I remember one Saturday about a year ago being at a party the same time a Razorback game was on. It was not, even though it claimed to be, a game watching party. Rather, and I’m just guessing now, the hostess needed a reason to invite people, of which I was one. So, she called it a “Football Game Watching Party,” or some such nonsense, on the invite. (I think the invitation had a Hog head and some cheese dip next to it.)
The game was against Vanderbilt. I had returned the Sunday before from Oxford, and a narrow escape from humiliation at the hands of Ole Miss. (See where this is going?) So, the very next week was another road game against the Commodores, sans Lionel Richie. I just thought I knew what a narrow escape was.
As bad as those two wins were, they were wins, and on the road in the SEC, not at ground zero of Hog Nation, where we hadn’t lost in six years, I believe. And against a middle of the pack Sun Belt team.
But back to the Vandy watching party, where I found myself alone, early in the first half, in our host’s little sunroom, having abandoned the bigger TV where everyone else claiming to be Razorback fans gathered. The chatter about private tuitions, heated car seats and hummus finally drove me out. I looked for and found another TV.
Early in the 4th quarter, the Hog defense was not performing to my expectations. I was cursing loudly at Willie’s blitz calls, or rather lack thereof (I miss you Willie), as Jordan Rodgers was doing a pretty good impersonation of older brother Aaron. I suppose I screamed something once or twice that could be considered distasteful in some circles, like the one I was in that day. Suddenly, I felt like I wasn’t alone, turned around and saw our hostess and four or five of her Honey Boo Boo posse looking at me like I had a swastika carved in my forehead.
No one said a word, so I decided to break the ice.
“Did you see that *#$@# play??!!”
Apparently they had not and walked away.
Later, on the drive home, my wife was giving me the silent treatment.
“Well, I didn’t break anything this time,” I offered.
“Thank you for that,” Kathy said. “And you know that was probably your last invitation over there. You just care too much sometimes.”
And that was it in a nutshell. There can be no doubt that along with being a passionate Hog fan comes plenty of agony and despair. Those people from that Vanderbilt party a year ago likely were just fine this past Sunday morning. I envied them that. Then I remembered these words of Teddy Roosevelt, and felt a little better - not much, but a little:
“It is not the critic who counts, not the man who points out how the strong man stumbled, or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly, who errs and comes short again and again, who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, and spends himself in a worthy cause, who at best knows achievement and who at the worst if he fails at least fails while daring greatly so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat.”
So I guess I’ll never learn. Go Hogs, Beat Bama.