Ass-Kickings Live Here.

Yeah, it's still September, and many days are still some sweaty summer afterthought. These are still, at times, the days of seeking shade and sticky jeans and gettin' reprieve in the frozen foods section. Yesterday it was 85 degrees outside. Some days it is 60, or 50, and on those days life is good. Those days are in preparation for October and its bounty of sweatshirts with no jackets and runs with no i.v. and trees with no green and men made of straw and crows and flannel and trucks full of apples. Those are leaves dropping early.

But one of the very best autumn natives to arrive early for the show every single year has got to be The Football. More specifically, the college football and, most specifically, University of Michigan Football.

Don't get me wrong. I like lots of footballs. I enjoy Eastern Michigan Football. The enjoyment is likely more nostalgia than passion and it exists on a certain level that comes from Saturday nights spent making a clubhouse of Rynearson Stadium and running through the streets of Ypsilanti as a Homecoming Parade clown, but it is enjoyment none the less. EMU is my father's team and I want them to do well. I admit that I also have a soft spot for the Spartans of Michigan State. I even played a Sparty for the day not long ago and went to a game up in East Lansing, which I very much enjoyed. In fact, with the exception of October 7th, I will root for the Sparties probably every game this season. They are my brother's team, and I want them to do well.

The things is, regardless of appreciation and affinities, these teams don't belong to me. Not really. Or rather, I do not belong to them. The pride isn't quite there. The lust is not there. And, like most things of great popular participation, proper participation in college football fanaticism requires, as its base, a decent portion of both pride and lust. It's a little disconcerting at times, sure, but done right it can be immensely warm as far as group applications of time and energy go.

Fine, fine, you say, where is all this bullshit going? Don't worry, I'm not going to extend this into an essay on the anatomy of the college football fan. I'm not going to spurt out some gushy paragraphs on the powerful ties of solidarity and togetherness or a myriad other strings attached. But I wanted to emphasize the base, because it's the base which most accurately accounts for the unreasonable amount of glee I took from seeing the Michigan Wolverines completely embarrass the 2nd-ranked Fighting Irish of Notre Dame on Saturday.

I don't expect all of you to care. Just take note, if you could have seen my face at Duffy's (the U of M bar in Lincoln Park) on Saturday, you would have probably detected that it was not the face of a rational man. In many ways it was the face of relief and exuberance, but it was also the face of a man unreasonably satisfied with affiliation; all pride and lust.

The point is that I am glad we won. I am really really glad we won. Notre Dame's season is probably ruined. We did it. As a result, I am happy.

I'll continue going around saying, "We kicked their ass," as if I had anything to do with it. I'll be a little ashamed that I care so much. Maybe someday I won't really care. But until then, take that,
you smelly*
no good*
effing domers.



* - Sarah Colson may consider herself exempt, for although she is a domer, she is a nice lady of pleasant odor.

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