I could use a hug. I'm just in a funk over this season and it's only one game old. This feeling has been there for months. The depths at which this depression has sunk into my gut has deepened exponentially this week. And I feel like the coach is in an even worse place. And that tomorrow we're going to see the season implode.
In a word, help! I can't shake it and every now and then I have this fleeting slap in the face - Hey you dip(crap)!! It was just Boise. They're like the #5 team in the country. It's not like you lost to Florida, again. I let that settle over me but it never breaks through the despondency.
Herschel, part I
As I said yesterday, I truly enjoyed watching the documentary the other night. But once it was over my depression was only deeper. My relief from the 2011 season was only 60 minutes long. At 9:01 I felt worse than I had before it started.
I'd wait in line for hours just for a minute with this guy. And we had players that couldn't manage to get out of bed for a private session with him? One of our school's greatest ambassadors, the greatest player to ever grace ANY gridiron...dumbfounded. Speechless.
This is the central issue. I know his days are numbered, and I'm ok with that. Truly. What really gets me is he's acting like he knows it too.
We go way back. I dearly, genuinely love the man. If he drank beer and cursed more in public we'd be the perfect "bro-uple" for a situational comedy. We'd high five a lot. Shoot pool. Eat wings and play poker. But I love my University's football program more. I don't want a dead man walking running it. It's been long enough.
In a perfect world we'd go on a tear like the one Hamp reminded us of and ride that damn bus all the way back to the GA Dome. Ben Jones and Kwame Geathers would hoist Richt on their shoulders to carry him off the field where he'd retire a winner.
Instead it feels a lot closer to the things ecdawg's been hearing. It's enough to make me feel like I slept with one of Nevin Shapiro's yacht strippers with nothing on but a smile. Sick. Just. Shoot. Me.
The 2011 Season
I DID MY JOB DAMMIT!!! I refused every ounce of kool-aid. I scoffed at the mere notion of believing any snippet of hype. Every time Coach Richt wanted to hug it out, I kept him at arm's length. WE'RE ON A BREAK DUDE! GET OFF MY LAWN!!
And then last Saturday...holy crap on a cheezit...we looked like boys. And not just little boys sitting in their classroom on those little chairs. Little ones caught in a busy train station where everyone else is moving fast and seems to always know where they're going. It sucked, and yet I had to sit there. I'd waited 9 months to cheer from my seat in sec 345, row 15, seat 2. I retreated to the GA Dome's concourse once for a 10 minute break. Then trudged back to take the rest of my medicine.
I've got at least 8 more games that I'm committed to. I'll be at every one. I'll never boo, and I'll always bark. And yet....I want to crawl in a hole, fall asleep and wake up next August.
Herschel, part II
We'll never see a player like him again. Even if someone with similar physical and athletic attributes comes along in my lifetime, it'll be some snotty brat that's been spoon fed everything he's ever been given.
To watch Herschel was to see what full contact ballet would be like. It was both smoking guitar strings and a finely tuned symphony rolled into one. I'd seen size and I'd seen speed. But both? Together? In one perfect football body?
What's more are the memories of a team that had this spectacular player and yet he never let himself get above those around him. Even when he yearned to join the Marines and then got sucked into professional football, he didn't want to let his teammates down. And together they rose from a collection of outcasts in the junkyard to the most dominant team of the early 80s.
I want my kids to have a Herschel Walker to admire. More so, I want them to have a team that wins games, leaving the excuse making for everyone in their wake.
I feel both sorry for them and at the same time wanna wring their necks. It can't be easy to be sold on a program, sign the letter and then have to listen to fans boo them...read messages from grown ass men who for God knows what reason think it's ok to tell a player he's a "POS no good football player".
As absurd and gutless as that fan behavior is, I still get frustrated with some of the things I read and hear. If I had been blessed with half their talent I'm sure there would be days when I would be so sick of practice I'd be ready to burst. But at the end of the day it's a free ride. A tremendous opportunity.
And always a privilege to wear the G.
The lunatic fringe is louder than any squeaky wheel I've ever heard. They're full of fail and there isn't a muzzle big enough for that fat trap that's always open...spewing garbage and righteous indignation. I have to live with these people for the next year? You can't escape them. They sit next to you at games. They're the first (and usually the only) dumbasses that call-in shows put on the air. They're at work, the gas station, every restaurant. Don't even think about logging onto Twitter or that BookFace thing. They're even at church.
God help me! Every ounce of my being just wants to go out back, fire up the grill and sip a cold one. Relax. Breathe deeply for just a few moments. But if I do they'll probably come out of the trees. Descend on my deck and start regurgitating all over my marinated steaks.
As Herschel would say, Just shet up! For one minute...so I can embrace this misery. Alone. I'm in a dark place. The only thing to pull me out of there is a win.