Saturday, November 24, 2007
terrabull- (adj.) returning from New Orleans to snow and a West Virginia-Missouri championship game on January 7
the smiths- "I Know It's Over"
Last night you knocked on my door and told me to quiet down. See, there's a light above you that flickers whenever I jump up and down, and it's just that--was I watching a game or something?
Yes. I was watching a game or something. More accurately, I was engrossed in the frustrating play of my faithful LSU Tigers. Watching them every Saturday has been the only constant in my life these past two months. Since I've gotten married, moved up north, and begun a grueling grad program, I have been able to hang onto the unbalanced talent of my favorite team in sports. Debating team minutiae on the phone has been the only way I've kept in touch with my brother. The team's high rankings and my LSU hats have been a badge of honor. I feel overmatched by everything these days--less commited than other people, less intelligent, more uncomfortable with the weather. So to be an expert on something, to be able to sneer at a question like, "Why was a number one ranked team playing a number seventeen anyway?" meant a lot to me. The way LSU has been their own worst enemy has even reminded me of myself and the way I stay up all night writing a paper. This is a difficult time in my life, and in more ways than I would like to admit, LSU football was giving me hope, or at least distracting me from acknowledging how unhappy I am here.
So when they were upset on Friday, upset by a team I was nervous about playing, upset by showing all the flaws that had almost done them in so many times before, it meant more than you might expect, Marcus. The team ripped my heart out at Kentucky, and I was picking up the pieces, only to ruin them with Ar-Kansas tears.
Kicking down garbage cans on my way to Cavanaugh's, wasted (the more things change...), it occurred to me that I shouldn't be angry with you, Marcus. I should stop feeling sorry for myself and start feeling sorry for you.
When you came in to tell me to stop jumping up and down and to ask if a game was even on, you revealed yourself to be everything I hate about living in Philadelphia. Ever since I got here, I've been surrounded by godless, souless, blase, supercilious assholes, and I get a knock on my door from another one telling me to keep it down on the Friday night after Thanksgiving. Marcus, I only know three things about you: you pathologically cook eggs, you ride a bike everywhere, and you are currently reading Moby Dick. But I can guess about one more thing: you haven't jumped up and down about a damn thing in your life. And when you made me turn down my TV and stop jumping near the end of that Arkansas disaster, a little piece of Philadelphia beat me down.