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Articles
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By Casey Anderson, Posted 5 October 2004 Be warned. You are about to examine the ranting of madman.
The only thing I can figure is that I have such a powerfully good feeling about next year’s game against Notre Dame that it projected itself over a year in advance. Buy your tickets now! I think we’re talking triple digit victory here. I mean, I actually was sick for three days after the Irish put the ever-loving smack down on my beloved Dawgs. The nurse said it was food poisoning, but I think it was actually some sort of allergic reaction to the utter destruction of what was my stone-cold-they-got-the-wrong-team-favored-straight-up-forget-the-point-spread-call-my-1-900-number-and-bet-your-kid’s-college-money lock of the season. Brutal. Now, hard on the heels of the esteemed publisher’s optimistic 5-6 outlook, I’m questioning the purple and gold’s ability to win a game this year. I’m questioning the coaching staff. I’m questioning whether this Husky team has any Pac-10 caliber talent. I’m questioning whether this Husky team has any WAC caliber talent. That isn’t the rumbling of thousands of TV vans circling Mount St. Helens in hopes to glimpse a pathetic puff of steam, that’s the preliminary tremors quaking in the very foundations of my Husky faith! I’m up on the top floor, hanging over the ledge, in dire need of some golden-helmeted negotiator to convince me not to shriek “Heaven help the foes of Washington” at the terrified crowd below, back away from the edge, and let him wrap this nice warm Husky blanket around me and take me back home to the Dempsey Indoor for a cold foamer and some chips and salsa. Everything’s going to be okay, son. Yes, we know that since starting the season 7-1 in 2001 that the Washington Huskies have played football like they’re the Connecticut Huskies. Yes, we know that the Husky defense makes every opposing running back think he’s going to be the next Priest Holmes, and we know that none of the wide receivers are old enough to shave. Set the foam finger down and step away from the ledge, son. The Huskies need to win this Saturday. This time, though, it’s not for the “Glory of Washington”, or for the winning tradition, or all the great Husky Legends, or for some arbitrary streak or record or some such drivel. This is much more immediate. The Dawgs need to win for me. They need to win for an average, anonymous class of 2001 graduate who lives and dies with every win and loss, who’s hardly missed a play since 1995 (yeah, it took me six years to graduate, leave me alone, I’m fragile!), who can’t afford season tickets but buys them anyway, and who, rather than actually working at his job like he should be, spends time typing stories about his school’s football team. Win on Saturday or I’m going to freak out. Seriously. I know I’m just a selfish jerk making demands of a team that owes me a big pile of jack squat, but I just don’t give a rip. I’m in hysterics here. Do your part to help keep an alum out of the loony bin, eh, or I’m going to need a lobotomy and a barrel of Prozac come Sunday.
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Prior
to the start of the season, I was absolutely convinced of a few things. The
Dawgs would open the season with a loss to Fresno State. The prospects of
playing a home opener with a new offense, new quarterback, young wide receivers,
and a mystery on defense, all up against a veteran team with a track record of
road success, made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Rightly so, it
turned out. I was unsure about the UCLA game, mostly because, as usual, the
Dawgs were seeing UCLA in September rather than November. I was uncomfortable,
but felt the game could go either way. Once again, regardless of Maurice Drew
running wild on the Dawg D, my feelings proved correct as the Huskies fell a
couple yards short at the buzzer, a la Tennessee Titans. And the purple and
gold were assuredly going to put the hurt on Tyrone and the Irish. I was 100%
certain of it. But like Terrance Mann from Field of Dreams once told the young
star of the box office smash Corvette Summer, “Your thoughts betray you...Your
failure is complete.” Never mind what they say, two out of three is horrible.