TCU Football: Diary Of A Sports Ignoramus. Practice!

A day in the life of a sports ignoramus

Tyler Brown

DISCLAIMER: THIS ARTICLE HAS BEEN WRITTEN FOR ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES ONLY; ANY ATHLETIC WISDOM OR INSIGHT OR KNOWLEDGEABILITY THEREIN, NOT DIRECTLY QUOTED BY MY COLLEAGUES, IS NOT ONLY PURELY ACCIDENTAL BUT UNFORTUNATE.

The trouble began on Tuesday, August the 14th, to be exact, 7:04 p.m., to be more so, when The Barry Lewis, dear man, fell under the delusion that it would be a good idea to invite me, of all people, to football practice, presumably with the understanding that watching the mightiest team in collegiate athletics train at 8:00 in the morning, in 90 degree heat, was my cup of tea, the entire contents of which spewed in a single gush from my mouth the moment I saw the proposal's text.  

Me:  "Are you insane!" 

"Not at all.  I think it would generate some ideas."  

"It certainly has generated something else."  

"So will I see you at 8:00 am in the morning?  Now that the jobbing's over, I'm sure you could use some kind of continued employment." 

"For 1,000 dollars I'm your man." 

"Don't make yourself laugh."  

"How about a hundred."  

"How about ten bucks when you write the article and a glass of water for the heat." 

"Man drives a hard bargain.  Deal.  Who says beggars can't be choosers?"

Thus the day came, the big Thursday, my first introduction to TCU football from the sidelined view, and I was nursing a hangover that felt as though Fat Boy and Little Man had taken turns splitting their particles in my skull.  And it was 7 a.m.  The sun, such a constant overachiever summer long, was himself slow to rise, winking feebly through the blinds. 

"Rise and shine, SI!" 

"Shiner and rye more like."  

"How you feeling, Poet Laureate of the KillerFrogs writing team?" 

"I'm the only poet on the KillerFrogs writing team.  And if I felt any worse I'd be John frigging Keats." 

"That's just the kind of inspired take I was hoping for.  Will I see you on the field in an hour?" 

"Barry, for God's sake, it's my day off." 

"You lost your job.  Every day's a day off." 

"But I'm a creature of habit, Barry.  And I haven't been up at this hour on a Thursday since . . . I'm sure it's happened at some point." 

"I'll see you at the Carter." 

"What's the Carter?"

"I'll see you at the football stadium.  TCU's football stadium.  Right next to TCU.  You can't miss it.  It's the biggest edifice in the city."

"Damn all and everything else." 

"Also.  We have been provided a list of things that you absolutely must not do when you arrive.  I will send you the exact request.  And I will meet you on the east side of the stadium at 8:05.  Deal?" 

"I expect all ten of those dollars." 

"As soon as you get that article written, each one of them is yours." 

Click. 

Things are easier done than said.  Despite my protests, and a half dozen honks of the horn and a curse against the fool who invented trains, I found the Carter quite easily, and parking was no problem, except for the dog who stole my space.  I must admit I meandered halfway across campus and back trying to figure out which side of the stadium was the east one, but after a couple texts politely asking that "you perfidious bastards help me!  Help!  I beg!" I was joined outside the Carter by the Ian Napetian, the Nathan Cross, and the Derek Lytle, all of whom, dear fellows, had three things in common:  they were younger, soberer, and more knowledgeable about anything athletically related than I.  Then there was the Barry Lewis bearing the following proscriptions as relayed from TCU:  

"No filming/photography during walk throughs . . ." 

"What's a walk through?" 

". . .filming okay during stretching."  

"What kind of film are we talking here?" 

"No filming during team drills 11 on 11 . . ."  

"How many football players are there on a team anyhow?" 

"Okay to film after drills until 8:45 am.  Media can be present until 9:15 am.  Stay on the turf area not grass fields.  No reporting/social media posts who played with the 1s and who played with the 2s.  No mention of who had red jerseys not playing.  Absolutely no reporting of any injuries witnessed."

"Got it, Barry!" I said and we walked toward the field. 

On the way, Barry and I debated whether American football was a misnomer.

"Think about it, Barry.  They don't even play with their feet.  I watched, and I'm not kidding, two teams of paraplegics tossing the football from wheelchair to wheelchair and doing an excellent job.  They called it football.  Now how is that possible, Barry, I ask you?  Meanwhile, soccer is aptly named.  People are socking people on the football all the time for the smallest offense.  The fans too."  

"Are you done?"  

"I just want my objections considered." 

"Duly considered."  

"What do you say?  We call football soccer and soccer football?" 

"No.  But it's duly considered."  

And then we were on the field.  I must admit, the spectacle of seeing the the players in uniform carrying on in uniform movements manifold exercises like bulked up dancers frolicking in lines was glorious to behold and I duly, a dutiful, loving son, sent the father, the mother, and the brother a telephone communication to express the fact, picture included. 

"PRACTICE!" the mother said.  

"Cool," said the father.  

The brother said nothing.  And this is pretty indicative of the family dynamic in general. 

But all things in life sour, especially in the Texas heat, and what began as a novelty became boring.  So I struck a plan.  A great way to make the father and the mother happy.  A selfie with the father's favorite player was in order.  

So when I asked him who his favorite player was, and he said "Max Duggan," I went about finding that particular individual.  Only after I approached a guy to ask his name and he got clobbered by one of our own guys (which I found not only rude, but detrimental to the purpose of keeping a good team) did it occur to me that it might have been a wise idea to have asked the father what Max Duggan's number was--never mind that it may have been equally wise for the jersey manufacturers to have provided the appropriate names above said number.  

While the poor padded gentleman groaned, his hands gripping his stomach as they had the football before, I asked:  "Excuse me sir, are you Max Duggan?" to which he replied no, and requested that I go to Hades.  

So I went to another guy, wearing a red shirt, and said, "Excuse me sir, do you mind if we take a picture together?"  

I must insist in retrospect it was not my fault he did not decline.  And after I clicked the button, my arm on his shoulder, the football fell out of his hands into those of someone else, who evidently was not supposed to have it, and a whistle blared and a man roughly the size of Andre the Giant was carrying me off the field.  

"No media on the grass!  I warned you, sir," he said to Barry.  

"You can go home now," the Barry said while he tried to explain as best he could I was simply trying to present the mother and father with a gift, which I did. 

"Me with some guy in a red shirt.  Is this Max Duggan?" 

"Never seen the guy in my life."  

"Well.  I'm on my way home now.  Seems to have been a productive day.  Hope your happy with the selfie, I guess that's what they call them.  Love you."  

"Cool.  Will you get to go to another one?" 

"I haven't been banned, so I suppose so."  

And it was just when I arrived at Ol' South Pancake House, about to sip my first cup of morning coffee, that the Barry said:  "Well, you did it.  KillerFrogs is now banned permanently from TCU football practice.  Thanks to you."  

"You're welcome, Barry," I said.  "We could all use the sleep."  

Disclaimer: THIS ARTICLE HAS BEEN WRITTEN FOR ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES ONLY; ANY ATHLETIC WISDOM OR INSIGHT OR KNOWLEDGEABILITY THEREIN, NOT DIRECTLY QUOTED BY MY COLLEAGUES, IS NOT ONLY PURELY ACCIDENTAL BUT UNFORTUNATE. KILLERFROGS HAS NOT BEEN BANNED FROM PRACTICE. 

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