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Now
that America is deep into the bowels of football season, I'm experiencing
my yearly gastrointestinal angst about my Texas A&M Aggies. I call
them "my" Texas A&M Aggies because I spent an untold amount of my
parents' cash in College
Station on textbooks, apartment rent, and DoubleDave's Pepperoni
Rolls in my pursuit of a Bachelor of Arts in English (yes, English)
from Texas
A&M University.
But despite my claims of ownership, many loyal Aggie football fans
would probably label me a two-percenter. And I can't really blame
them. You see, I haven't been able to bring myself to watch a complete
Aggie football game from kickoff to post-game men's room marathon
in over twenty years. Oh, I always catch the first few series on TV,
and then I simply have to escape to some less stressful activity-like
giving one of my three daughters driving lessons in heavy traffic
or taking all of them shopping for bras.
It hasn't always been this way, though. My passion for Texas Aggie
football began in 1987 on Thanksgiving break of my senior year in
high school-when I was still reveling over the fact that I occasionally
needed to shave. My big brother was in his first year at Texas
A&M and invited me to stay with him for the weekend and attend
my first Aggie football game-the once-annual Thanksgiving Day contest
between the Aggies and their arch-rivals, the Texas Longhorns. This
was, of course, before the celebrated Southwest Conference devolved
into the Big XII minus II and the Aggies left for greener, and bloodier,
pastures in the SEC.
Thanksgiving Day began with an attempt to prepare our own home-style
lunch. But our altercation with a massive skillet of hot Crisco and
some raw chicken leg quarters resulted in a pile of abused poultry
with a crisply charred exterior enclosing meat that probably still
had a pulse. After we had choked down a tepid bite or two of the foul
fowl and a few servings of undercooked Stove Top stuffing, our concerns
quickly turned from salmonella to the battle about to ensue at legendary
Kyle Field.
Once we were in the student section and the game had begun, I was
awestruck by the size of the crowd, the electric atmosphere, and the
vast number of beautiful college girls jumping and gyrating within
mere inches of my unbridled seventeen-year-old pubosity. It was an
unforgettable experience. And the Aggies won the game-I think.
Speaking of beautiful college girls, the Aggie football game that
solidified my devotion to the team took place two years later when
my future wife and I were dating. We were on hand to witness the Texas
Aggies defeat the SMU Mustangs 63-14. Of course, I fully embraced
the Aggie tradition that anytime the football team scores, so do you
. . . by kissing your date . . . on the lips even. (We got engaged
shortly after that game.)
So what happened? Why can I no longer watch an Aggie football game
without my guts boiling like they did right after that gastronomic
Chernobyl of a Thanksgiving meal in 1987? I can explain it in one
word-love. I have grown to love the Aggies so much that I can't bear
to watch them suffer on the field when they fumble in the red zone,
or when the defense stands around adjusting their straps while the
opposing team runs unencumbered for a touchdown.
Yes, I realize that the Aggies often win-sometimes in spectacular
fashion when playing against non-conference foes like Slippery Rock
College for the Chronically Un-athletic. But even when they play against
those so-called "cupcakes," I find myself looking for the TUMS and
an excuse to go do yard work.
So call me a two-percenter if you must. I can take it. Because I can
rest in the satisfaction that all of my daughters will know how to
make a U-turn safely, and they'll never be in short supply of bras.
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