It was 1980. I was paroled, given a suit and enough drachmas's to make it to
Those giant metal Frisbees perched onto top of the roof are sending me a signal. I interpret it as -- turn here. And I do. Every Sunday, I'm a pariah draped in white or brown. Looks are tattooed on my head. They stare and wonder, pick up their 22-ounce flagon and swig. This is Patriot turf. An army of silver Elvis' surrounds me. Or is that Elvi? Eyes averted, I head for one of the tables with its own tube and bottle of
I still get goose bumps thinking about that season. In the cosmic order of things, everything just seemed to fit snugly. After securing home field advantage, as I was home for the holidays, I made the decision to come back to school early and watch the Raider game in the dorm. Alone. Or so I thought. It was brutal that day. Right up until kickoff, I sat in my room and listened to the windows howl. Maybe they were laughing. Tin foiled rabbit ears were tinkered with on a TV that needed a decent burial. There was nobody else in Stuyvesant Hall. Or so I thought. Suddenly, a play to end the play -- Red Right 88. When Sipe's pass fluttered towards the end zone, I still believed. It just hung there. And the then Wizard stepped on a frozen banana peel. Picked off, the energy in me was vampired out – lightning being grounded. I couldn't move.
The mural on the wall is spooky. A pastel, watercolor montage (though using a French word to describe it gives it too much credit) of
The next thing I heard was a loud, belly laugh of a high frequency coming from my door. I had been stun gunned and was about to be tasered for good measure. It was Randy. Where did he come from? He pointed at me and let out a torrent of loud shrieks. Randy was an Eagles fan. He had a short blond mane parted down the middle. He was Stephen Bishop in Animal House: The house folk singer who brought his acoustic guitar to college to seduce unsuspecting sirens in the middle of the night. He strummed. They swooned. The rest of the gorillas grumbled. He was using a weapon of mass seduction, not playing fair. And now this. I snapped. Spying a certain fire in my eyes, and the chilled carbon dioxide jetting from my nostrils, Randy did a Roadrunner down the hall. In a flash, I sprinted after that 12-string Valentino. I caught him and lifted him up against the wall. What's that they say about Herculean strength ignited in times of woe? Much like that pass, he just hung there. I let him down and, sloth-like, dragged my dead body to my room and locked the door. Later, we both apologized, ordering a pizza. He continued his incessant late night serenades. I went into a deep cryogenic freeze, a funk that lasted a good six months. The next Van Halen record didn't even cheer me up.
Through the many lost Sundays, I've met a few other infected Brown loyalists. It's camaraderie of errors. One gentleman draped in the sartorial splendor of orange looked like Youppi, that buff puff of a mascot from up yonder in
We don't need quarterbacks with wristbands filled with elaborate plays. We need offensive lineman with wristbands consisting of take-out menus.
I'd rather have Jamel than Jamir.
Here is my feeble attempt at being a draftnik. I know two guys in this draft. Only two.
One's been to my house. The other I've played hoops with a few times. Both are upstanding citizens. Brian St. Pierre was the QB at BC. Wayne Lucier, the starting center (switched from a guard) at
I want to know one thing. A yes or no will suffice. I still don't have the answer. Did Butch make Foge go to the Schottenheimeresque Prevent in the playoff game? Yes or no. Witch hunt, Whitewater, whatever.
As our noted capologist detailed, or so it seems, the Browns have tossed out a zeppelin full of signing bonus money and substantial contracts to guys they shed two years later. This is akin to sticking your head in a jet engine and attempting to fly.
John Clayton is that teacher on
One other guy the Browns should have brought in. Another St. Johns Prep player. A fellow by the name of Konrad. To hell with the H back.
Grammy post-mortem: Avril Lavigne needs a voice and a bath. Bruce and Elvis doing The Clash -- it worked.