A Welcome Distraction

"Football: A sport that bears the same relation to education that bullfighting does to agriculture.'"

-Elbert Hubbard

My grandfather loved that quote. Of course, he also loved the USC Trojans, forced us to watch their dramatic comeback win against Notre Dame in the Coliseum in 1974 over and over, on whatever was the first generation of what later became the VCR. The Trojans were down 24-6 at halftime, but Anthony Davis's kickoff return for a touchdown at the beginning of the second half paved the way for a 55-24 rout of the Fighting Irish.

A little over two months later Grandpa and I were sitting together in the end zone bleachers of the Rose Bowl, cheering on the Men of Troy as they beat the hated Buckeyes 18-17. I still have the ticket to that game tucked away somewhere, along with the memory of a brilliant January afternoon sitting next to the usually grumpy old colonel (aged 56 at the time, and fairly recently retired from the Air Force) who was beaming that day.

College football is upon us again this coming weekend. Do I care like I did as a boy, when I wept inconsolably in front of the TV when the Bayou Bengals trounced Notre Dame (my favorite team when I was seven or so) on national television and Dad mocked me for being such a whiny wimp? Weird that Dad would root for LSU, being an Ole Miss guy for whom LSU was THE hated rival. But he hated his in-laws more, it seemed, and Mom's brother Pat was a very Catholic, very huge fan of Notre Dame who sent me sweatshirts and hats emblazoned with the fighting leprechaun logo. And four years later there we were rooting for the Trojans against those same guys. Little boys are capricious, I guess.

Where was I?

Oh yeah, the full slate of games scheduled on this [corporate sponsor name here] College Football Kickoff Weekend. They've lined up some doozies: Texas and Ohio State, where we'll get to see the Arch Manning era officially begin. The Crimson Tide ventures into Doak Campbell Stadium to take on the lately mediocre Seminoles. I've never been a 'Noles guy, but have to root for the plucky underdogs tomorrow, mostly because Alabama made one of their games into a Trump pep rally last year. Screw those guys. The Vols are playing the Orange in Atlanta, a game notable only for the fact that both teams sport the same garish school colors. I'll root for Peg's alma mater, probably more than she will. The Dawgs are scheduled to rough up poor little Marshall between the hedges, while USC is roughing up . . . wait, that must be a typo in the schedule . . . Missouri State. I wasn't aware they had a football team.

Ah, those moments between the hedges, though. Walking the track behind the Georgia bench thirty years ago, with little Jim perched on my shoulders, watching the defensive coordinator with his little dry erase board map out the D's adjustments for the next series. Sitting in my beloved, late Uncle Lehman's prime seats with my buddy Jeff, watching the Dawgs squeak past Tennessee.

And happiest of all, that time P and I, a fairly new item then, took our promenade along the most famous shrubbery in all of college football.

Eleven days later, both our homes were destroyed in Hurricane Michael. But we were blissfully unaware that lovely September afternoon.

So why can't I feel it this season? I mean, it's probably healthy not to let one's emotional well-being be dictated every fall by the foibles of a bunch of twenty-year-olds. But at some level it feels like something's lost in me.

I could blame NIL and the money and such. An acquaintance whose son went to play at Georgia a couple years ago lamented that his days were less about going to class and more about bouncing between practice and going to be a prop at some business promotion required to pick up his check. At the same time, playing at this level is incredibly dangerous and unlikely to lead to anything other than disappointment at the gates of the NFL and finding one's brain on a dissection table, so these kids should rightly get paid a little of the vast wealth they create for mostly old white men.

Really, though, it's the lack of team loyalty and ties to the place that makes it hard to get emotionally involved. Back in the day, Georgia prided itself on those amazing, almost entirely black athletes it drew from below the gnat line, all good Georgia boys with an occasional transplant from Chattanooga. Tennessee had its massive, corn fed linemen, back then all white, who had a reputation for being not only human mountains but also fast and smart. And almost all from the Volunteer State. USC and UCLA were both basically all star teams comprised of the best high school football players in metro LA. And once a young man started in Athens or Knoxville or Tuscaloosa, he almost always stayed until graduation or maiming injury ended the ride.

But now these guys seem to move every year, entering the portal in the hopes of bidding up their compensation by selling themselves to the highest bidder that offseason. No loyalty, no dewy eyed singing of Rocky Top or Glory to Old Georgia (and to hell with Georgia Tech) at their final senior game. Sports are as much about the stories as the games themselves, and it's hard to grow attached to a young man's narrative when he flits from team to team for five years.

As much as anything, I guess I've grown cynical about pretty much everything, and that cloud extends to sport. I hate to quote poor Gordon Sumner start to finish in a blog post, but the song sort of fits.

You could say I lost my faith in science and progress

You could say I lost my belief in the holy Church

You could say I lost my sense of direction

You could say all of this and worse, but

If I ever lose my faith in you

There'd be nothing left for me to do

Some would say I was a lost man in a lost world

You could say I lost my faith in the people on TV

You could say I'd lost my belief in our politicians

They all seem like game show hosts to me

If I ever lose my faith in you

There'd be nothing left for me to do

I could be lost inside their lies without a trace

But every time I close my eyes I see your face

I never saw no miracle of science

That didn't go from a blessing to a curse

I never saw no military solution

That didn't always end up as something worse, but

Let me say this first

If I ever lose my faith in you

There'd be nothing left for me to do

Maybe that's part of why I am the way I am about P. This is the last thing left in which I still believe, love that is. Without it there'd be no point, would there?

My Braves certainly aren't a source of solace this year. On social media this morning their page posted a composite video of the first inning last night at Truist against the Phillies, sending six to the plate and scoring two runs to go up 2-0. They ended up losing 19-4. Absolutely dismal, during a time of year I'm typically more interested in pennant races than football.

This weekend, though, P and I will head to the Cliff for air fryer wings and guacamole and the boob tube featuring a parade of teams we care little or nothing about. Comfort food for the soul.