The Unknown Writer - Syracuse Edition

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I began this morning like I begin every other. Before getting out of bed, I felt my face to determine whether Kim Jung Un had melted it like that Nazi’s in Raiders of the Lost Ark. He hadn’t. So I turned my thoughts to last night’s game against Syracuse. Tiger Stadium was not so much “electric” as it was “ox-drawn.” After last week’s beat-down by a Mississippi State team that had its collective arse handed to it by Georgia, it was difficult to convince any more than 40,000 people they were better off sweating in Tiger Stadium than they were watching the game on TV in climate-controlled comfort. This is not to suggest the slothful, homebound fans escaped the affair unscathed. No, indeed. We were plenty scathed by the incessant, often nonsensical commentary of two ESPN junior varsity blatherskites, Ahmad Brooks and Anish Shroff. For reasons I dare not consider, Brooks channeled Louis Farrakhan by wearing a dark, shiny suit and bow tie. Unlike Farrakhan, Brooks expressed an ancient Greek preoccupation with the male form, frequently analyzing and admiring the physiques of one player or another. It was hotter in the booth than it was on the field. For his part, Anish Shroff told and re-told the frequently told and re-told the story of Derrius Guice who grew up in the meaner streets of Baton Rouge and whose father was shot in the head when Derrius was seven. After the story was recounted a third time, Ahmad noted that he too had overcome a “tough home environment,” a childhood presumably marred by his mother’s insistence that he wear open-collared shirts of 100% breathable cotton. This Hard Luck Off between Ahmad and Derrius was infinitely more entertaining that the contest on the field. It was clear Coach (zer)O had made critical changes between the MSU and Syracuse games. Perhaps most obvious was his decision to dye his hair with Kiwi black shoe polish rather than Just For Men. But a lot hadn’t changed. For example, the offensive line was still terrible. Toby Weathersby blocked like Mr. Weatherbee. On defense, Cerebro hasn’t taught the young players to “wrap up” when tackling. For much of the night, those defenders tackled like wacky, waving, inflatable, arm-flailing tube men, the kind you see outside car dealerships and mattress sales. Though Tiger Stadium more closely resembles Hidden Valley than Death Valley, I take comfort in the fact that our players aren’t forced to wear a heinous shade of orange from head to toe. And I know there are better years ahead, assuming I continue waking without a melted face.

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