GAMEDAY

Its the waiting that kills me. The wanting, the write-ups, the never-ending examinations, the line-ups, the who's-who for all the idiots who don't understand what tradition really is. Who don't understand that this is a game that can't be viewed in the terms of skill or home team advantage or a Heisman candidate -this is pure and simple war.

And fucking Lee Corso and his never ending quest to prove that he's not gonna vote for FSU on GameDay EVER just because he went there. Fine Lee. Thats just fine. We don't want your goddamn curses on us anyway. We don't even want you or your money. Don't come traipsing back to us when your ESPN career is over. If I see you in the President's box- I'll throw my beer at you! Ungrateful nuisance. Thats what you are. Thats how we feel about you.

In three hours, three long grueling hours- the FSU-UF game will commence. Chief Osceola will ride out onto the field atop Renegade and in all his cheesy glam throw down a burning spear and The Seminoles will proceed to kick the living shit out of the Gators. And I will watch with a six pack and some cheap Mexican food and cheer my boys. My boys. Thats right. I claim ownership along with hundreds of thousands of other fans whose lives are upilifted or downtrodden after each and every game. My heart runs out on that field with those garnet and gold uniforms and therefore I am privileged with the honor of speaking about the Florida State team with "WE" and "MY" and "US". My mother sews Bobby Bowden's belt for Christ Sake.

And I refuse to acknowledge how utterly ridiculous I soud right now, because I've got too much pride. I want to be one of those women who wear the cheesy garnet and gold hats and embroidered, bedazzled belts when I'm sixty. I've told my dad the only thing he has to leave me in the will is ownership of his box at Doak Campbell Staduim and enough money to pass it on to my kids. I want my son or daughter to one day don the FSU uniform. I want my father to be able to look down on that field and say, "There's my grandson. Right there."

And what makes today even more wonderful, what really makes the ice pick in the heart of the Gators dig in that much further, is that Spurrier is going to USC. HA! Take that you illiterate rednecks! Your golden boy is going to be kicking the shit out of you next year too! Your man. Your leader. Your perfect Steve Spurrier spurred you. How does that feel? I hope it hurts. I hope you wake up every day and feel that sharp pain in your ass when you think of Spurrier sitting in an office next year watching game tape of your pathetic team and with his shrewd football skill- proceeds to pick it apart just like he used to pick us apart. See how you feel when Spurrier throws his visor in victory when it is your team he's just beat. See it. Know it. Succumb to it. Let me tell you with all humility - it really fucking hurts. Buy some bandages and steal some oxycontin my dear enemies because that is the pain of legends and storytellers. Pain that can't be killed with whiskey or sex or even a good dosage of la coca. He will burn his icy smile into the soft skin between your eyebrows and never leave. And I can't wait.

Okay. Two and half more hours...