No joy in floodville

The rain began falling at 2 in the afternoon as we made our way down the Ave to the crew’s pregame spot. It was a light drizzle, one we did not mind as we chugged Hefe(ok so I brought a Peruvian Cristal in my water bottle again) and chowed on Cajun spiced fries, onion rings, and sandwiches on the famous homemade bread. Then it became a shower so we store-hopped until my bro bought a $100 parka. As we trudged uphill, the gentle shower became rain. And it never stopped. It became a steady downpour. I started to think about pairs of animals and olive branches. By the time the boys had thrown several incomplete passes, I could feel all three layers I was wearing sticking to me and I could wring my sleeve. “I feel like a load of laundry.” And those boys of Troy hung our boys out to dry.

At first, all seemed promising. My hero Justin made a touchdown that felt smooth and precise. Then pass after pass sailed way over its intended receiver. Soon we felt cold and wet. Even the band couldn’t inspire us to stay. So we took swigs of $1 tangerine liquor, took a pit stop in Wheeler Hall, and made it to the BART train. I got home just in time for me to peel off all articles of clothing and watch the last awful minutes in my jammies.
So no roses for us this year. Maybe a bid to Vegas or SBC park in SF. At least I finally got my bear head cap. There’s always next year.

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