Foreplay, yes. Fourpeat, NO!

L'equipe – a.k.a. our Card grid squad – fresh from the Saturday night's altarboy-abuse of the Beantown bead-mumblers, can advance its case for genuine respectability this week by dispatching, cashiering and otherwise SMOKIN' twice-thumped Sannizay State. We will accept nothing less.

We nodded in smug approval after the workmanlike effort that sent the endangered-species Eagles back to Chestnut Hill with their tailfeathers between their fowl drumsticks.  It was a particularly gratifying outcome in view of some low-brow pre-game behavior on the part of a kal-like mob of jeering, catcalling Boston College advocates.  Dig this: as the Stanford team converged in "mid-Walk," for its traditional pre-game woofing alongside Chuck Taylor Grove, a rag-tag gaggle of besotted, Fenian raggamuffins shouted their predictably puerile monosyllabic taunts from the safety of cyclone-fenced Angel Field.

One particularly pathetic soul in a sweat-soaked B.C. tee-shirt and a Red Sox cap (backwards, of course) could articulate nothing audibly coherent, but made certain the howl-decibels induced ear-bleeds amongst his dim-wit confreres. Who were these people? Why don't they just go back to protesting at abortion clinics?  Was it not sports-rewarding enough for them to be on the far opposite side of the continent from the nightly dysfunctionality unfolding at Fenway?

So, yeah, beating the holy-water outta jerks like this made my weekend.

Let me tell you what else enhanced the evening's proceedings, in spite my having to eat some words in last week's diatribes.  Chuck Taylor Grove, the hallowed tailgate grounds venerated over so many Cardinal campaigns, looks downright upright after its facelift.  More like Charro, less like Joan Rivers, cosmetically speaking.  Fact is, if a makeover had to be (and I'm sure St. John of Arrillaga insisted), it was done at minimum negative impact to the tailgate faithful. Permanent BBQ grills were plentiful, the church picnic-style pews of concrete-slab tables were spaced far enough apart to minimize that institutional cafeteria feeling, and the grounds have not been manicured into unrecognizability after all.

But still, we lament. The old Farm we've known and loved is inexorably morphing into Silicon Valley Industrial Park Modern.

Yes, we can live with it.  But if we must endure needless personal agitation each week in order to ensure victory, endure we shall.

And, now, on to 408 to lay siege to Sparta as the final tune-up for the Pac-Ten inaugural against ASU next week.  One caveat: no looking past "Give ‘em" Fitz Hill's squad of erstwhile Card Tormentors and Trash-Talkin' Yahoos. Yeah, we know "Spread-‘em-Wide Dave Baldwin is gone, but Deonce "Whoops, he's gone" Whittaker is still bustin' ‘em.  Maybe not so productively against Colorado (still smarting from the whuppin' administered by Fresno State -- a Top-Five team right now, and I don't care what the wire-services, USA Today or the coaches say).

But Deonce is there, make no mistake.

But ya gotta like L'equipe, at least after game one: there are now more weapons on that Diedrick offense than a campground at Hayden Lake, Idaho.  A good, rough-and-tumble, bad-boy defense, too.  Just have DB mentor Denny Schuler squeeze some of the foam out of that cushion Ruben Carter insists on giving the receivers he covers.  C'mon, man, knock that opponent off his friggin' route at scrimmage and play some bad-ass bump-and-run!

A loss to Hoe-zay, in their yard, negates everything achieved last week and will inspire a deafening roar for weeks from the half-witted, coot-shootin' hoots howlin' about their Four-Oh-Eight Fourpeat.

The horrendous prospect of such an outcome should be motivation enough to…

SMOKE THESE GUYS into strip-mall vapor.

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