Knock me over with a feather. Or hit me between the eyes with a buckeye (the lowercase, poisonous tree nut kind, not the kind wearing a JONES jersey or an ELLIOTT crop top, please). The primary joy of college football lies in more than a hundred wells of local anthropology, one for every team, each with its own distinct terroir; a second delight so close it might as well be 1A is that while FBS ball is the highest level of college football, the pertinent term here is “college.” It’s all executed by kids, in their late teens and early twenties, with all the success of endeavor that you might remember from back when you first realized you could be really, really good at something, and all attendant absurdity of being that young interfering at every turn.
(Read the rest at Grantland.)
I'm a multi-platform journalist and story producer, a Tennessee Volunteer by birth, a West Virginia Mountaineer by blood, an occasional Angelena, a current ATLien, and an Aquarius, if you're interested. Past work samples to the left, where all the words are.