Published on October 13th, 2016 | by J. Strong Smith
Grizzly Football is…
A fifty six year-old retired dental hygienist ripping shots of Fireball during halftime with her three middle-aged friends in the back of a white Honda Civic.
The BOOM! Of the North end zone cannon and gunpowder smell that lingers in the air.
Singing Neil Diamond draped in Mo Club fluorescence, standing next to The Girl playing flip cup after a Saturday win, banging the walls: ”Hands, touching hands; Reaching out, touching me, touching you…Sweet Caroline; FUCK THE CATS; Good times never seemed so good; SO GOOD, SO GOOD, SO GOOD!”
And that’s another FIRST DOWN, MON-TAN-A!
Eight year-olds sitting on a grass hill behind the end-zone at Washington-Grizzly Stadium, running to retrieve the remnants of field goals and extra-points like eager puppies, thumbing a mini rubber ball and impatiently waiting for the game’s end so they can reenact the battle dressed in the colors of their heroes.
Mick Holien: “The Grizzly offense takes over, going left to right on the radio dial.”
Waking up at 8:15 a.m. with a mean hangover after a hard friday night…three advil, two aspirin, water…the smell of bacon, the sizzle of eggs, the pop of toast…yelling at that roommate who’s always late…laughter…the first short drink of a morning beer, enough to fit the sticky orange juice which spilled on the side of the can…walking to the tailgates…the game…and, most importantly, the after-game nap.
Monte, like an idiot, flying into the goalpost from a 30-yard sprint.
Call: MON-TAN-A
Response: GRIZZ-LIES
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