Remarkable stuff

Western Michigan and Central Michigan combined for 17 points through 45:05 of play. In the last 14:55 the two MAC West rivals combined for 48 points, 24 of them in the final four minutes of regulation. The Broncos looked dominating in the first few series. Then the game got boring. Then Central went ahead and looked like it would never relinquish the lead. Then Western scored two straight touchdowns within 33 seconds of each other. Then All-MAC sophomore QB Dan LaFevour (“FEVER!”) threw a 39 yard pass to Bryan Anderson and suddenly, with the game on the line, the Chippewas were on the 1-yard line with less than a minute to go. It took them three tries, one review and a possible fumble to get the touchdown.

And it was snowing. To a Californian this was like playing golf on the moon.

I’m not sure what I expected out of CMU-WMU. Certainly not what I found: a massive apartment complex house party that would’ve done UCSB proud, a student body that prides itself on being “Wastern Michigan”, the best looking girls I’d seen since I left the South behind, an unbelievable game that ended on…

… because I have to mention it…

… a 38 yard scramble with 12 seconds left to play, as the Broncos lateraled the kickoff at least five times before the ball went out of bounds somewhere near the CMU 35-yard line. The recap doesn’t even fucking mention this, which goes to prove my theorem once again: it is always worth going to a college football game, because relying on ESPN or the AP to be your eyes and ears is inadvisable. How could they ever describe snowflakes swirling through a two-minute drill? Or the absolute dead silence following a ref’s announcement that the ruling on the field would stand, and Western would lose? Or the giddy sugar high of The Play gone wrong, or at least short? They can’t, which is why you ought to stop lying to yourself about enjoying the game more at home.

I have to admit it: I did not expect a good game, or even a close one. I thought CMU would handle Western. I also thought I was going to go to 14 games this season. I’m on track for 25 games. I’ve visited 23 stadiums already. I’ve been to 27 states and the District of Columbia so far. The 10,000 miles I alloted myself way back when I first dreamt up this idea came and went somewhere near Bowling Green, Ohio – which is where I was attracted to a stadium lit up at night. Turns out the BGSU Falcons were practicing. I got to watch them run gassers, fight amongst themselves (literally), drill, and scrimmage, and all because my automatic reaction whenever I see stadium lights is to now wonder if I can get in somehow.

Another thing I’ve learned: don’t take acid in New Orleans and then drive to Baton Rouge that same night.

All in all, these past 70 days have been, as mentioned above, remarkable.

-224.36

That’s the balance in my checking account. Whoops.

Apparently you can not only continue using your debit card well past the $0.00 marker, you can do so with gleeful ignorance. For example: there are no Bank of Americas in Columbus, Ohio. I have been a member of Bank of America since I was 6 because my mom worked there and getting your kid a checking account at 6 is pretty sweet. So I like Bank of America, and, specifically, I like not getting charged $5.00 a pop for withdrawing my own money.

I unfortunately had to go to a scalper for the Ohio State-Wisconsin game. Long story short, I got cash back from a CVS pharmacy three separate times at$35 a go in order to get enough money to at least tempt a scalper right before kickoff. I thought nothing of it, though my internal accountant was nibbling his finger nails and ticking off great big cross hatches in the ledger of my soul.

Then my Blue Cross PPO insurance comes a calling, which is $96. I do the CVS trick a couple more times at Rite Aids and the like. I buy a sandwich. Etc.

So there I was at a Kalamazoo mall when I happen to wander past the first Bank of America ATM I’d seen in eight states. I attempt to withdraw $40 for the upcoming Ohio-Akron game ticket. The computer tells me I am exceeding my balance.

Klaxons are going off right now as my internal accountant triggers the self destruct and leaps to a noble death through the window of my now morally and financially bankrupt soul.

Long story short: no more booze. In retrospect booze has been my undoing for at least six years now. It jarred me from my path of academic excellence and the Rhodes Scholarship that undoubtedly awaited me as n superb inner tube waterpolo player. It sent me into rages and depressions. It gave me sweet, sweet hope. And it sucked the life blood out of my bank account on this road trip, a road trip I have budgeted for quite efficiently except for one very obvious exception, which, again, is booze. I love buying rounds for people who are nice to me. It’s my curse and my blessing. Well, to the people of the bars of the world I say No More!

Starting tomorrow, anyway.

As for what I’m gonna do, I’ve done it already: phoned home to momma. I am not a world traveling badass, able to live off the land and charm maidens with my Jon of Locksley roguishness. You need a merry band of men for that, and maybe green tights. I am now just a seriously poor vagrant with 1/5 a tank of gas and $24 in his wallet, which ought to be enough to buy a ticket to tonight’s Western Michigan-Central Michigan game.

So it’s back to Bush’s baked beans and water fountains. Yum.

Hey Jenny Slater knows who’s who when the revolution comes

Doug’s been keeping tabs, and with five immaculately devastaing posts he says to the college football world: “You know who you are.” You may not agree with the entirety of his list of the 50 Most Loathsome People in College Football (f’rinstance, Colin Cowherd ought to be classified as more loathsome than #35, and I don’t really care about the inclusion of the nearly autistic Georgia “fanatic” BuLLdawg at #39) (also, I just linked to the top ten so click around a bit for the rest), but you have to admire the thoroughness of this compilation. It feels right, mainly because while reading it you threw up a little bit. In your mouth.

Acid… reflux… incapacitating us…

I’m a fan of Doug. He writes with the proper mixture of frustration, outrage, glee, malice, what-the-fuck-was-that, joy and utter confusion that is the birth right of every college football fan. (See #8 on his list.) As I mentioned already, Doug is one of those up for a 2006 College Football Blogger Award. Three, actually.

Did I say I’m a fan of Doug? Doug can go to Hell, that primadonna.