I, the College Football Fan, don’t care much for Summer. I’ve used the holidays, college basketball, spring practice, and even the NBA playoffs to help level me off from my football hangover, but Summer is here and I’m starting to get anxious. Crackhead anxious. There’s a lot of scratching and twitching and hitting up my parents for money. I try to let baseball and golf help me maintain my sanity, but they can only do so much. I’m staring down the barrel of three months of Summer and it’s painful to think about.

Since I’ve been in my twenties my summers have played out the same way. To get through June I frequent internet recruiting sites. I read every word every moron with a keyboard and a mouse has to say about my team. I stalk other teams message boards and giggle at what losers they are. I let the whims of 17 and 18 year old kids who are debating scholarship offers to my school determine my mood each day. I think we still have a shot with all of them.

Once July hits I start drinking. I drink hard. The hardest really. Drinking usually gets me through the week of the 4th. Then I hit a rough patch. It’s a little bleak and scary. If I’ve ever told you to “go fuck yourself” during that period of time I apologize, even though you probably brought it on yourself.

After the rough patch I rebound the third week of July when a glorious thing called NCAA ‘08 hits the shelves. I create dynasties where I make myself the quarterback of my alma mater. I dominate. There’s really no place on the field I can’t put the ball. Mel Kiper Jr. has me pretty high on his big board.

‘08 keeps my head above water until August camp hits. It’s smooth sailing from there. One month until kickoff. I study position battles. I think our outside linebacker should move to free safety. I wake up every morning and pray for no injuries during two a days. I’ve gone through our schedule 500 times and I’m certain we have a legitimate shot to win all 12 games as long as the refs don’t fuck us. Man, I hope the refs don’t fuck us.

My reasonable side tells the rest of me to sit back and relax. Enjoy the Summer. The weather and the outdoors and the pool and all that other shit that involves sunscreen. But to hell with reasonable. This could be our year.

About once a week I get a little frightened when I realize that by rooting for the Fall to get here I’m also rooting myself closer to thirty. But then I have another beer.

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