The hurricane- the remnants of it, anyway- has passed. I am hoping for “dry” this afternoon, or at least only damp, since we are off for the blacktop around the stadium at College Park in about an hour.
 
Dreams have long died this season, though of course my real allegiance is to a team far away. Some of the Great Powers of the game of college football have fallen on hard times; upstart franchises are crowing triumph in other venues across the land, but not at College Park.
 
This season started in warmth and brightness, filled with hope as they all are. Now that is gone, and there are the remains of hope, withered and sere like the stubble-brown fields.
 
My thoughts will be split between this field, and Camp Randall, on the other side of the Great Lakes. Maybe there will be a miracle.
 
Likely not.
 
These programs are as tough to turn as aircraft carriers; each team fielded is actually the product of years of scouting and recruiting and training. They are blurred snapshots of a longer process items captured in the brilliant sunshine or the gray sheeting rain of Saturday afternoon.
 
 The Coach may be back next year, and perhaps not.
 
It is all right. It is OK.
 
I have the sandwiches, I have the spinach dip and some salmon sushi; all-American black-top fare, and enough vodka to anesthetize myself to the modest grief or minor joy that will come with the afternoon.
 
Game Day.
 
Last one this season, and then on to the Holidays. Go, Team.

Copyright 2009 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
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