Dueling shirts
Today I’m wearing my gray Iowa shirt. The I-O-W-A runs straight and level across the chest in black letters outlined in gold. I have another just like it in green (the letters are dark blue and outlined in white) but the gray one is my favorite. It’s my lucky Iowa shirt.
Frankly, there’s nothing lucky about it, but I wear it every Friday nonetheless. It’s a weekly ritual I started last year for football season; I wanted to show pride in my roots and the team I cheer for on Saturday’s — and maybe give them a little luck. I continued wearing it every Friday during basketball season (Big Ten games are usually scheduled on Saturday’s) and have kept doing it out of school spirit and habit.
I have a lot of Iowa stuff (too much, I think), but don’t get me wrong: I support the school and all its teams, but I’m not the type of rabid fan who makes Hawkeye athletics — especially football — his obsession. If you’ve ever been to an Iowa football game you know the guys I’m talking about. These fanatics are in their 30s and 40s, are drunk from tailgating, and refer to the players and coaches by their first names as if they know them personally. A classic example from my experience is the infamous Lazy Eyed Fuck my friend and I sat in front of at the Michigan State-Iowa game in 2000 (it was the Hawks’ first Big Ten win in two years). During the first half, Iowa running back Jeremy Allen fumbled the ball, ending a drive deep into Spartan territory. Lazy Eyed Fuck went berserk. For the rest of the half he couldn’t forgive “Jeremy.”
“Goddamn, Jeremy!” “If Jeremy hadn’t dropped that ball it’d be a different game.” “Hold on to the ball, JEREMY!”
Mervgotti and I received the brunt of his volume and spittle. At halftime he leaned forward and apologized to us, his breath reeking like beer soaked carpet: “I’m really sorry I’m yelling in you guys’ ear, BUT MY GOD IF JEREMY HADN’T DROPPED THAT BALL…”
(I call him the Lazy Eyed Fuck because one of his buddies sitting nearby teased him by saying “you lazy eyed fuck.” I never turned around to look at him, not even when he apologized, so I’ll never know if he had a lazy eye or not. I like to think he did, though.)
He gave me the impression that Iowa football was his life, the only escape from whatever bleak existence he’d been able to eek out after college. I imagined him watching the recruiting reports, studying the depth chart (how else did he know everyone’s first name?), and ornamenting his work cubical with black and gold memorabilia. I’m not that kind of guy. I just have a bunch of shirts, sweatshirts, a window sticker on my car, an “I” flag, an Iowa Men’s Basketball poster from last season, and an Iowa Bass Fishing Team can koozie (given to me my senior year by a guy I worked with, a member of the fictional bass fishing team).
But whatever. Amazingly, that’s not what I wanted to write about. (I need to write more scatter brained like this when I Write. I’d be 10 times more productive.) Back to me wearing my Iowa shirt today…
This morning I finished the cereal I keep in my office, so at lunch I walked to the Trader Joe’s across from campus to get another box. On the way I noticed a guy walking toward me on the pedestrian bridge over University Avenue. He was wearing a cardinal colored shirt. I didn’t see what the yellow letters on the front spelled until I got closer: BEAT IOWA.
You’ve got to be kidding me! I thought.
What the fuck are the chances of that? A guy wearing an Iowa shirt and a guy wearing an Iowa State shirt pass each other in California?
He was a gimp. I kid you not. To keep from grinning and laughing as we passed I had to turn away. Mervgotti, my best friend, is a gimp, so Mr. Cyclone’s condition was no biggie; but I thought it was funny he was wearing an ISU shirt.
Frankly, there’s nothing lucky about it, but I wear it every Friday nonetheless. It’s a weekly ritual I started last year for football season; I wanted to show pride in my roots and the team I cheer for on Saturday’s — and maybe give them a little luck. I continued wearing it every Friday during basketball season (Big Ten games are usually scheduled on Saturday’s) and have kept doing it out of school spirit and habit.
I have a lot of Iowa stuff (too much, I think), but don’t get me wrong: I support the school and all its teams, but I’m not the type of rabid fan who makes Hawkeye athletics — especially football — his obsession. If you’ve ever been to an Iowa football game you know the guys I’m talking about. These fanatics are in their 30s and 40s, are drunk from tailgating, and refer to the players and coaches by their first names as if they know them personally. A classic example from my experience is the infamous Lazy Eyed Fuck my friend and I sat in front of at the Michigan State-Iowa game in 2000 (it was the Hawks’ first Big Ten win in two years). During the first half, Iowa running back Jeremy Allen fumbled the ball, ending a drive deep into Spartan territory. Lazy Eyed Fuck went berserk. For the rest of the half he couldn’t forgive “Jeremy.”
“Goddamn, Jeremy!” “If Jeremy hadn’t dropped that ball it’d be a different game.” “Hold on to the ball, JEREMY!”
Mervgotti and I received the brunt of his volume and spittle. At halftime he leaned forward and apologized to us, his breath reeking like beer soaked carpet: “I’m really sorry I’m yelling in you guys’ ear, BUT MY GOD IF JEREMY HADN’T DROPPED THAT BALL…”
(I call him the Lazy Eyed Fuck because one of his buddies sitting nearby teased him by saying “you lazy eyed fuck.” I never turned around to look at him, not even when he apologized, so I’ll never know if he had a lazy eye or not. I like to think he did, though.)
He gave me the impression that Iowa football was his life, the only escape from whatever bleak existence he’d been able to eek out after college. I imagined him watching the recruiting reports, studying the depth chart (how else did he know everyone’s first name?), and ornamenting his work cubical with black and gold memorabilia. I’m not that kind of guy. I just have a bunch of shirts, sweatshirts, a window sticker on my car, an “I” flag, an Iowa Men’s Basketball poster from last season, and an Iowa Bass Fishing Team can koozie (given to me my senior year by a guy I worked with, a member of the fictional bass fishing team).
But whatever. Amazingly, that’s not what I wanted to write about. (I need to write more scatter brained like this when I Write. I’d be 10 times more productive.) Back to me wearing my Iowa shirt today…
This morning I finished the cereal I keep in my office, so at lunch I walked to the Trader Joe’s across from campus to get another box. On the way I noticed a guy walking toward me on the pedestrian bridge over University Avenue. He was wearing a cardinal colored shirt. I didn’t see what the yellow letters on the front spelled until I got closer: BEAT IOWA.
You’ve got to be kidding me! I thought.
What the fuck are the chances of that? A guy wearing an Iowa shirt and a guy wearing an Iowa State shirt pass each other in California?
He was a gimp. I kid you not. To keep from grinning and laughing as we passed I had to turn away. Mervgotti, my best friend, is a gimp, so Mr. Cyclone’s condition was no biggie; but I thought it was funny he was wearing an ISU shirt.
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