has had about five weeks of watching film, themselves) to wait this amount of time to play. It's almost like starting a fresh season, and only playing one game.

To that end, I think that Tressel will have his players prepared and hungry after last year. Despite this being a home game for LSU (does LSU play a bowl game anywhere outside of Louisiana? It just always seems like they're either in New Orleans or Shreveport or something), I think that the SweaterVest will prevail. Ohio State 27, LSU 24.

In other news...
Yes, Notre Dame does have a top class coming in this year, which is pretty cool, since, you know, they shat the bed this year. Picking up Deion Walker was a nice land from this past weekend, and took a little of the sting out of the defection of Omar Hunter. Fortunately, Hunter was not our only nose guard recruit for this class, though he most likely was the best of the crop (and is one of the best defensive linemen in the country). Plus, he was a bit of a bonus recruit. Hopefully, there is enough time left in the recruiting period (signing day is in February) to fill in any gaps left by defections.

The thing that...I dunno...disgusts? angers? disappoints?...me is that this is the second year in a row that Florida has yanked a recruit out from under the Irish. The nice thing is, this seems like not only a good, talented class, but also a very cohesive class. They're all friends, and a lot of the other players were suprised by Hunter's defection. Hopefully this means lots of good things for the future of the program, as it will leave fewer years like this past year (7 seniors) in the offing. The other thing is, it's nice to see that, despite having the worst season in the history of the program, the coaching staff could still assemble a good, talented class to help fill in the depth chart left decimated in the wake of You-Know-Who that seems wholly and totally committed to playing for the Blue and Gold.

I Know What You're Going to Say

So I'll say it for you:

"But it was against Duke."

- I think we found a running back for next season. It looked to me that he was actually able to spot holes to run through, and he was able to shed some tacklers and fight forward for more yardage. The fact that he was creative, strong [i]and[/i] fast gave me hope for a running game next season (But it was against Duke).

- Clausen looked like the highly touted recruit he was last year and that he's actually learned something in the course of getting the shit knocked out of him over this past year. His arm strength is still lacking, but he was good and accurate. He threw no picks and three touchdowns (but it was against Duke) and took only one sack (but it was against Duke) and he seemed to recognize how to keep a drive sustained (but it was against Duke). Still, this was one of those confidence-boosting games that a young quarterback needs.

- Thankfully the game was against Duke, because the coaching still lacked...depth, creativity, cajones. Whatever you want to put in there. I'm tired of the swing pass that goes for a yard or less. And calling a screen pass two times in a row was boneheaded. Hopefully with the emergence of Hughes at running back, the playcalling can get a little less predictable. And the 4th-and-1 where both guards jumped on the first count when clearly they were told to go on three and then the subsequent 4th-and-5 where the ball was snapped over the punter's head pretty much typified the season for Notre Dame. The fact that the punter got the ball off maybe showed that the luck of the Irish was changing. Or not. We'll see.

The next one is against Stanford, which gave even the Quinn-led teams fits, especially on the road. I'm just hoping for 3-9 and a more confident squad going into next season.

Thank goodness basketball season is here (more on that after I clean the house up for some holiday we're having in the near future).