The Rules Reconsidered: Horns Down, Fingers UP (Part Two)
DISCLAIMER: THIS ARTICLE HAS BEEN WRITTEN FOR ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES ONLY; ANY ATHLETIC WISDOM OR INSIGHT OR KNOWLEDGEABILITY THEREIN, NOT DIRECTLY QUOTED BY MY COLLEAGUES, IS NOT ONLY PURELY ACCIDENTAL BUT UNFORTUNATE.
Call me Lazarus. I was in my third day in that open sepulcher I call my occupation, jobbing among the rest of the dead, on Father's Day no less, awaiting my imminent delivery back into the blessed light of life, freedom, and 100-degree heat at 11:30 at night. And though I recognize beggars can't be choosers, as authorities higher than I rather rudely insist, I don't see how that wise adage can be fairly applied to me, after the following discourse preserved here verbatim. Have mercy on me, Dear Reader!
"What's good here?" asked a prim and proper young lady.
"Do you want an honest answer?"
"Yes."
"My taste buds elapsed during COVID, and I have eaten these tacos every day for eight months. So in my fine estimation, everything on that menu tastes like dirt."
"How's the Trailer Park?"
"Do you like fried chicken?"
"No."
"Probably not for you."
"What about the Crossroads?"
"When I could still taste, it was my favorite. Do you like smoked beef brisket?"
"No."
"You're not picky at all, are you?"
"I wouldn't say so, no."
"Do you like meat, ma'am?”
"No."
"No meat. Okay. Well, we have some good vegetarian options. The Mo-Faux for instance."
"Are you calling me a bad name?"
"I wouldn't think to do so on my laugh, madam. But now you mention it--"
"I don't like ground beef."
"It's fake ground beef."
"What do you mean?"
"Plant-based."
"Yuk."
"Okay. No Mo-Faux. What about the Fried Avocado?"
"Yuk."
"Do you like rice?"
"No."
"Beans?"
"No."
"Cheese?"
"No."
"Ma'am, if you don't mind my asking, what the hell are you doing here? Are you trying to make me miserable? Because you're doing an unholy job of it."
“Do you have margaritas?”
“Bar’s to my right. Savon The Merrywether can assist you. Be warned, that margarita is going to have stuff in it.”
“Thanks, you jerk.”
“Just doing my job, ma’am. Next!”
Up came a customer I knew was going to give me trouble. Her scowl could have made Stalin dance.
“Excuse me, ma’am.”
I approached The Merrywether. “Add beef to that margarita, please.”
“She wants it on the side?”
“No. She specifically told me to add beef to the margarita. Make it the barbacoa.”
“If you say so, friend.”
“Have I ever lied to you?”
He looked at me.
“Don’t answer,” I said and returned to Stalin.
“Yes. Ma’am. May I interest you in a margarita?”
“I cannot believe you talked to her that way. What’s the matter with you?”
“I’m jobbing, ma’am. You may have remembered doing that some time prior to the Bolshevik Revolution. Now my time is more limited than my patience. What do you want?”
“Queso.”
“Corn or flour?”
“In queso!”
“No ma’am. On the side.”
“Why would I want tortillas with my queso?”
“Might hide the scowl. For all our sakes.”
Now, I am an observer of another adage: the Good Lord helps those who help themselves. And that very minor impertinence gained me some relief for twenty seconds as she very kindly, middle-finger raised, left the building. Naturally, not one to allow such an invitation to go unreciprocated, I responded in kind.
Dear reader, you may be wondering what this has to do with anything related to college sports--TCU/Big 12, in particular.
Short answer: nothing. Except that this is how rational beings operate; the moment one of them invites the other to engage in coitus with themselves, the other reciprocates. One leaves, maybe tries it out for kicks. And that's that. No big deal.
Enter UT.
For it was in the hour before my release I received the following telephone correspondence in the form I am told is a thread. Primary players: The Barry Lewis, The Fearless Leader, and an anonymous participant we shall hereby term The BFG.
BFG (quoting a social media page called Sickos Committee, including a picture of two gentlemen in uniforms befitting the Hitler Youth, fists clenched, forefinger and pinkie turned to point at their jackboots): "Eliminating your in-state rivals (are they rivals?) from the College World Series and then calmly dropping an extended double horns down while walking onto the field. 13.75/10 on the Horns Down rating scale."
The Barry Lewis: "A & M is probably going to be fined. Texas will complain."
"What else is new!" shouted I. "Are those sore sacks of sour grapes still whining about the turn of a couple fingers!"
BGF: "They have the money. They'll be fine. Stupidest butthurt rule of all time though"
The Barry Lewis: "Yep."
Me aloud: (something that shall not be reprinted here, lest I be banned from Sports Illustrated for life, and I don't want to give the Baylor Administration the satisfaction).
Fearless Leader: "So I think it's the dumbest rule ever, but I do think it's poor sportsmanship for the Aggie players to do it after they've beaten them."
(Pardon her, Dear Reader, it is not, strictly speaking, a fault a good heart leads her into such foul sentimental rubbish.)
But the kind lady continued, and earned double her right to be dubbed Fearless Leader: "Now that's a Big 12 rule, right? TX won't be able to be a big baby in the SEC, will they?"
To which there was much speculation, and little closure.
Upon finally being released from my daily pogrom, I gained my wits at Ye Olde Bull and Bush on Montgomery 76107 (please no direct correspondence; all mail will be summarily returned), and after imbibing five preparatory Guinnesses, I was ready to deliver unto UT (the Urinary Tract) my most vicious, abrasive, sardonic, corrosive, satirical lampoon yet.
But, first, research was necessary.
I Googled: Horns Down.
Checked the news.
Whereupon, I read that a young singer of considerable talent, Zac Collier, had been disinvited from singing the national anthem at the Women's College World Series due to a gesture, deemed by the NCAA, to be "unsportsmanlike."
The exact sad, sorry, smiley-fascistic phrasing (thanks Carlin!) ran thus: "Due to the unsportsmanlike behavior shown after your performance at the Women’s College World Series, we need to go a different direction . . . You are no longer scheduled to perform Game 9 of the Men’s College World Series."
"The craven bastards decided to fire him by email?!" I shouted.
I will admit by now I was drawing some glares and concerned faces from bystanders wondering what was the matter with this mental incompetent offering his computer a wealth of profanity.
And it was then I proceeded to write this thesis: "Americans, rich and poor, of all races, creeds, ages, religious denominations, sexual orientations, genders and sexes: Unite! Unite! Unite!
If one team, out of pusillanimity, is going to demand that, in all college sports, exactly one gesture, two fingers pointed to the ground, be penalized, I propose an alternative will more than suffice: it involves exactly one finger, raised high to the sky, which may be sucked by the members of the NCAA board at their leisure!
After all, I distinctly recall a Tech fan friend of mine holding his thumb up in Aggie pride, then drawing his forefinger in its direction, pressing down his fleshy hammer, and turning the thumb downward. People put their thumbs down to spite the Aggies all the time--and with damned good reason. They don't get penalized for it. Screw UT. Horns down, fingers UP!
Further, lest you think that’s all, I did my research. Pay attention, NCAA! Many people may not know from what the Gig ‘Em (Gag Me, I say!) sign derives. Prior to a game against TCU in 1930, Pinky Downs, leading a cheer, exclaimed that the Hitler Youth would “gig” us—spear us, stab us, impale us. Did we whine?
By the NCAA's rules, it would seem either A & M is obligated to change their hand signal, itself symbolic of poor sportsmanship, or we should admit that people can do with their hands and mouths whatever they like, so long as the other team can simply, nobly, bravely ignore it. How's that for an idea? Horns down, fingers UP!"
And fresh off the high I was feeling, I joined a table manned by the Gordon, the Monet, and the Bobby Stubbs.
"I feared you had an aneurism," said The Gordon.
"Hell no. I just wrote my most scathing piece yet, at the expense of UT. I demolished them, scolded them, I told them what's what, I tell you what. By the end of the month, I'll have legions, men, women, children and everyone in between flipping off those sorry bovine caricatures en masse. Viva la revolucion!"
"Be careful there, wise guy," said The Monet.
"What do you mean?"
"I went to UT."
"Monet, I'm so sorry! Are you okay? Did they drug you?"
"It's a great school."
"Then why the hell don't they understand how freedom of speech works."
"What do you mean?"
I told her.
"My God. People being such whiners these days."
"Those people happen to attend your alma mater."
"My view is if you want to make an ass out of yourself, you're welcome to do so."
"Thanks, Monet. Thanks, dear. I'm so happy to have your permission."
And I meant it. I really did. Being an ass in the face of a Longhorn is a more than honorable pastime. Just ask Billy Crystal.
Epilogue:
Next day, the prim and proper lady returned.
I cursed the sky.
“Excuse me, sir, but yesterday I had the best marg of my life. Could you do that again?”
“Savon, please poor a margarita with barbacoa for the lady here.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Afraid not.”
“Could he add a tortilla?” she asked
“Corn or flour?”
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