Fear. Fear intimidates. Fear paralyzes. Fear leads to loathing. If a poll was taken at this current moment, the results would show that the largest per capita loathing resides in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Since the departure of Lloyd Carr (not when we left in utter disgust last Saturday) fear has reverberated throughout the marrow of every maize and blue faithful. From the mind boggling ineptitude of Rich Rod's defense to the ineptitude of Hoke and Brandon's handling of just about everything post Sugar Bowl, Michigan fans and alum have feared for the future thinking the next year, week, or day would be the bottom of the abyss. The bottom of the abyss has yet to present itself and one thing reigns true that I've learned throughout life; it can always get worse. So far it has.
After the humiliation of the Utah game, many maize and blue faithful had underlying joy that the LOLophers were next on the schedule. Not since a decade ago could the Gophers sniff the scent of relevancy from the Brown Jug. I must admit I was one of the many that expected Shane Morris to ride in on a Stallion next to Vladimir Putin and begin the trek towards a B1G championship starting with the eradication of varmints from the land of funny accents.
Oh how blind we were. The glaring problem was hidden by my fandom, or maybe intoxicants. As the game began I noticed no change in tempo, Hoke still coaching Amish style, and a QB that thought he was playing for San Diego State against the hated Trojans of San Jose State. So did Hoke. By halftime the fear was creeping into our veins with no Thorazine to combat it. Fans were booing, announcers on ABC were condoning it, and sense of a rift within the team became apparent.
As much as we praise the players for the work and effort they put in sacrificing their bodies, the sight of Gardner refusing to collaborate with Nuss and young Morris made me angry enough to kill baby seals and feed them to Kim Jung Un with a jewel encrusted spoon haunted by the souls of unborn princes in 18th century France. Although angry at Gardner, leadership comes from the top and my anger again found its way to targeting Hoke and Brandon. As the game went on and all hope was lost, I was enraged with Hoke and Brandon for letting such an athletically talented group of young men fall into a gaggle of squawking pile of hog shit. Development of the line has not improved. Development of a 5th year grad student QB has not come to fruition. Development of clock management and special teams remained stagnant. Then came the incident personally known as Morrisgate.
Shane Morris received a punishing series of hits and twists which left him vividly hurt and concussed. Any sane man with at least an amedulla oblongata would have yanked Morris' ass in a flash. Not Hoke. Hoke believes that MANBAW requires pain and humiliation to build character. Hoke claims he did not see the hit nor the wobbly after effects even though Nuss, 90,000 fans, ABC announcer Ed Cunningham, and Morris' parents were there to all witness it. To be fair, perhaps Hoke did not see it. I did not see him pointing. Perhaps he was shot with shock as he has been lately when down to inferior opponents. To make matters worse, ABC gave a game update where an Arkansas punter outperformed the whole Michigan offense. It was clear that Morris should have been pulled at the half due to performance and inexperience. If one thing is clear, it is Hoke at least has no fucking clue what is going on inside the rectangle of stadiums and at most disregards the social norms of intelligent football play. By admitting he did not see the hit, hear the shouts of get Morris off the field, and see him cradled by offensive linemen, one wonders what the fuck he was watching. Was it Dave Brandon waving at him from his luxury box? Was it Mary Sue Coleman doing a keg stand in row 68? Or was he daydreaming about chugging gravy from the Brown Jug before handing it over to Jerry Kill?
At least the game ended and the suffering was over. The Brown Jug was gone, Morris was off the field, and the rest of us began testing the limits of our livers and consciousness. This is when the fear in Ann Arbor turned to loathing. I've received at least three concussions in my life playing football in high school and lacrosse in college. It took all of 10-15 minutes to diagnose it. At Michigan, it apparently takes more than 48 hours. As Michigan was dragged through squid shit on the national media and gaining attention in the halls of Congress, all was quiet on the western front. Brandon who is no stranger to a microphone and Hoke who is just a complete imbecile, said nothing of Morris' obvious concussion and the decision to leave him in and send him back in. It was as if Hoke began pointing to the nation of Wolverine fans with his middle finger instead of his index finger. Morris was locked in a dark room of silence and Hoke continued on with his arrogant but maybe ignorant ranting of execution, hard practices, and fucking fairy dust ideas of a B1G championship. Finally Dave Brandon broke the silence, albeit at the most offensive hour he could have possibly chosen. He admitted what we already knew, gave a blanket apology, and retired to his room of selfies and pizza box forts.
I awoke on the Sunday post Minnesota after testing my liver's limit on Sobieski. I thought once the fog was gone and my body was revived by herbal medicines that I'd feel better. Then I remembered I'm a Michigan fan. We lost the Jug. Brandon still reigns supreme, and Hoke has his index fingers intact. I fear the future and loathe the present.
I wanted to write earlier but I did not know how to handle such loathing without punching a one way ticket to Bolivia. I also wanted to add constructive ideas to what to do next in order to force the bottom of the abyss. My plebian ideas come down to two different ponderings.
1. I disagree with Brian and do not wish to boycott any games. We are there for the players. Not for the hack jobs in the AD office and Schembechler Hall. If the stadium is filled, this will also give ample opportunity to raise the volume of Fire Brandon chants. Hoke may not notice it because that asshole doesn't know anything going on inside a football game, but the message will be sent. The longer and louder the chant, the better.
2. Allow Hoke to stay head coach. Changing coaches this year will not change anything and will only hurt recruiting more. You cannot strengthen an offensive line nor teach the mechanics necessary within that short amount of time. If Hoke discovers how to be a head coach in 11 weeks, good, if not, he has no legs to stand on and we can send that swine fucker to the depths of ohio where he came from. I highly doubt another player would be put in danger with such an outcry and verbal beating he took on Morris.
Rage on. Loathing is always better than fearing.
Utah is the only state where their national parks and most prominent letter in the state name match. Since first laid eyes upon, the arches in Arches National Park, have mesmerized humans to the point of graffiti in scorpion infested caves. The vivid images stick in my head from the words of Krakauer and Abbey. Utah is a place to go for outcasts, foolish miners, and spiritual cleansing. Tonight, The Utes brought a thorough spiritual cleansing to Ann Arbor in unusual style.
Instead of arid air or peep stones, They brought a torrential downpour that cleaned out the already depopulated Big House and a long moment of clarity for Michigan, its coaches, and fans. Shortly after Hoke and Mattison got done arguing over who executed getting off the field least, the team was in the locker room for over an hour to sit there and realized that they were down 16 points to a vastly mediocre team. Fears also grew that Mattison may well have been without a headset after a violent spike on the tear soaked turn of Michigan Stadium. This long pause gave fans the feel of the game was over, but the punishment was on hold like some sick twisted NCAA version of the Green Mile. The thought that Shane Morris just threw a pic before the delay was even more depressing. Now even the hope of Shane Morris battling back the desert crusaders was deflated if not drowned in a pool of its own filth.
All of this is happening while the heavy fog of karma crushing the Michigan fan base’s consciousness. Like arches in Utah and the first letter of that enigma of a state, in a lesson of what goes around comes around. This or at least a hard lesson involving boomerangs and lack of proper hear gear. It was a loss to Utah that sent up many of maize blooded fans under Richard Rodriguez and has come around to nail our ever sagging faces again with more red flags that the ship is sinking and there will be nothing left but a nuclear hellscape populated with Nicholas Cage and his minions of komodo dragons.
This comes at the heels of an embarrassing win against Ben Cheeseburger University and even more humiliating drag through dog shit of a loss to the Green Weenies of South Bend School of Atlantic Coast Affiliations. This leaves the only confident MANBAW win against a newly minted Sun Belt opponent that also beckoned a dark period approaching, Appalachian State. This isn’t how any of this was supposed to work.
We have sold our stadium for weddings, tradition for grotesque uniforms that Oregon turned down, and we have forced our coaches into being adopted by millionaire families. After chasing that damn hillbilly out of town and getting rid of the Lake Michigan, maize blazer wearing mariner, Bill Martin, we brought in two “Michigan Men.” Former CEO of a home grown Michigan pizza chain and former back up in the golden years combined with a former assistant that once was graced with being within smelling distance of having a good waft of flatulence from another “Michigan Man,” Lloyd Carr. Ergo, the baton has been passed to keep the blood line pure. However, I’d like to challenge the dominant logic behind that. I think Mary Sue Coleman would agree. All of this drama has driven Mary Sue Colman to drink publically and retire.
A Michigan Man is real, but the way of arriving at that status is not always hereditary. Bo was from ohio. He became a “Michigan Man.” Players come from all over the country come to Ann Arbor and become “Michigan Men.” Some do not. In fact, some coaches and players, the fact of being on the team does not automatically inject you with the spirit of the ultimate “Michigan Man,” Paul Bunyan. One does not simply become a “Michigan Man” by association. One becomes a “Michigan Man” by thought and values. The very similar mentality of many of successful head coaches around the nation. Dave Brandon is a whiz at marketing and salesmanship and Hoke is a whiz at clapping his hands while keeping his ears the same color tan of his face and running a clean program. There needs to be a coach that is involved in at least one side of the ball. Saban would mutilate your skull with his championship rings if you tried taking his head set away.
Utah brought this moment of clarity between the haze of smoke and blur of vodka through their pilgrimage to the largest stage in football with brutality and a soaking rain that would make cows in a rock garden feel impotent. Although the experiment in branding and folksiness had its positives, we need to find the next “Michigan Man.” I mean, this is Michigan fergodssake.
Some say the blobs on the beach of Mobile can be chalked up to the tar balls BP donated. In reality, it was the stain and sludge finally surfacing and left behind when Nick Saban crawled upon the shores of Alabama. The man has an automatic “Montgomery Burns” edition of automatic doors and a whole other string of players on medical redshirts. There is no doubt that after this essence of evil was suppressed by a lackluster program on the banks of the Cedar, his bad voodoo has been in full force. He has humiliated and tortured other teams in his conquest of the NCAA.
The man has a disgraceful persona so heavy that even he cannot celebrate his biggest wins. He retires to his lair and begins the planning of world domination after every game in the belly of a Greyhound bus. Michigan is coming from a complete different 270 degree position where they have not had the luxury of enjoying the knee knocking fear displayed on their opponent's face, but instead this once great program that suffered a great civil war and limped along in life. Then a man of mutant stature Hoke emerged from the killing fields of many MGoBlogger meltdowns, détente treaties, radioactive topics that were not safe to traverse in conversation, and a hungry loyal following. Jimmy Carter got booted for a said malaise in the country, as did another southern gentleman by the name of Rich Rodriguez for a football program in the same state.
What followed was thought to be as possible as Luxembourg touting a basketball team in the Olympics to defeat the U.S. Dream Team II. Regardless of the impossible odds of an 11 win season and a Sugar Bowl victory, Michigan did it. The offense had more control of the offense as to sustain lasting drives and the defense look as if they did cage fighting over the previous summer with Liam Neeson to toughen their resolve and TUFFness. As the season progressed, the team, the team, the team began to congeal into a deadly opportunistic football team. GoBo finally shaped the offense around Nard Dog’s strengths along with taking some pressure off him with a respectable running game. The juggernaut in a pumpkin carriage capitulated with a defensive victory over a team that would have taken Michigan behind the woodshed in years prior. The sugar poured, and the people roared.
My only logical and reasonable reasoning comes from last year’s Penn State and Alabama game. Alabama wasn’t coming off a National Championship, but heading into one. Given that Penn State was a heavy underdog in the souls of the Nittany Lion hearts same time last year, some of the more “hope for the best, prepare for the worst” crowd in Ann Arbor can relate to the angst and guttural fear of being more meat in the Saban grinder. Although Alabama controlled most of the game, the beating wasn’t as severe as once thought. Penn State suffered through the pain of dying a thousand paper cuts. Michigan’s offense is arguably much more dynamic and able to strike than the Penn State team of a year ago. There are some questions of holes being filled on the O-line and receiving corps. There is also a numbing knowledge of an almost certainly suspended Toussaint that could put the responsibility of winning the game on the lone shoulders of D-Nard. This could lead to the irisless peepers of the Crimson Tide defense on the same person. On defense, the anticipation of how well the D-Line will do without Mike Martin anchoring the buffet busters of 2011 is at its peak. There are glimmering prospects with Will Campbell taking advantage of a Groupon coupon to the Barwis Boot Camp training. The senior is a story in the making of a senior that finally gets what his place is in the team and becomes a one man tsunami on the defensive line. Craig Roh may also get to show that he saved the best for last.
With all the potential outcomes, I think it will boil down to a Michigan team with some questions on replacing key players and possibly being in a unfortunate position of actually having to deal with the new feeling of having a high bar that came unexpectedly last season. Can Michigan focus on having a whole new year ahead of them with the loss of an “us vs. the world” mentality they used as tacklin fuel last year? Can the holes be filled with the unknown and compete at an equal or even better level? These things will be made perfectly clear September 1st, 2012. I do think it is entirely possible for Michigan to catch a rusty and hungover Alabama team with stellar performances by their own offense and defense and pull a wet dream of an upset. But this is Alabama. Premier, Nikolas Saban at the helm. The man has created a machine that even would make Neo pee a little. It is for this reason of shadowy practices and ESS EEE SEE culture of moral fortitude in following every loophole that allows me to believe that a valiant attempt will come up short to the meat processing plant built in the West Nile infested swamp of Tuscaloosa, Alabama. It will however, be the very circumstance in where being wrong is much better than being right.
January 4th was at the peak apex and swift crescendo of a roller coaster of weirdness that permeated Ann Arbor, Michigan for the last four years. We all know that when things get weird, the weird turn pro, but what happens when things return to normalcy?
Michigan began a warpath of rampage wider than Genghis Khan. Michigan had no wall. The first victims of the conquering heroes were the clueless and tailback led offense. Nebraska has always had an interesting and sometimes intimidating offense. The TB actually plays in the QB position for Nebraska. This offense has seen days of complete domination and recently, days of high Drama between their prima donna TB/QB and their 12 time anger management/spittle distance champion coach. Their latest season proved to be as bi-polar as Pelini. The 2011 Cornhuskers team defeated foes the like of Michigan Staee Penitentiary, Iowa, and an emotionally charged cult team from State College, PA.
Michigan came in unsure about the future after many déjà vu experiences of late season collapses and self loathing tongue lashings. Watching the game in the quiet hamlet of Livonia with my necessary equipment and required medication, I quickly realized my mind did need prodding for altered consciousness. The serious beating of the Cornhuskers by the Wolverines was like watching an unruly Kodiak taking on a clubbed foot mink. This was a Michigan effort I haven’t seen in a long time.
Nebraska served as a launching pad for GoBo’s offense and Hoke’s voodoo pointing to the next week death match against the Terrell Pryor’s School of Selective Contributions located in a shitcan town dead center of a cesspool state north of where the Hatfields and McCoys spilled blood over swine. The game went back and forth and Michigan tried dearly to hand the evil empire an undeserving victory. As best as the philanthropic Wolverines tried, they ended a long agonizing stretch of losing to a team that needs four people to figure out how to spell their state’s name.
The Wolverines found themselves in an unusual place, playing football in January in New Orleans (Thank you to all the MGoGeographers out there for setting me straight). Unfortunately, I missed half the game studying an accordion type device that promised to send you to a planet of unicorns, badass grizzly care bears, and a bottomless plate of fat free/vitamin rich BBQ spare ribs. I did return from the outer reaches of the universe to see an anemic offense get in a position to win the game with a field goal. At first I thought I ended up on an episode of Sliders, reaching a parallel universe. Michigan winning a big game on special teams? Staunch defense not allowing massive deflation compared to the previous three years of eleventy billion ppg, to a high powered and traditional powerhouse from the ACC? I realized then that the ESPN3.com screen in front of me in a valley separating NY and PA that Todd Blackledge and Brad Nessler would never be in a place that resembles a personal utopia. This was real. The year ended and Michigan was Sugar Bowl champs. What now? What panic and angst would I write of? Is this the end of the modern day Greek tragedy known as Michigan football? As a fan I sure as hell hoped so, but as a periodic panic purveyor, I feared the worst.
As spring football ushers in absolutely nothing in substance and the recruiting trail of coming years are hot, the feared doldrums of normalcy and confidence have not yet fully entrenched the Michigan faithful for the upcoming year’s slate of games. The ulcer creating anticipation and fear are starting to creep back into the hearts of Mittenanders everywhere. The Michigan team will no longer be such a severe underdog for teams the like of Nebraska and they will also have to play the most difficult challenges in the belly of several beasts. The schedule is grim from start to finish with the exception of little brother at home. Dave Brandon sold his grandson’s first born male to play the incorruptible Tide of Alabama in the home of the vilest man in the NFL. Along with Alabama away, Michigan must also battle filth in Columbus, Nebraska, and South Bend. Also adding to the drama this year is the new coach for our last opponent of the regular season, Urban Meyer, or as I enjoy calling him, Pope Urban II. Will he tilt the edge back into the favor or mouth breathing truck drivers or will he wilt and receive mysterious personal and family issues pulling this great coach of Tim Tebow back to the commentator’s desk of Brent Musburger and Matt Millen?
Those issues above combined with the usual tragic injuries of gladiator sports, unexpected moments of disappointed, disgust, and the usual hijinks of college football are a sure bet to create the writing fuel many of the bloggers here eat up. With expectations up, and challenges large, we shall have another year in which there may be little actual turmoil, but we can be sure that turmoil, panic, and The Fear will have a safe place on this blog of myriad personalities and clinically psychotic bloggers in this invisible village of rabid fanatics. Have a great, safe, and twisted summer. See you in August.
Take a week to recuperate and all hell breaks loose. Although in the buzzed reality I lived in last week, I should have seen it in some sort of shaman vision. Let us begin from the Purdue game I barely remember and will never forget.
The anticipation of attending the Mecca of football for the first time this year was excruciating. My trusted confidant from Pennsylvania and his lady friend made their presence as well. The night started in Flint when we stocked up on a variety pack of the strongest liquids that would do the most damage to even an Irish elephant. We took a pit stop at the Greektown Casino and chased around the American Dream for a bit. All I caught was a headache from the goddamned noise of slots and the cheap rum they sold. The only winner in our traveling band of miscreants was my confidant. He walked away with $38 and a smirk I wanted to wipe off his face with a scythe, bleach, and salt.
The next morning we stopped for sustenance, ice, and rolled a Panamanian cigarette. As the last ashes blew in the wind of a crisp Michigan morning on Route 14, I began feeling giddy as a valley girl winning dairy princess in Wisconsin. We parked our vehicle across the street from the stadium at the lovely golf course. Many complain about the $40 charge for parking there, but if you get there early it is in a prime location and as the chemicals settle in, every strange character rolls in you know you have to keep an eye on later.
I timed the rum consumption perfectly. As my enlightened feeling from the devil’s lettuce wore off the Sailor Jerry’s kicked in. It was only 930 in the morning and I was almost out of my fifth. The phone calls then began to come in. Friends from Detroit looking for me to travel to their locale kept coming in every two minutes. I kindly explained that if I attempted to traverse to their locations around campus, I would most likely end up in prison, or worst yet, East Lansing. This must have been a warning for them to keep a wide berth since no one dared came to our little spot in Ann Arbor. Only one true brave soul had courage to experience my posse this lit up, Blue Dragon. After many minutes of playing drunk Where’s Waldo in a crowd of over 110,000 of the human race we met up. As I polished off my last sip of Sailor Jerry’s, he bared his timely gift of nature’s Prozac. As we huddled into the front of a SUV to initiate peace talks and revelry, my confidant looked more scared than the Lohan family at a law enforcement conference. He spotted two older men of a good looking upbringing in the front of their vehicle along side of us. Tensions were eased when my confidant saw the men pull out a baggie of something that resembled flour. Someone forgot to inform them that making bread does not involve the step of snorting the flour. The bread doesn’t rise as well when done so.
As I tapped into one of my last beers my usually trusted confidant pulled out a fungus substance. I was immediately stricken with panic as I was already on multiple substances and about to embark on a journey to loud noise and sitting among many suspicious looking people. As I argued this would be a terrible idea, Blue Dragon proved to be a true pioneer as he gulped his down within seconds. Faced with immense peer pressure and the assurance I would be ok on a smaller dose, I reluctantly took it expecting impending doom.
Ten of noon struck and our band of heathens took our shit show to the stadium. My confidant and his lady friend had to check into gate E due to her over sized satchel. All that was left was Blue Dragon and I in a sea of drunken irritable fans looking for blood after a bye week gave all time to stew about the first loss of the season to the Fighting (literally) Dantonio’s. As Blue Dragon and I neared the entrance, he heard an angry voice call out to us that we ruined his fucking day because we supposedly cut in front of him. Half in shock of a surreal experience, and half in awe due to the lack of line to cut in, I believe I uttered… “Ok.”
Blue Dragon split way to our seats hopefully to cross paths on another trip in Ann Arbor. I arrived at our seats alone. I noticed a truck driver and his son had two of the seats I purchased. Still in a dream state, I muttered something about them moving the fuck out of the way. Finally my confidant and his lady friend arrived to a surprising 7-0 Purdue lead. Not that I can manage to remember much of the details of the game except the ill timed RAWK music, sappy 80s pop songs, and the constant hypnotic HD screens, but Fitz Toussaint ran the distance of the Intercontinental Railroad and back against the Fighting Stache’s of West Lafayette. Michigan controlled the line of scrimmage on both sides all day and dominated the game 36-10. The rain at the end of the game, I actually enjoyed. It felt good to be rained on when the score board was tilted our way. It was like a Gatorade bath for those of us that continually support Michigan through thick and thin.
The night in Ann Arbor was even more of a hazy semi-unconscious trip. After losing complete composure in a camping store and downing more alcohol at Ashley’s, I vaguely remember ending the night drinking out of a boot, getting hit on by an architect major at U of M in a Robin’s costume, and arguing with a MSU student and her Australian boyfriend about the validity on their school being eligible to be accredited in anything but underwater basket weaving.
PART II: Corn Guzzled
As I slowly came out of the daze of sampling leftovers throughout the week, I wish I would have saved them for the Iowa game. The game first resembled a MANBALL marathon as both offenses looked sluggish and the defenses bent a little at the most. MANBALL advantage tilted in the favor of Iowa as the game went on. As I paced around my house in a furor I began swearing like a man with severe Tourettes. Denard made his fame on his legs. For Spaghetti Monster’s sake, his nick name is “shoelace”, not “glove Velcro.” I understand the wish to change the system to a semi-west coast offense that Gorgeous Borges is used to and wants to implement, but Denard is not made for that purpose. If a coach cannot tune the offense to the strengths of the star player’s advantage, you are neutralizing yourself. One of Rich Rodriguez’s many accusations and partly true was that he did not try to ease into a new system with players from an old system. I believe Gorgeous Borges is doing a better job of this, but has glaring deficiencies in some of the play calling. If a lane opens during a passing play and no one is immediately open, instead of bombing to a fly route, throwing to Tacopants, or trying to squeeze in a pass between three defenders, he should…..wait for it…RUN THE DAMN BALL! Yes this increases his risk of injury, but it also gives the most electrifying player in the NCAA a chance to make something happen in his own comfortable way. Did they tell Barry Sanders not to go lateral so much in his day? Probably, but lucky for us who got to witness him, he didn’t listen. Will Gorgeous Borges adjust for the last four games? I guess you could say there is a better chance of Gorgeous Borges adjusting than growing a mullet.
The day became late and the fate of Michigan looked grim early in the fourth quarter. Down by more than two scores it looked as if the Michigan 2010 team put up a better fight. I walked out to the backyard and contemplated whether to down two bottles of root killer but decided that if I wasted it on myself, the women of the house would dice my body into pieces and send them down the Detroit River if the water backed up into the house again. After returning to the man cave I was shocked to see Michigan’s anemic offense twisted its way back to the game with a fighting chance. Hoke must have done some serious pointing in my absence.
I am not one to pin blame on referees. Teams that effectively execute all game won’t be put in a position that comes down to a few bad calls. After that said, the referees need to be audited or whatever it’s called where they get an occupation proctology exam. Hemingway’s catch was a touchdown with a knee in and the mauling of Roundtree on the last play was so obvious that Helen Keller rose from the dead to boo the call.
Another Michigan loss to a mid-level B1G team triggers flashbacks of two previous deflating seasons. I still hold out HOKE…I mean hope that this won’t end like years past. The defense is better, adjustments after halftime (at least on defense) are apparent, and a larger chip is growing on the seniors that have experience possibly the worst years of Michigan football. In order for bloodthirsty players and fans to be happy this year, there needs to be at least two more wins. If not, next year is not going to be any easier and the offseason of Michigan infighting will seem all for naught.
PART III: Disgraced Valley at Pedophile State University
Much has been said on the Penn State/Sandusky matter. My only words are as follows. They won’t change a thing and some if not many won’t find any value in them. As a rabid college football fan and a recent citizen of the state, I must express them as I have yet to do so.
In 1998 accusations of inappropriate interactions between Sandusky and a young boy surfaced on the campus of Pennsylvania State University. In my opinion, this is what suddenly put the heir apparent of the football program into retirement. This was the first acknowledgement of wrong doing by the coaching staff and university. For four more years Sandusky was given unfettered access to the university facilities to continue his monstrous campaign of ruining the lives of future men.
Again in 2002 a graduate assistant (Mike McQueary) walked in on Sandusky naked having sexual intercourse with a ten year old boy. As the boy and Sandusky most likely turned to see the act was seen, the boy hoping that this nightmare may have been over was dashed when McQueary turned his back and rand home to his daddy. After his dad convinced McQueary to report the act to Joe Paterno and he did so, Joe Paterno then reported it to the now defunct AD. The authorities were never brought in for an investigation and no follow ups were had. An agreement between Joe Paterno, the AD, and the president of the University, Graham Spanier signed off on barring Sandusky from the campus. This would be the second acknowledgement of wrong doing. Again, no follow up and no outside investigation.
Sandusky moved his horror show to the town I then was going to college in. He became an assistant football coach for the high school team and still lured vulnerable boys in his Second Mile program. Finally getting caught again, the guillotine came down. Sandusky’s fate is sealed as I read it in the Grand Jury report. The man has a first class ticket to hell to have the offenses he exercised on youth done to him with Satan’s pitchfork.
Because his fate seems to be sealed, the attention has turned elsewhere on Joe Paterno, the school administration, and Mike McQueary. Attention deserved. For at least 13 years, Joe Paterno knew something was awry with his assistant coach. In 2002 Mike McQueary had a chance to save a ten year old child from the worst day of his young life. The administration was given notice. All chose to do nothing. If Joe Paterno is a man that holds those around him to a higher level of accountability, then a man that holds more power than the board of trustees and the president of the university should have made sure the matter was taken care of and no more young boys were hurt. Instead he either thought the matter would go away or wanted to maintain a squeaky clean image of the football program. Either way, it was wrong. Of course he did what he was technically supposed to do, but he chose a football program over the lives of children. No sport or program is worth more than an opportunity of a normal childhood. Many asked me if I would feel as strongly if this was in Michigan’s house because of my unvarnished hatred of PSU before this went down. The answer is yes. I could not continue to cheer on a program that was complicit in the molestation of young vulnerable boys.
Mike McQueary had a firsthand account to the sadistic acts Sandusky was capable of. He told Paterno and washed his hands of it. When he became a coach, he literally watched as Sandusky paraded more victims to PSU coaching functions and practices knowing damn well what that fucking swine could and would do. I believe there is a law in PA I came across in my occupation that said if any abuse to a child is witnessed or even plausibly true, it MUST be reported to state authorities. The fucking coward could have even anonymously called and told state authorities what had happened. Instead he received a coaching job and stayed mum.
The administration did more of the same. The top of the food chain chose to ignore and to minimally punish Sandusky. The “responsibility” lay with them and they did nothing. This is why the AD and VP of Finance resigned and the president who spoke ignorantly that he backed both unabashed is tonight getting axed as he well should be. All of them should be tarred and feathered and drug through broken glass and rusty nails.
The one item that is increasingly heinous is the victimization of the three parties above. As a recent citizen of PA I experience the cultish trust and invincibility of the PSU football program. Going to college a half an hour from PSU, I experienced this on an extreme level. This football program was so tight knit that it is another reason I cannot believe JoePa and others had no idea that Sandusky’s felonies were known and were suspected to probably to continue. The blind faith many in PA have of the football program is now at a disgusting level. Instead of lashing out to get to the bottom of this disgraceful episode in their history, they lash out at those accusing Paterno and those surrounding the case for unfair targeting. This is not all alumni and fans, but most. I believe it is this cult like following that allowed for this kind of horrific act to take place. PSU football became bigger than life. These children and their families were probably PSU football fans and bigger ones once this “trusted” program chose to include them into this James Johnson hypnotic organization. Families entrusted their young to the care and support of Paterno and his football family. Now instead of talking about victims and whose ass should burn for this, many in the cult of PSU football have had their reality challenged. This is something that has never happened in the age of Paterno. The grasping at straws to defend this program’s wide cover-up of the most atrocious crimes is a desperate attempt to hold onto a reality that really never was. Sandusky was a monster predator and Paterno, McQueary, and the PSU administration were complicit in his actions. Yesterday another 20 plausible victims came forward that could have been prevented if corrective actions were taken at first notice. Instead Paterno and the administration allowed a serial child rapist full access to their facilities for four years after knowing something was not right. The headlines today said Paterno has chosen to retire at the end of the season? The president of the university is getting fired and he gets to stay?! Fuck no! No longer does he get to decide PSU football. He has already shown grave mistakes and has admitted doing so with this simple quote said today:
“This is a tragedy. It is one of the great sorrows of my life. With the benefit of hindsight, I wish I had done more."
This man and those around this scandal will be taking the field Saturday with the privilege of doing something they love when men and boys around PA were betrayed by that same blind and dangerous love of moving on and forgetting the past in the name of PSU football.*
Nebraska, you better fucking annihilate these cowards and mutant freaks into further humiliation and disgrace.**
*As posting this, The PSU Board of Trustees have fired Graham Spanier and Joe Paterno. What about Mike McQueary?
**Nebraska- Green light to humiliate these freaks is still a go.
Well that blew. So did the game. As the hopes and dreams of a rose covered field similar to the bed in American Beauty got ugly, so did the rules and reactions of Michiganders everywhere. Riding high on a drug better than K2 or bath salts, our HOKE supply dried up. Like junkies hooked on a drug, Michigan fans in withdrawal began lashing out with a bowie knife everywhere and on everyone. Some of the slashing was justified, but some was just pent up rage left over from three disappointing seasons previous.
Pass the Asparagus:
As the first quarter reared its ugly head on my boob tube, I instantly recognized this game was going to be peculiar. It seemed that the Oregon Ducks broke out their 379th uniform combo and some clown college broke out of a birthday party training and took the field in Michigan’s place. I would find out that the real clowns were the other team and the other dudes wearing stripes. When the graceful intelligence of the sportscasters acknowledged that this was actually Little Brother University and Michigan I felt a queasy feeling I hadn’t experienced since my friend's pet mongoose swallowed a family of ducklings and its mother whole at a local pond in front a group of Catholic school kids. The poor kids got a real life lesson on life’s abrupt and messy ends at any age. I’m sure the nuns got a kick out of it and turned it into a behavioral incentive program.
After gaining my orientation back from the kick to the senses the uniforms of both teams provided, I was shocked and disappointed. I was shocked that the Fingerpaint Department at LBU did not whisper into Dantonio’s ear that their colors and fight song include the colors green AND white. Maybe they did, but his school’s Napoleonic Complex was in the way. I was disappointed that even though it was most likely planned, the boys in blue went in to the locker room a half an hour before kickoff to change into their uniforms. It gave off the feeling of a combination of Project Runway and keeping up with the Joneses.
The uniforms were not the only disgusting factor in a game that blew more than two ways from Tuesday. The play calling as you all have noticed or heard by now was less than stellar. Why have a QB that has just an average pass game pass into tropical depression strength winds? Maybe Gorgeous Borges didn’t notice his own hair blowing in the wind. The wind was devastating and underrated in the game in my opinion. Combined with the wind and Gorgeous Borges’ play calling, Gardner’s sporadic appearances in the game wasted plays. At one point a wide open tailback was left hanging out playing jacks in the middle of the field with nothing but end zone and ugly sorority girls in front of him. If Denard was also supposed to find any rhythm in the howling winds of autumn, then he surely wouldn’t get it knowing he could be pulled at any second with the thought in the back of his mind that Gardner was getting in because Gorgeous Borges got frustrated with his pass game and put in Gardner to spark the offense. That kind of thing in a hostile territory like East Lansing would eat at your brain like a super dose of E.
These thoughts came to the front of Denard’s mind as Gholston spun the front of his head 180 degrees. Gholston decided to celebrate Halloween early by becoming his all time role model of football, Steve Lattimer. Like Lattimer, Gholston couldn’t control his inner thugness by doing most of his hitting after the whistles. Why Lewan didn’t gouge his fucking eyes out and pitchfork his dome into a crowd of three legged mules, I will not know until the day I die. The referees acted like 80 year old substitute teachers in Watts by tossing their hankies when they should have brought a hammer down and thrown their asses out for showing up to a NCAA football game with an XFL mentality. Then they should have thrown their crowd, stadium, waste management, and coaches out for unnecessary ugliness.
With the distractions of nauseating uniforms and cage match free for all rules the offensive line must have been confused with the concept of snap counts and picking up blitzes. This compounded the problems listed above that already made for a miserable day that even Poe wouldn’t touch with a 34 and a ½ inch pole.
As the results reverberated through MGoBlogdom and beyond, the crazies made an appearance and rationality of the season at large checked out. Even though I would be the first to panic on a ship with water on it in the middle of the Sahara, I did not feel a sense of panic as the previous two years…yet. The defense for all of the problems had on offense this sad day still looked eleventy billion times better than last year. The offense with a pinch of logic and constant practice can still improve. No we are not a national contender nor do I think even a B1G championship contender right now, but I didn’t think we were going to be August 31st either. So far I am pleased with the progress, not necessarily losing to LBU, but given the growing pains of a tumultuous three years of coaching changes, roster exoduses, and a Pimp Hand looking to sponsor the ring on his hand with Evil Pop while bringing back consistent winning ways doesn’t seem that bad. This could all change but I am willing to stay to be a champion and because I have donated way too much emotional and physical time with a team since I graduate from pull ups and mushy dinners.