That strange and extraordinarily barbaric time of year when decent, hard-working, God-fearing people residing in the usually bucolic midwestern utopia of Ohio, transmute into maize and blue flesh eating zombies ready to attack at the mere mention of that state to the north. Last year I remarked on my conversion to all things Ohio State football which came about as a direct result of Younger Son's insistence on dating a Buckeye.
Since Younger Son and His B'shert (a much better handle, don't you think?) have finally put a ring on it, there is an even more heightened sense of involvement this year. I have come to the realization that no matter how hard I try to fight it, the annual Ohio State/Michigan gridiron apocalypse is now a deeply ingrained part of my family's psyche.
Last week when the young couple were here visiting, the OSU/Indiana massacre was on. (42-14, but the score was much closer than the actual game.) Now, I am no neophyte when it comes to football. I am intimately familiar with formations, nickel defences, draw plays, and the like and I have made it my business to better acquaint myself with some of the minutiae of Urban Meyer's program. Family harmony, don't ya know. Well....in the interest of carrying on a cogent football conversation, I made some crucial errors according to Younger Son's B'shert.
When I remarked that both teams used red in their school colours and that the stadium was awash in hues of gladiator blood, I was told in no uncertain terms that Indiana wears a much more feminine crimson while The Buckeyes are proudly adorned in warrior scarlet. Check out the difference.
But my real trouble began when I did the unthinkable. I questioned Saint Braxton Miller's throwing motion. The football fan in me couldn't help myself. (My mind was shouting SHUT UP DAWN even as my mouth was spewing the words.) During a series when OSU was moving the ball at will against the porous Hoosier D, I noted that the speedy quarterback (and this guy is really really really fast!!) flung the ball sidearm on a number of occasions. And then...I did something even more stupid. I actually had the audacity to suggest that perhaps, just perhaps, this hitch in his arm could be compared to another Meyer protege....Tim Tebow (Oh the horror!) and that his future in the NFL might be in question. Audible gasps!!
Well. You'd have thought that the entire state was mobilizing with pitchforks at my door. I was accused of not being a true fan and that I knew nothing about the game because Meyer is a genius. After all, how many national championship rings am I wearing?
Because I adore my future daughter-in-law and her parents, and because no football game is worth the price of familial peace, here is my mea culpa.
You were right and I was wrong. There is no football program in all the land that can compare with The Ohio State University. There are no flaws, no gaffes, no hitches, and no coach who can even compare with the brilliant Urban Meyer. Braxton is a god who defies description and, really who even cares about his pro future as long as he leads us to victory this weekend against those weasels to the north. I promise to proudly adorn myself in scarlet and grey on Saturday and to scream so loudly that my neighbours might have to report me to the cops.
Are we good?
And by the way...it's Tuesday and Michigan still sucks.