Gainseville Again

This weekend an opportunity managed to find me (or my friend Michael's mother, but she couldn't take it, so it found me as it's fallback.) I got Gator tickets. That's the team name for the University of Florida, for those of you who hate sports. This particular event was football, as is right, and just. They played the Kentucky Wildcats, arguably the worst team in the SEC.

To get me to Gainseville is a bit of a chore. I'm very much like a toddler (right in the middle of his "terrible twos.") I kick and scream, and drag my feet, and if you try to pick me up I go limp so quickly that you drop me. And then I'm hurt, and crying, and it's a whole thing. You might think this is crazy, what's so bad about Gainseville? It's not the city. Or even the school. It's the drive. First off, I am a completely social animal, and being alone, with no one to talk to for over an hour gets me physically ill (or when I'm driving, sleepy.) Every time I find myself on a highway, I think about those brave men, truckers, and their twenty hour drives. I can't even imagine surviving that job. As soon as I reach the city limits I'm drowsy and the seat is really comfortable, and the sun always seems to be shining at that angle that just screams nap (even at night.)

I've found answers to my problem, but if I am lucky enough to have a passenger, they tend to hate my solutions. I either need a stimulating conversation (known in my family as a "good old fashion throwdown" and or argument) or really loud music that I can sing to. This results in me playing the same thirty or so songs both ways, singing at the top of my lungs (I have a passable singing voice, but when I'm all slouched in my seat, it just sounds like I'm yelling at the other cars about love and souls and upbeat girls from New York.)

I went to the University of Central Florida, and have never been to a college football game that wasn't either them playing, or at the Citrus Bowl. Even for bowl games, the Citrus Bowl is so large, that it's nearly impossible to fill. I didn't understand what a UF game would actually be like. First off, I wore my comfy shoes for the drive up. Which, was a wise decision. For the car portion of the weekend. Then I was informed that I would be walking to the stadium, a grim reality that didn't truly set in until we had been walking for fifteen minutes, and Michael told me (smiling in his thick souled leather shoes) that we were still another fifteen minutes away. And this ignored the stark and haunting truth that we would have to walk around the entire stadium to get to the tailgate, and then again to get to our seats. Suffice it to say my feet took a beating, and have not yet forgiven me for my crimes against them. What really got me was all of the women, walking the same walk in sandals. I asked my feet what the problem was, and they were like "Dude, you're huge." I agreed and just dealt with the pain for the rest of the evening (by complaining as often as possible to Michael with edgy statements like "Ouch, my feet really hurt.")

After a few runs at the tailgate's food and alcohol, we made our way to our seats. Although, to be fair, I shouldn't really call them "seats." The spot itself was an absolute gem. Thirty five yard line, sixty rows up, perfect view of the entire game. But calling the places where we found ourselves seats implies that Michael and I are about a hundred pounds, after a fully clothed jump in a nearby pond. If Michael wasn't six foot four, he might have been OK, but the fact that my size can be compared to a compact car without much loss of accuracy might allow you to grasp the truth, we weren't going to be comfortable. However, I took solace in the fact that neither would my neighbors, and we could all be uncomfortable together, like a family, only with less yelling (at each other, but the referees were going to get it) and financial worry.

We were not on the student side, which was good, because we could at least attempt to sit down. The student section doesn't actually need seats, they all just stand on them (despite the constant reminders from the announcers that this activity is considered dangerous, and serious injury may result.) That allows for quite the sight for anyone in viewing distance, 30,000 college kids standing up and shouting, singing and yelling cheers. Coming from a school whose football program's rich history can be summed up with two words: "Daunte Culpepper," I wasn't ready for the raging bull that is a University of Florida home game. The entire campus seemed to have gotten the same idea in their heads when they woke up: Mainly, go outside and watch football there. Every available stretch of grass had a tent and a television, red cups and blue cups and even a few white ones (however the owners of said white cups were generally shunned and looked upon with distaste) presumably filled with liquid with a high alcohol content.

The game itself left a little to be desired (for Kentucky) and ended with a large margin of victory for the Gators. However, watching them live allowed me to watch ever play with a little more focus (without the "last" button I found myself being forced to watch the same channel, i.e. the field, the entire game.) In the interest of allowing this column to age like fine wine, I won't get into who they play or when and how I think the Gators have relatively little chance of going to the National Title this season, instead I'll say this: Their offensive line doesn't seem to like their running backs. As soon as one of these poor runners took the hand off, the line seemed to fall apart. Like old french bread, they just crumbled and flaked and missed even the slightest hint of an opportunity to hit someone (something you can do and get away with in football.) This means that if the running back isn't shifty as a thief in the night, he's going to get hit. Hard. Defensive lineman are not small guys, and they do not love tap (running backs.) At first, one is inclined to think "Wow, the UF offensive line is very bad, and should not be feared." But this is not true. As soon as Burton steps in to take a snap (this is the kid widely regarded to be the next, if much smaller, Tim Tebow) the offensive line grew six inches and was able to bench at least two hundred pounds more than they could a few seconds before. At least that's what it looked like. Out of nowhere the defensive unit for Kentucky was getting thrown around like rag dolls, and chewed on like tasty morsels. Burton ended with six touchdowns on the night. So either, they (the offensive line) really like Burton, or they really hate running backs. There's probably a middle ground, some common denominator, but if so, I couldn't see it. The Tebow era taught them that blocking for a quarter back was good, and the Percy Harvin era taught them that blocking for a running back was meaningless, he's just going to out run your opponent and therefore your block anyway.

Woe is the life of the UF running back today. Or more specifically, on Saturdays.