Friday's Misery, GDay chapter: as the calendar turns

It's thirteen going on fourteen. Time to get miserable instead of unlucky.


It's a flash in the pan. A meteoric rise followed by a plummet into ocean depths never before fathomed by the college football crazed brain. In the words of Mr. Montgomery and Gentleman Gentry...Gone, like a freight train.


It is the THE SPRING GAME! That quick bold taste of what we all crave. A bountiful steak dinner that is placed on the table before you. You've barely gotten the napkin tucked into your replica #34 jersey and a bite into your mouth before the whole thing is taken away. You show up for a marathon and it sprints away like a bolt of lightning. If the college football season is hot sex, the spring game is either the cigarette afterward...or the taking off of the socks beforehand.

Water Girls don't ride
Hogs, or motorcycles

However you choose to look at it, don't blink.


Trainer's Table Blues
Could it be worse? Well of course it could. Murray's arm could be in a sling and Jarvis could be on crutches. It's mostly a bunch of dings and stings but there's a lot of first stringers that'll be in street clothes tomorrow.


People bitch and moan about doing away with oversigning. We complain about unlevel playing fields when it comes to everything from recruiting to drug testing. We've gotten to a point in our college football development where coaches are no longer revered, but are chastised for throwing bitches off the back of their hog.


Might I take a moment to suggest...swift, fast leglislation that immediately does away with the hamstring pulls...the tweaked groins...the sprained shoulders...and of course the turf toe! You wanna blaze a trail Slive?!? You want to pound your yankee chest on something real Prez Adams?!? 


Take down the trainers tables and let these kids play.

Ya feel me, brah?

Offseason, the sequel
I'm not going to type down to you. I know this ain't your first rodeo. You've handled the long drawn out off season before. Multiple times. But it stands to mention that we are on the brink of the calendar's worst squares. We are tiptoeing ever so close to that driest, most desperate time of year. 


The first edition of the off season is barely enough time to miss it. You pull the winter sweaters down out of the storage and Signing Day is already here. You spend a couple Saturday nights watching some chick flick with Matthew McConaGay instead of football and then suddenly spring practice is here.


The second session however is like a persistent hemorrhoid. It won't go away. There are no salves to make time go faster. No ointments to ease the pain and suffering. Like all sequels to great movies the next chapter of the offseason is the Highlander 2: The Quikening of the offseason. Sucks harder than a Hoover inside a hurricane. These next few months are like that last hour of work that never seems to end. 


But yea...though I walk through the valley of endless discontent...eternal days of no football related news...boundless deserts of no tailgates...I will have no fear. For I carry the sound of the lone trumpeter with me. Forever and always.

h/t AHD

See y'all tomorrow!