So we go to this liquor store today to buy Crown Royal. There’s a history with Husky football tailgates, my friends, and Crown Royal. First of all, Crown comes in purple-and-gold packaging, so there’s that. Secondly, we are undefeated (1-0) in bowl games that we bring Crown to, which is also quite important. Long story short, we go out of our way to bring Crown Royal to games and there’s a very limited track record that tells us this is a good idea.
Anyway, we get to Twin Liquors in San Antonio, find our desired purchase, and make our way to the cash register to pay. The following conversation then ensues:
Oh, hey, look at this. An anonymous sports fan emailed the good people over at Q13 Fox with a request to send our favorite sportscaster to the Alamo Bowl. No, not Carlos del Valle, Rod Simons, or Gaard Swanson — See what I did right there? Went retro on you — but Erin Hawksworth, who is clearly better looking than all three of those other guys (sorry Carlos, Rod, and Gaard).
The anonymous email happened to fall into my lap and I’ve taken the liberty of reprinting it for all of you to see. Because as a Husky fan myself, I wholeheartedly support the “Send Erin to the Alamo Bowl” movement. For obvious reasons.
Again, we have no idea who wrote this. It’s blatantly anonymous.
Hi there,
As a concerned Husky Football fan, I’m writing to convince you to send Erin Hawksworth to the Alamo Bowl. You’re probably asking yourself why, in these tough economic times, you should consider sending Erin to the Alamo Bowl at all. That’s a fantastic question which I plan to answer. You’re probably also asking yourself why you shouldn’t send Aaron Levine. Also a great question which I will address. Without consuming too much of your time, let’s discuss the importance of this decision.
Let me start by discussing Facebook Groups. What’s up with those, right? They absolutely suck. Why create a Group when you have Pages? Having a Facebook Page gets your point across without messing with everyone’s freedom. Facebook Groups are straight up anarchy. Anyone can create a Group, anyone can add you to a Group, anyone can post in a Group, anyone can impose their Group upon you. I hate that. I’m contemplating creating a Group called “Because I Want To Make Your Life A Living Hell” and inviting everyone I know to it. There’s nothing more unfulfilling than logging into your account, seeing a red notification up there to the left, clicking the notification, and finding out that 50 different people posted in a Group that you don’t give a damn about. Maybe a hot chick wrote on my wall. Maybe someone commented on the one picture I look good in. Maybe I got a “Like.” No. None of the above. Someone posted in a f**king Group. What a f**king joke. F**k you, Zuckerberg.
Two years ago, I wrote an article listing 30 Reasons to Hate the University of Oregon. To say it was one of the more polarizing pieces I’ve ever written would be an understatement, though it should be noted that more positive than negative feedback was received. Which is good. It means that people generally hate the Oregon Ducks as much as I do. That’s how I gauge whether or not I’m crazy. Do they agree with me? They do? Perfect. I’m not insane yet.
It’s almost not fair. Why should we have to make concessions for them? They are the ones who suck. They are the incompetent ne’er-do-wells who can’t do their jobs. They are the malcontents who draw our ire. And yet like a giant traipsing among a crowd of midgets, we’re the ones constantly tiptoeing around their shortcomings. Where’s the justice in that?
For every ill-advised whistle, every hastily-thrown flag, every muddled attempt at an explanation, every boo-inducing, venom-inciting, vein-popping, mind-boggling, dumb-shit-effing-mother-crapping-what-the-hell-was-that-are-you-KIDDING-ME?! call they make, we acquiesce. It’s a manic, unhealthy experience having to deal with these morons. We flip out at their utter asininity one moment, then are forced to bring ourselves back down to earth seconds later when the game resumes. Every time they screw up, we’re left reluctantly rolling over in the wake of their ineptitude.
Once upon a time, there was this little show on ABC called Growing Pains. What a great effing show that was. Basically, it was the all-American situational comedy, or “sitcom,” as those of us who remember such shows fondly call them.
The premise of Growing Pains was simple. You had this family, the Seavers, and they grew as a unit, albeit painfully. Okay, maybe that’s an oversimplification of the title, but whatever.
I’m sold on the Huskies. They are the hot chick you think you might be into, but aren’t quite sure about until all your friends meet her and say, “Dude, that girl is smokin’ hot.” That kind of sold. Validated and cross-checked kind of sold.
It’s not that I didn’t believe before this. I’ve always believed in the Dawgs. It’s just that this team was one giant enigma entering the season. And as a result, no one really knew how to accurately temper their hopes for the new year.
Back when I was an undergrad at Washington, our athletic director was a guy by the name of Todd Turner. Skinny dude, glasses, kinda poindexterish. You may remember him.
Anyway, Turner resigned (read: got canned) in January, 2008 after four years on the job. He had presided over the worst era of Husky football in the program’s storied lineage, and as we all know, football drives the ship at most D-I schools.
When it came to the gridiron, Turner’s tenure was an epic failure for two big reasons.
My friends and I were at the strip club the other night when I got around to some wishful thinking. Not about the women getting naked before my very eyes. I’m more or less immune to that. I don’t even go to strip clubs ever. We just happened to be there for a bachelor party.
Something about knowing that these women are willingly removing all their clothes without you even having to ask changes your mentality toward their complete lack of inhibition. So no, I was not doing any wishful thinking about the well-endowed brunette climbing up and down the pole, performing acrobatic gyrations at unsafe elevations. Okay, maybe a little. But mostly, it was other stuff.
After the fifth or sixth waitress emerged and asked us if we wanted drinks (non-alcoholic drinks, mind you…thanks, State of Washington), I couldn’t help but say aloud, “Why can’t we get service like this in a restaurant?”
My buddies laughed, but I was dead serious. Think about it. You go get a nice meal at a fine establishment and they rarely pay this much attention to you. You’re just another patron to them. But at the strip club? We weren’t even really spending money and they were all about the hospitality. You have to appreciate that. Even if they are just doing it for the cash. I get it. I’m weird. I know.
A few years ago, something remarkable happened. The Isaiah Stanback jersey that I had been wearing to Husky football games throughout college suddenly changed, and in its place was…a Chris Izbicki jersey. Needless to say, my purple No. 4 replica ended up stashed deep in the back of the closet.
It’s a funny thing about college football. Uniform numbers turn over from year to year, taking a memorable digit to a complete unknown from spring to fall.
In the case of my Stanback jersey, it’s not that I was worried about people mistaking me for a Chris Izbicki fan (which I most certainly wasn’t). It’s that I simply didn’t want to invite the jokes that would come along with the number. Stanback wasn’t legendary enough to be recognized as the one and only No. 4. And Izbicki, as it turned out, wasn’t even mediocre enough to dispel memories of Stanback. So it was that No. 4 faded into the mist.
We’re not New York. Not Los Angeles. Not even Miami or Chicago. We’re America’s underdog. The forgotten metropolis. Crammed into the nosebleed section of the left coast. Where it rains a lot. Where coffee is constantly brewing. Where planes are made and apples are sliced. We’re overlooked and underappreciated.
The nation scoffs at us. They tend to forget that we even exist. When they mention us, it’s only to take jabs at the weather and the beverage of choice. Don’t act like you haven’t been gossiping behind our backs, America. We know how it is.
When it comes to sports, they treat us like a redheaded stepchild. They hijack our teams, tell us we aren’t supportive enough, put us amongst the worst sports cities in this great nation of ours, and occasionally slap the dreaded “mid-market” label upon us. The only mid-market we should be associated with is on the corner of First Avenue and Pike Street. We’re bigger than that. We’re better than that.
My head hurts. I have bruises on my body in random places. My left elbow has been throbbing for two days. I need water. I’ve earned a total of 1,200 minutes of sleep in the past five nights. Memories of the last 120 hours are hazy, at best. I’ve been surviving off Visine and Winterfresh gum. I got beat by a girl. I’ve never seen or consumed this much alcohol. I got knocked down by a football.
In spite of all that, I’ve never felt better in my life. Never.
I survived the greatest trip of my very existence. I’m 26 years old. I just partied like I was 18…for five consecutive evenings. I witnessed in-person the University of Washington’s first bowl victory in a decade. I enjoyed the Husky men’s basketball team’s demolition of both Los Angeles-area schools. I sat in a bar with Seattle fans and watched our Seahawks win the NFC West and, against all odds, make the playoffs. From that standpoint alone, it was an amazing stretch of sunrises and sunsets.
At some point on the evening of Thursday, December 30th, I checked my Facebook notifications through my phone. I don’t know where I was, exactly, or what I happened to be doing at the time. I do know that the outcome of the Holiday Bowl had been decided and that the euphoria among the Husky faithful was still settling in. We were probably on the San Diego trolley, or perhaps already sitting in a bar. It was then that I read the comment that would inspire me to wake up at 8:30 this morning, jump in the shower, dress myself, pack up my laptop, and walk down the street in search of free wi-fi (shout out to the Mission Valley Doubletree, where they charge $15 a day for internet).
“The least you can do,” the comment read, “is go and get hammered and give us all a good story about it tomorrow.”
And by “it,” the commenter was referring to the purple-and-gold celebration that was in the process of ensuing at that very moment. Done and done.
This is what it looks like when a parent uses Twitter ---> RT @akitasan @alexSSN No Bellevue Arena, traffic is already bad enough. 20 hours ago
Can you imagine if they built an arena in Bellevue? All the soccer moms that'd end up in jail for vehicular homicide...prisons would be full 21 hours ago
So we go to this liquor store today to buy Crown Royal. There’s a history with Husky football tailgates, my friends, and Crown Royal. First of all, Crown comes in purple-and-gold packaging, so there’s that. Secondly, we are undefeated (1-0) in bowl games that we bring Crown to, which is also quite important. Long story short, we go out of our way to bring Crown Royal to games and there’s a very limited track record that tells us this is a good idea.
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