Week 6: The Suck

Brethren: This week's listless game on the road against Tampa was incredibly frustrating. The Panthers lost 27-3, but the worst part was that they never once seemed like they were in the game. It was gut-wrenching to watch, as the Panthers seemed sluggish, slow, ill-prepared, and like they simply didn't give a fuck.

The team is trying to spin it as just another loss -- that losing by 24 counts just as much as losing by 1. While that's certainly the right attitude for my team to have, it does not at all convey my emotions while watching this team two days ago.

My true anger has mostly subsided, as I'm doing the tried and true, "ignore-stomach-let the insides simmer" treatment that all great Cloud men employ, so that this bottled-up choler just festers inside, until one day, it'll come violently spilling out when aggressively drinking Grandpa's Old Cough Medicine.

Besides, I've got a full report from the Cap'n that's full of venom and froth. The jump'll contain that, some odd musings from me, and a report from Nacho -- who was at a wedding this weekend and didn't catch the game at all. Lucky him.

Follow me. Follow me to freedom...


Cap'n Pappy: OK here goes: In a weekend when my college teams (UVA and the Gators) refused to go down, the Panthers were pitiful. In the case of both college teams, the first half was well played. After the half, both teams' opponents made a run out of the chute. However, in both cases the Cavaliers and Gators shook off the pressure and instead of playing not to lose, they got aggressive and gutted it out to prevail.

Now we come to the Panthers. This game was so "shades of the last 2 years" in so many ways. The Panthers have fallen prey to playing the entire game the way they play the first series of downs. After a smokin' game against the Chiefs (yes, they are as bad as beef BBQ), they came to the Pirate Ship with more offensive weapons, a suffocating defense, and special teams vastly improved over last year. Whereupon, somehow Smitty got lost out there. Jake threw one way while his receivers broke the other. We got another freaking punt blocked!!!! And we continue to get motion penalties on offense.

In a mirror image nightmare reversal of my college teams, the Panthers come back at the end of the first half only to throw an interception, turning an almost certain less than 7 point deficit into a 2 touchdown deficit. We then come out from the halftime and promptly get punted onto the 1 yard line. Whereupon we run 3 times into the line and we're out. Thankfully, our end zone punt wasn't blocked. After this series, we were notably silent. Where was the 1-2 punch of DeAngelo and Stewart, the bestial defense of just last week, and the special teams that gave the Chiefs the back of their hand? They mailed it in.

Note to John Fox: "It is what it is" as a response to this week's Pirate Ship showing is not going to cut it. It is time to expect more from these professionals or bench/fine them.

You miss a block that costs points: go sit!

You flinch on the line and turn a 3d & 4 into a 3d & 9: go sit!

You arm tackle or try to bump somebody without wrapping them up or stripping them: go sit!

It is high time to earn the big bucks. Your fans are tired of choosing yard work over the second half of a Panthers' game. Out. Pappy

Brethren: I wasn't fuckin around. The Cap'n brung it. Just a few more musings, then perhaps Nacho will do a "Off the Beaten Path" post regaling us all with the wonderful world of weddings:

- Anyone else notice that the head ref for the Tampa-Carolina game gave "the shocker" whenever indicating third down? If we had won this game, I would have reported it with glee. Now, just seems odd.

- My good buddy and Bobcat employee, Eugene, is ready to patent his well-crafted "Back Up QB Theory" -- namely, that every time a team switches to its back-up QB the week leading up to the Panthers game, our Cats are guaranteed to lose that game. It's happened in both of our losses this year. It happened last year when the Falcons came to Charlotte and promoted John Joseph Harrington. It happened a few years back when Tony Romo got his first shot at starting. If this weren't such a hurtful theory on my Sunday emotional state, I'd be singing the praises of Eugene for recognizing the pattern.

- It's almost as if young Eugene's Theory is somehow connected to the fact that our coach is notorious for being stubborn. Fuck it, I said I wasn't gonna get angry, but here it comes. Honestly: down 14-0 early in the first quarter doesn't change your game plan at all, John Fox? You still think plowing head for 3 and outs will "establish" the running game. Our biggest gains on offense came in the fourth quarter, down 3 possessions, when Jake started running a somewhat urgent/no-huddle offense. And by then, our offense was so lulled to sleep, the receivers (Jarrett, Rosario, and yes, Steve Smith) all dropped passed. Shit, John Fox! Somedays establishing the run early can pay dividends. But when it's halftime, you're down 14 points, and nothing's going, it may be time to spice things up. Even the supposed ultra-conservative DAN HENNING has figured that out with his Wildcat offense down in Miami. Fuck.

- That anger didn't even come close to matching the Cap'n's. He does have a few years of the "bottling anger" routine on me.

- Anger over. Moving on to more important divisional home game against New Orleans. With a surprisingly competitive NFC South, it's time to take back some control.
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New York Knows Davidson

Brethren: I live in New York City, where a close childhood friend who went to Davidson also lives. This past weekend ranks up there as one of the best sports weekends he's ever experienced, as the country embraced his small school on a level never known before. His words:

Steve "HB" Kaliski: In moving from Davidson College to New York City this past summer, I realized I was changing a lot more than my address. I was changing my entire universe. From the friendly confines of the Sweet Carolinian liberal arts to the big bad city, not much would survive in transition. These two worlds have as much to say to each other as a Village hipster and a downtown banker, as Cunningham Fine Arts and Martin Chemistry, as a Ewing dunk and a Curry three. Yeah, not a whole lot in common.

I bring this up simply because it’s impossible to talk about my Wildcat bliss this week without talking about New York. My life as a sports fan has been all about cheering for the underdog, and nothing—not Robin Ventura’s grand slam single in 1999, not the Panthers storybook road to the 2003 Super Bowl, not even Dell himself pouncing on Alonzo in the Hornets’ first playoff run—compares to the totally bizarre pride I felt at the New York Post headline “HOYA DESTROYAS!” Or the New York Times front-page “UNEXPECTED GUESTS.” Or a stream of text messages from 917 and 212 area codes reading “CONGRATULATIONS!”

Man, this is weird. New York knows Davidson.

S"HB"K: And nobody loves it more than the 100-strong contingent of Davidson alumni who gathered at the Eastside’s Mercury Bar this past weekend to watch our cats slay some serious dog. When people asked me where I watched the Sunday game, I said, “At a Davidson bar.” A Davidson bar? Like a Gator bar? Or a Hokie bar? Does such a thing exist? On Friday and Sunday it did, and I’ll never forget it.

You must understand: we ‘Cats are a frenzied population, workaholics and playaholics, avidly ready to cheer for our friends when they’re achieving something remarkable. But most of the time, we settle for localized frenzy, a bubble of fun we save for ourselves, telling others, “You shoulda been there.” Now, this whole “nationwide” idea…this is something different. At least for this week, when people ask me where I went to school, I won’t have to say, “Davidson College…North Carolina…just north of Charlotte…small liberal arts school…yeah…” A simple “DA-VID-SONNNN!” should suffice, and even if I have to clarify with, “You know, Stephen Curry,” I won’t mind at all.

And though I’m thrilled to welcome the world to momentary knowledge of my education, the most meaningful consequence of Curry and Company’s March magic is that I’ve never seen the Davidson community itself so united in enthusiasm. Whether on Facebook or Gmail or AIM, every Wildcat status this week says something like “SWEET 16!!” or “DETROIT ROCK CITY!” or simply “!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” On a campus where academics loom large, it takes a force mightier than a four-point play to inspire this kind of pandemic pride. It takes a four-point play as the ignition for one of the most inspiring underdog comebacks of all time, a comeback guaranteeing that the ’08 Hoyas will never hear “Sweet Caroline” again without a sweet sweet pang of “How did that happen?!”

Wisconsin, beware. No one wants you to succeed.
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Guest Column: The Cap'n Pappy

Brethren: If you readers out there in the interwebs ever wondered how or why the Sports Brethren are the way we are, Nacho and I thought we'd give ya a little piece of the puzzle today. See, we are just learning that our pappy, whom we affectionately call Cap'n Pappy, is a bit of wordsmith himself.

So we's gonna let the Cap'n pen our first guest column. His subject: what else? What he knows best: Southern football.

If you wanna a glimpse into the fantastical world it is to be a Cloud boy, keep on reading after:



SEC FOOTBALL

My first inklings of the impact of SEC football in the South was living in Memphis in the late 50’s. The only thing bigger at the time was Elvis…until September. Each year the last reigning days of “the King” was his show at the Mid South Fair, the Cotton Carnival in early September. After that it was SEC football night and day. After the heat of the delta summer baked in all the smells, every morning of game day Saturdays, the first coolness of fall released the aroma of the mown grass, earth damp from the morning dew, and woodsmoke from early fires.

Memphis was turf battled over by warring Rebel/Vol factions. Even though technically we were in Tennessee, Ole Miss was a national powerhouse (national champions in ’59, ’60, and ’62). North Mississippians regaled us with tales of Coach Johnny Vaught and his All Americans: Charlie Conerly, Jake Gibbs, Cowboy Woodruff, Charlie Flowers, and Billy Brewer. The national anthem was followed immediately by “Dixie” and rebel yells and then the kickoff. Tennessee was actually a weak sister led by Johnnie Majors. Our personal experience of this was the annual Tennessee/Ole Miss football game in Memphis at Thanksgiving, sometimes even sitting thru snow. At that time the LSU Tigers, with Paul Dietzel’s Chinese Bandit defense competed with the Ole Miss Rebels. Billy Cannon returned a punt in the 4th quarter for the Bayou Bengals against the Rebels 89 yards to win 7-3 at night in Death Valley. Bear Bryant was the new coach at Alabama. Our neighborhood kid, Mike Fracchia, whose parents owned Fracchia’s grocery store at the end of the block, chose to go to Alabama and we actually pitied him.

So after being born and bred into the SEC and absorbing the lore of pit barbecue, tailgating spreads, rebel yells, and the tribal pride of whipping the other guys ass, we moved into the Swamp, the land of the Gator. Unfortunately, the Gators were dismal until they recruited a brash young guy from Tennessee to play quarterback, future Heisman trophy winner, Steve Spurrier. Insanely, the Gators actually beat the likes of the Tide under Spurrier. So a new tradition developed. Stetson-hatted cattle ranchers and citrus grove bosses, descended across Payne’s Prairie to a little cow town north of Ocala in their boat shaped Cadillacs with the steer horns on the hood. Once these shit-kickers got a taste of whipping the boys from LSU, Alabama, Ole Miss, and Tennessee, they were blooded. The quaint stadium surrounded by pine trees, live oaks, and Spanish moss gave way to The Swamp: a grueling, Saturn rocket loud, enclosed, subterranean field where opponents would be exposed to conditions of 110-120 degrees. Unfortunately for them, the mighty Gators thrived on the subtropical conditions and the boys from “up north” in Alabama and Tennessee were only used to 90 degrees. A river of athletic football talent flowed thru the Swamp that drowned the visiting boys. They were in over their heads. Larry Smith, Jack Youngblood, Jack Harper, Charlie Casey, Spurrier, Steve Tannen, John Reeves, Emmitt Smith, Leto Shepard, The Freek Kersey, Fred Taylor, Alex Brown, Dallas Baker, Tony Green, Wes Chandler, and now Tim Tebow.

There can be no better Saturday than waking up early and hitting the EC Rowell Highway. This is quite possibly the longest perfectly straight flat road in the world outside a desert and a favorite of armadillos. It is literally a strip of asphalt elevated about 3 feet above the cypress and pine of the Green Swamp on either side. There is no shoulder. We would finally get to Highway 301 and later the Interstate joining the trucks and cadillacs at Payne’s Prairie with pennants flapping. This armada then descends on Sonny’s or the Big D for barbecue to fuel the 6 hour tailgate. The crowds from Apopka to Zephyrhills then converge past pine, palm, and live oak covered in Spanish moss across the sandy Bermuda and Bahia, to arrive at the bane of all northern Southern boys: the Swamp. Abandon hope all ye who enter here! After 2 bits, Orange/Blue echoes off the Bell Tower, and the thrashing on the grass administered by the reptilian kings of the gridiron, the only thing left to do is to watch the Coach praise the boys from Kissimmee to Maclenny on the Sun Sports Network on Sunday.

Capn Pappy

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