Adjacent News

The morning air across the campus carries that unmistakable damp slate odor of an autumn Friday in the Southeastern Conference, though one would hardly know it by observing the modern arrangements. Down on the asphalt perimeter where the old dirt tracks used to meet the central pasture, a convoy of oversized diesel motor coaches has settled into the macadam like bloated sows in a July creek. These vehicles, fitted with leather reclining berths and tinted panoramic glass, represent an astonishing retreat from the hard-packed wagon roads of 1934, when a proper squad arrived behind four head of dependable Missouri mules and a box of salted tallow. Today's player prefers a pneumatic seat cushion to the honest jolt of a sprung timber axle, and it shows in the way they loiter near the practice turf with an unearned softness about the ankles. One shudders to think what an infantry battalion commander from the Meuse-Argonne offensive would say about an offensive line that requires air conditioning at halftime just to contemplate a third-and-short conversion. Up in the press box, the structural integrity of the old timber rafters is currently being tested not by heavy artillery payloads or the reassuring thunder of twelve-pounder howitzers, but by the nervous tapping of laptop keys and the gentle hum of espresso machines. The modern scribe sits behind pristine glass panels, sipping lukewarm tap water from disposable cups while complaining about the Wi-Fi bandwidth, completely oblivious to the historical weight of the steel-forging tolerances that once kept these grand institutions upright. Back in the leather-helmet era, a reporter took his notes in shorthand by candlelight while dodging stray livestock and avoiding kickbacks from local blacksmiths, and if his ink froze in the winter wind, he simply burned his spare socks for warmth. Now we have plush swivel chairs and catering trucks delivering imported pastries that have never seen the inside of a burlap sack. The logistical footprint of a Friday walkthrough has ballooned into an administrative farce involving three separate security cordons and an electric scoreboard that flashes corporate logos brighter than a magnesium flare. Out on the practice lawn, the trench units labored through dummy drills with a total disregard for bayonet-thrust depth ratios, treating the line of scrimmage as if it were a casual afternoon stroll to the general store. The coaching staff paces the sideline in rubber-soled sneakers, checking tablet displays that undoubtedly consume more electricity than a rural cooperative in 1940. It is a wonder the forward pass was ever invented, given that it encourages such sedentary habits among young men who ought to be hauling gravel for their supper. As the Friday shadows lengthen across the quadrangle and the student body gathers for pep rallies fueled by electric megaphones instead of brass horns and megaphone-cheering mules, one can only look toward the weekend with a heavy heart and a well-worn ledger of livestock grain consumption.