I-League diary

The king is dead.

Long live the king.

I am proud of my status as a native Texan.  As a native Texans, there are certain givens.   We are fiercely proud and stubborn bastards (which may explain my fondness for goalies, but I digress.) and we are all, almost without exception, born with a love of football.  Almost as if someone else is up there with St. Peter when he's handing out the brains.  Let's call him St. Jimmy:

St Peter: (Handing brain allotment to one soul) Here you go.

(Soul walks on to hardened-looking angel with perfectly-coiffured hair)

St. Jimmy:   Are you gonna be a Texan? (Soul nods yes.)  Here's your love of football.   (Headbutts soul with perfectly-coiffured hair before yelling at a not particularly healthy-looking soul to head for the "asthma cloud.")

At least that's the way I picture it.

I remember spending many a Sunday afternoon sitting in front of the TV, with more food that I could ever usefully need, yelling at the screen 'til I was Cowboy blue in the face, urging my team on.  I have lived and died with the Cowboys.

At least until this past year. The only thing I can think happened is that I was visited by yet another divine being.  Let's call him St. Hitch. St. Hitch:  (Hovering over sleeping writer)  Here y' go, eh.  (Drops tiny puck into sleeping writer's head)   You'll know what to do with it when the time comes.

And the time finally came.  It was like an angel signaling the apocalypse:  a whistle louder than any trumpet.  The skies didn't darken and the waters didn't turn to blood, but a beast had come to the Valley.  And nothing was ever the same again.

The king is dead.

Long live the king.

"Get out the A-1 sauce, I'm done."