I Feel A Poem Coming On

Somewhere deep in a memorabilia box is a chin strap -- from a player whose name was something like Lynsey Cole. I think he was a wide receiver, but that was a long time ago when I bummed it off the sweaty player after the game was over. I don't know if kids do that anymore, but it used to be a big deal -- conning a chin strap from a football hero. And Cole -- or whatever his name was -- was the closest thing I had at the time to a hero on the TCU football team. I have been a TCU fan for as long as I can remember. The only thing I can't remember is ever having much reason to be. I grew up hearing stories about the Hornfrogs' storied past -- "Slingin'" Sammi Baugh, Davey O'Brien, a Heisman Trophy and a National Championship -- but by the time I was conscious of such things those photographs had yellowed. By the time I was a student there, the football team was terrible. We used to count it a moral victory every time "we" kept our opponent below triple digits.

Nonetheless, I was a fan. As a kid I would even be inspired -- in the occasional victory and certainly in their frequent defeats -- to write adoring, even passionate poetry. It was terrible, of course -- predictable lines with wincing rhymes the likes of Edgar A Guest -- but it was heartfelt. Even in the sewer seasons -- decades -- I have been loyal, if less and less attentive, fan. I haven't written a poem in years.

All of which makes the Hornfrogs' national attention this season all the sweeter. To be sure, they have improved in recent years, becoming almost regular post-season bowl contestants. If some of those appearances have been at such celebrated venues as the Scranton Sauerkraut Bowl, well, at least they have been televised. Somewhere. At some hour.

But this year! Wow! Undefeated. Ranked #4 behind such storied teams as Florida, Alabama and Texas and touted not only as a major bowl candidate but even as conceivable, albeit unlikely, national champions. It all seems unreal -- surreal. We long-time fans have become so proficient at keeping stiff upper lips that we have to remind ourselves -- and give ourselves conscious permission -- to smile. Sure, there are two games left in the season, both against doormat teams; but of course those are the most dangerous kind. It's easy, as my old junior high tennis coach used to say, to "slip in your drool." The clock could still strike twelve and turn it all back into a pumpkin, but it is awfully fun for the moment.

Actually, it's more than fun -- it's exciting. Euphorically, passionately so. If I lived near enough to get close to the field, I would elbow my way through the fans and try to bum a chin strap. But here, 1000 miles away, the best I can do is cheer...

...for the Frogs I hold so dear. Victory is oh so sweet, it makes me jump to my feet.

Well, you get the idea.