Big 12 Power Prankings: The Coma
I awoke and everyone told me it was a miracle. For my part, considering the misery I've long suffered these years, every day I wake is a miracle. From that point of view, this one seemed no different. Nevertheless, unlike yesterday, which I would later find was five weeks ago, all my friends and family felt my waking on this particular day a reason for almost religious praise.
"You're alive!" Stubbs said.
"I'm dearly sorry, Stubbs. I assure you, it's not my fault."
"He lives! He actually lives!"
"You wouldn't mind knocking on your head real quick would you? Or some other block of wood? I'm superstitious, you know."
At which point I registered two phenomena: I was indubitably in a hospital, somehow. I even had an IV sticking out of my vein--not the best thing to awake to when you're afraid of needles, a virtue that has spared me the burden of the worst drug addictions. And, yes, The Barry Lewis was calling.
"Barry!"
"Are you alive?"
"If I'm not, I think you would agree I'm doing a great job of faking it."
"What the hell happened to you?"
"Still trying to figure that one out. If you get a good tip, let me know."
"Where have you been?"
"Well, Barry Lewis, I surmise I have been at a hospital."
"The hospital?"
"Yes."
"How?"
I tried to recall. The last I could remember involved throwing up a chicken dinner while on my way from the Lupton ballpark and a jealous boyfriend of a jealous girlfriend of a jealous boyfriend of a boyfriend of a girlfriend whom I suggested, in perfect innocence, might make a good mother of a dog. There were bats, balls, bricks, and a blue Buick. There was, also, if I recall rightly, a bull escaped from Aledo. May have been a bullet or two. All while I was trying to vomit out of my system a bad case of salmonella, compliments of six seriously undercooked chicken tenders.
And I now awoke to find myself, like Gregor Samsa, a vermin. And though I was no insect (I possessed no exoskeleton to protect my searing skin, and my vertebrae was on fire), I had at least eight appendages, depending on what extension qualifies.
"Well Barry, as I recall, I was beaten, pummeled, slammed, run over, and gored. Though I'm not sure of the order."
"Who'd you mouth off to?"
"On my word of honor, no one."
"Uh huh."
"A friend of yours maybe. Not sure. They didn't like me either."
"What'd you say?"
"Well now Barry we don't need to rehash old stories, do we? I just awoke from a coma, evidently."
"We need an article."
"Who does?"
"KillerFrogs."
"I'm beginning to take the name seriously."
"Thing is, we haven't heard a word from you in weeks."
"You're welcome."
"And people are concerned."
"For God's sake, why?"
"You have a fan club."
"How?"
"Beats me."
"Who?"
"Well there's Daniel and Thanet and a few others."
"Joke's on you mate. They just have a good sense of humor. As do I. They're putting you on."
"Point is. People are concerned. They want to know you are okay. For some reason."
"Tell them to send a check payable to Sports Ignoramus to Ye Olde Bull and Bush--"
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves. They don't care that much."
"That's okay. I don't either."
"But I was thinking you might like to contribute to a Big 12 Power Rankings."
I breathed deeply.
"Barry."
"Yes?"
"I just awoke from a coma."
"And?"
"What do you think I'd have to say about Big 12 anything that could possibly be useful?"
"I really don't see how your being in a coma could make the slightest difference."
"Exactly."
"We just need an article so that everyone knows you're okay. And you'll be back."
"Okay. TCU is Number One."
"Good."
"DBU is Number Two."
"What?"
"DBU. They're a team right? Or is it DUB?"
"No. It's DBU. But they're not in the Big 12."
"I'm sorry."
"They're not in the Big 12."
"You're putting me on."
"They're not."
"We played them, did we not?"
"Well, yeah--"
"So, why are we playing teams that aren't in the Big 12? Which isn't even 12?"
"They call them non-conference games."
"Non-conference games?"
"Yes."
"So they're practice?"
"Not exactly."
"Yes, Barry, they're just practice. Otherwise, what do they mean?"
"They give the guys more time to play throughout a whole season. Nine teams doesn't make for a particularly long season you know."
"Unless you play them twice."
"They do play them twice. Eighteen weeks is three months. Not a very long season."
"But a very long coma."
"What?"
"Barry."
"Yes?"
"Goodnight."
"What?"
At which point I paid the nurse--a bulking, strapping lad eight feet tall if an inch, five hundred pounds if an ounce--the compliment of saying his mother made a very fine dog out of him indeed.
And thus, I went directly back into my coma, a very fine, very long nap, which spared me all speculation as to how non-12 teams were going to perform in the Big 12.
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