Dear Louisville Cardinal fans,
Don’t get me wrong. This has been fun. Louisville Hate Day has been an absolute blast from beginning to end. Every line beard joke, every Kragthorpe reference and every last premature ejaculation crack. But something has been missing.
Sure, the Cool Water still tells people within half a mile that you’ve got the best swagger you can swipe from the inside of a magazine, but what used to set you apart was the esoteric peacocking that made this week fun. What’s happened to you, Louisville fans? No optimism. No trash talking. No death threats in the comments section. The only proof of life we’ve seen all week is the virtual high-fives you’ve been tossing as the game’s spread keeps creeping closer and closer to Will Stein’s height.
Remember when you used to tuck that black and mild behind your ear and puff out your chest while you talked about Papa John’s Cardinal Stadium and the Yum! Center? Sure, putting a bunch of troubled teens in buildings that fancy was pretty much like an NCAA version of Extreme Home Makeover, but watching you pretend like you were important was fun. Now there’s nothing.
It wasn’t all that long ago that you were talking about Charlie Strong like he was Vince Lombardi and not the guy who interviewed so badly so many times that you have to wonder if he could even get a head job from Karen Sypher. Now it’s two weeks into the season and he’s so clueless, all that’s missing is the goatee and confirmation that he’s the one drying the jerseys on “extra high”. Can’t wait for the Kroger commercials though.
And where’s all the big talk about your football recruits? Remember when you could point to Rivals rankings and predict a trip to the BCS bowl? You’ve wasted more stars than the producers of Wild Hogs and The Expendables combined. Your future has blown up so quickly and so badly, it should have just banged Glen Rice.
Maybe it was Edgar Sosa’s horrific injury that brought us together. He’s one of you, but he became one of us too when Calipari coached him, so we all cringed when he got hurt. And besides, we’re not going to make fun of a guy for having a cast on his leg. A puddle of semen, though? That’s a different story.
Nothing? Still nothing? C’mon, have some pride, Louisville fans.
The Louisville that we’ve grown to love to hate isn’t the Louisville that shrugs off an assistant’s involvment in the Miami scandal and says that it will wait for the NCAA to make a ruling. The Louisville we know would have called a special press conference for Teddy Bridgewater and Clint Hurtt to shout, “I’m on a boat, mother f–ker, take a look at me”.
Listen, we don’t like you. Don’t be confused. But you’re like the fart smell that comes with opening a bag of Cheddar and Sour Cream potato chips. Saturday’s game will still be delicious, but it doesn’t seem as fresh without you. So wave a bottle of Crown under your nose, throw your L’s where the sun doesn’t shine or do whatever else it takes for you to wake up and get this thing going. Tell us our wide receivers couldn’t catch AIDS in a knife fight with Robbie Alomar. Whatever. I don’t care. Just show some life before we beat it out of you again Saturday at Commonwealth.
And for the love of all things good, put on a damn shirt.