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Some of you people need to get a grip...but please, don't.
As a Gamecock fan, I live a comfortable life with a complete absence of expectations that anything good will happen to my team - ever. It's very liberating; anxiety-free.
Even during the recent "best run in team history" ushered in by the late, great Steven Orr Spurrier (RIP), it was not exactly enjoyed by Carolina fans; we merely sat around in amazed silence, waiting for the other shoe to drop. And drop it did, in the middle of last season, when Spurrier died suddenly and left the team without a coach. Some of us cried, but many of us shrugged and said, "well, there it is..." now, back to life as normal...how about a whiskey drink?
It's as if we cannot be harmed as a species. Countless seasons of poor-to-mediocre results on the gridiron have left our souls calloused, toughened, thick and horny (not the good kind of horny, either).
As a result, when other fanbases are on suicide watch after an early-season slip up that renders their championship hopes slim at best, Gamecock fans are already in the clubhouse enjoying a drink and a cigar. We calmly pull up a chair, or stool, offer to buy the next round, and patronizingly slap the new arrivals on the back. Often this is accompanied by a wry smile, or even a knowing smirk, which is generally interpreted as schadenfreude, but is actually a wise sympathy. We are in the know, we understand and have come to accept a simple fact: in life, there will be very few "winners" and a much greater collection of those who did not. ("Losers" is no longer the fashionable term; for us, it is not about winning or losing, but in having a nice drink.)
Face facts, people: there are over 120 football teams in the highest subdivision, currently called FBS but formerly Division I-A. The odds of YOUR team winning the title, already, are therefore not that great. All those teams, 12 games (at least), some of which are against superior competition in hostile environments, and injuries (or suspensions) happen to your best players. It might rain, or even snow, the turf might be really bad, and sometimes the referees make costly mistakes (just ask Oklahoma State). Add to that, based on inequities with finances, facilities, coaching, and proximity to rich recruiting grounds, the odds are even greater against all but a handful of bluebloods, some of which have to play each other at least once during the year.
What's the takeaway from all this bullspit, you might ask? None. None whatsoever. Keep your hopes high, your dreams of winning alive, and keep going off the deep end whenever your team loses 3 games into the season and you're crying on the internet about how the whole program needs to be stripped to the jockstraps and started over from scratch with a new coach, new weight room, and possibly new mascot.
Because it's highly entertaining to us.
As a Gamecock fan, I live a comfortable life with a complete absence of expectations that anything good will happen to my team - ever. It's very liberating; anxiety-free.
Even during the recent "best run in team history" ushered in by the late, great Steven Orr Spurrier (RIP), it was not exactly enjoyed by Carolina fans; we merely sat around in amazed silence, waiting for the other shoe to drop. And drop it did, in the middle of last season, when Spurrier died suddenly and left the team without a coach. Some of us cried, but many of us shrugged and said, "well, there it is..." now, back to life as normal...how about a whiskey drink?
It's as if we cannot be harmed as a species. Countless seasons of poor-to-mediocre results on the gridiron have left our souls calloused, toughened, thick and horny (not the good kind of horny, either).
As a result, when other fanbases are on suicide watch after an early-season slip up that renders their championship hopes slim at best, Gamecock fans are already in the clubhouse enjoying a drink and a cigar. We calmly pull up a chair, or stool, offer to buy the next round, and patronizingly slap the new arrivals on the back. Often this is accompanied by a wry smile, or even a knowing smirk, which is generally interpreted as schadenfreude, but is actually a wise sympathy. We are in the know, we understand and have come to accept a simple fact: in life, there will be very few "winners" and a much greater collection of those who did not. ("Losers" is no longer the fashionable term; for us, it is not about winning or losing, but in having a nice drink.)
Face facts, people: there are over 120 football teams in the highest subdivision, currently called FBS but formerly Division I-A. The odds of YOUR team winning the title, already, are therefore not that great. All those teams, 12 games (at least), some of which are against superior competition in hostile environments, and injuries (or suspensions) happen to your best players. It might rain, or even snow, the turf might be really bad, and sometimes the referees make costly mistakes (just ask Oklahoma State). Add to that, based on inequities with finances, facilities, coaching, and proximity to rich recruiting grounds, the odds are even greater against all but a handful of bluebloods, some of which have to play each other at least once during the year.
What's the takeaway from all this bullspit, you might ask? None. None whatsoever. Keep your hopes high, your dreams of winning alive, and keep going off the deep end whenever your team loses 3 games into the season and you're crying on the internet about how the whole program needs to be stripped to the jockstraps and started over from scratch with a new coach, new weight room, and possibly new mascot.
Because it's highly entertaining to us.
