Woodward 4d Chess

He possesses omniscience, witnessing and encompassing all within his domain.

He understands that the true essence of Tiger fandom emerges when we are stirred by emotion, enraged, and perhaps fueled by a libation or two.

The seasoned Tiger fans harbor the wisdom that the backup quarterback invariably shines the brightest on the entire team (although, secretly, they believe the verbally committed high school senior could outshine them all). By ensuring the backup remains in that role, it stirs the ire and dismay of fans, sparking impassioned discussions on the airwaves and around the office water cooler, a mark of true fandom.

Then, he elevates your tailgating game by levying parking fees, skillfully weeding out the faint-hearted and the weak. Only the resolute persevere. These are the ones who populate the south endzone, folks who've bet their homes to afford the ticket, parking space, and concessions.

Now, the concessions—those endless lines, sweltering heat, and the suffocating corridors of Death Valley. All meticulously designed to fan the flames of fury within you, to mold you into a fan so passionate and irate that, in the midst of it all, while savoring a $10 bag of spicy peanuts and a drink filled with just four sips of coke due to the excessive amount of ice, you inadvertently rub your eye with a spicy peanut-laden finger, temporarily blinding yourself to the game.

As the game draws near, you return from the restroom, basking in the humid, malodorous air surrounding the horses trough urinal in the men's restroom, and inhale an unrelenting cloud of smoke from Chinese fireworks. Then, Mr. Woodward unveils his final act: the emcee, who shatters your eardrums, pushing you into a state of inebriated rage.

This impeccable formula is precisely the energy necessary to drive you to launch your freshly concocted crown and coke into the air after the first touchdown of the night. It compels you to shake a Pot-O-Gold porta potty with a trembling Tennessee Volunteer senior citizens inside, to vigorously shake the rival team's buses, and to engage in fisticuffs with fellow fans in the adjacent row due to the fact that they're standing too much or too little (a trivial detail, really). It even prompts you to swear off attending games in favor of future hunting or fishing trips, only to return week after week, fueled by whiskey and animosity, to channel your fervor and will the Tigers to victory, despite the shortcomings of the starting quarterback and the bewildering decisions of the head coach.

A story of my life and the ensuing downvotes complete your final form