Oh, college football, how I’ve missed you. It’s been months since I’ve been able to breathe in your beautiful smell, a combination of chewed-up turf, sweaty linemen and smuggled bourbon, hear the sound of 200 band geeks playing Darth Vader’s theme or a drunk frat boy cussing out the coaches’ play calling, or watch my team take the field to battle for a chance to play in a faux-championship system for a mythical national championship title.
College football- you’re my first, my last, my everything. I may have a lustful fling with baseball every spring, and every two years I may run away for a few weeks with the Olympics, but baby, you gotta know you’re my number one. There’s no contest- you’re my one true love, and nothing else could ever really take your place.
Until we can meet up good and proper in September, darlin’- I will just have to make do with the wham, bam, thank you ma’am of a spring game. It’s not real football, there are no opponents and no victory on the line, but I’ll take what I can get. Baby, I’m so desperate for some of your sexy action, that I was actually worked up about seeing Clausen’s emu spikes. That should show you my devotion. It’s not Texas football, but it’s the best I can do up here in Chicago.
I love you, college football. Call me anytime.
(P.S. If you wouldn’t mind keeping those drunk texts I sent you from the tailgate to yourself, I’d really appreciate it)
(P.P.S. I’ve got all kinds of pictures of our short, but sweet, time together- you can relive it with me after the jump)
(P.P.P.S. If there’s any way you can get Colt McCoy the Heisman, and Tom Zbikowski to play with his shirt off, that would be great)