Arkansas-Kentucky: Recap

Did I see a pig fly?

Couldn't be. I must have been dreaming.

Sunrise hit my face with unusual ferocity this morning.

Or maybe it was just my strange neighbor walking his really big dog with his high intensity flashlight.

Regardless, I woke a bit disoriented.

I shook the cobwebs from my head, brushed the crackers from my bed, and coughed up a ball of mucus and blood so large it needed a first name. I felt better then.

The coughing up of foul things is the first part of my routine, and a guy my age thrives on the comfort of the sameness of things so I set about the rest of it.

I tried to pee for half an hour but was unable. These things happen.

I woke my companion for the evening and gently shooed her out the door. This took awhile as she uses a walker and I had to find the cash to pay her.

I considered showering but dismissed the idea as bourgeois decadence.

Also I had no clean towels and the mold growing on my shower tile had recently developed what appeared to be teeth.

I called my parole officer, just to say hi.

I logged onto my computer and checked my email—answering any and all correspondence that might make me larger or more potent.

Tried to pee again. Became angry and frustrated.

Surfed the net for new and different varieties of porn. Found none but felt better for looking.

Reconsidered the shower.

Logged on to an Arkansas Basketball message board to see how my new leader was instructing the troops.

It was Kentucky day. I would follow the progress of my Hogs both on tv and through the eyes of my internet geek brethren.

My hopes were not high.

Big road wins have been in astonishingly short supply in hawgland for the past six years and even with Kentucky being a mediocre club this season, it seemed too much to ask to have a victory.

But then I saw it.

Wending its way through thread after thread on the message board—not just hope—but energy and enthusiasm.

Unrealistic expectations and ideas.

Aggressive predictions with no concrete basis in fact.

Random residual hatred for Houston Nutt.

Weird man-love for Bobby Petrino.

Discussions of the best way to make a "pot o' beans".

Now THESE were the Hog fans I grew up with. We BELIEVED in Coach Pel and the boys.

We are not victims here.

That is not what Eddie Sutton started and what Nolan Richardson took to storied heights.

We are thugs and warriors. People fear us.

We grunt and snort and spit and fight and emit a strange and unpleasant aroma.

Opponents bend to our will.

Enough politeness. Enough polish and courting "Big Names" while anticipating the inevitable turndown...we don't sit back meekly in the corners and get pressed until we give in.

We are the guys that trap and double team.

People prepare for us, not the other way around.

We are the Huns rolling across the Steppe on horseback. Surrender or pay the price.

We are what we are. A small state that has to do things our own way—harder, tougher and better than the other guy—NOT with more money.

There was talk on the board about reconciliation with Nolan, pressing the Wildcats into submission, the grace of Sonny Weems, and of course Hilary's plans to take away our automatic weapons and force us to abort our fetuses (feti?).

Razorback Nation was charging into Rupp Arena with plans to open a can of whoop on Billy Gilespie and the Caligula-like lifestyle he represents.

I was standing at my sink and peeing with a stream that would make an 18 year old proud.

Unfortunately, the game got underway and the board returned to its native state as of late.

We were screaming about the refs and our lack of shooters.

We moaned about an eight minute first-half lull where we went pointless.

We questioned our boys' hearts and effort.

Someone proposed a plan for secession from the Union that involved arming ourselves at the local Wal-Marts and demanding the right to at least cuddle with our age appropriate cousins and he was seconded by numerous "Huzzahs".

The second half brought temporary joy as the wonderful Weems took the Hogs out to a lead.

Plans for revolution were temporarily put on hold and posters started mentioning yet again that Steven Hill had NBA potential, Patrick Beverly might go pro early, and that Charles Thomas doesn't completely and utterly blow.

There was wind in our sails.

But reality soon set in.

Patrick Beverly was again undersized and too slow with his release.

Steven Hill again looked like a hirsute underachiever that might need to start interviewing for counter jobs at 7-11s.

Charles Thomas AGAIN traveled and had a shot thrown back in his face so viciously that the crowd stopped actually cheering for a moment because they kinda felt sorry for him.

My Hogs are nothing if not heartbreakers.

Kentucky closed out the game on the line and I began wandering around my apartment snacking on little pieces of granola bar that I could find on the couch, looking for a credit card that still had some room left under the limit, and wondering if MTV would show a replay tonight of the epic battle between Coral and Beth on "The Gauntlet III".

I was hoping that Pigs would FLY today.

But instead when I looked out the window all I saw was a drunk homeless guy throwing a hot dog at a crackhead homeless guy.

Does that count?