Moron

In the first week of September last year, I wrote about a Scotsman discovering a love of college football:

…he senses there must be some central source of divinity that has left its mark on others, who in turn have passed on their share and created a whole nation of people endowed with a shard of the immutable properties of the universe, i.e. the 4th quarter comeback.

It’s true. There is a central source of divinity leaving its mark on others, who in turn passed on their share and created a whole nation of people endowed with a shard of the immutable properties of the universe, i.e. the 4th quarter comeback. That central source might be Matt Barkley’s injured right shoulder, or, if I’m epistemologically trepidatious, the force, animus, phenomenon, pantheon, thing, whatever it is, that decided to lift me off the floor where I was laying prostrate trying to sacrifice to the gods of 2nd-and-19 at your own five. I’m not too hung up on naming this thing.

There is no other game in the world that can bring you so low and then elevate you so high. I am high right now. As the very wise Nick Hornby wrote in the only book to capture what I experience every fall

The truth is this: for alarmingly large chunks of an average day, I am a moron.

For alarmingly large chunks of the next six days I will be a moron, gazing off into the distance and thinking about Joe McKnight’s redemption, Stafon Johnson’s rabbit feet, the o-line’s beautiful, beautiful sveltness and, of course, Matt Barkley’s 19-year old right arm.

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