it’s almost time, time for the greatest

the time has come. the off season is over. the blood flows soon. the time of the lights and the pain is alost at hand. the pre-season has begun…

this is the moment i’ve been waiting for for five years…

in three and a half weeks, school is over. in 18 days everything will change. this summer, mere boys will become gods once again. we have made the transformation before, but for a great many of us, we may never go back. as we dress our armor we are no longer high school atheletes, we are warrior gods. we know no pain, and fear is indistinguishable through the blood pumping in our ears and the red tint in our eyes. we sweat out regret, and defeat is unfamiliar with us.

oh yes, there will be blood…

the war begins august 25, 2006.

“This day is called the feast of Crispian:

He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,

Will stand a tip-toe when the day is named,

And rouse him at the name of Crispian.

He that shall live this day, and see old age,

Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,

And say ‘To-morrow is Saint Crispian:’

Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars.

And say ‘These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.’

Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,

But he’ll remember with advantages

What feats he did that day: then shall our names.

Familiar in his mouth as household words

Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,

Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,

Be in their flowing cups freshly remember’d.

This story shall the good man teach his son;

And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,

From this day to the ending of the world,

But we in it shall be remember’d;

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;

For he to-day that sheds his blood with me

Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,

This day shall gentle his condition:

And gentlemen in England now a-bed

Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,

And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks

That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.”

-William Shakespere

Men, this stuff we hear about East wanting to stay out of the war, not wanting to fight, is a lot of bullshit. football players love to fight – traditionally. All real athletes love the sting and clash of battle. When you were kids, you all admired the champion marble player; the fastest runner; the big league ball players; the toughest boxers. I love a winner and will not tolerate a loser. I despise cowards. I play to win – all the time. I wouldn’t give a hoot in hell for a man who lost and laughed. That’s why we have never lost, not ever will lose a war, for the very thought of losing is hateful to an athlete.

Every man is frightened at first in battle. If he says he isn’t, he’s a goddamn liar. Some men are cowards, yes! But they fight just the same, or get the hell shamed out of them watching men who do fight who are just as scared. The real hero is the man who fights even though he is scared. Some get over their fright in a minute under fire, some take an hour. For some it takes days. But the real man never lets fear of pain overpower his honor, his sense of duty to this team and his innate manhood.

All through your football career you men have bitched about “This chickenshit drilling.” That is all for a purpose. Drilling and discipline must be maintained in any army if for only one reason — INSTANT OBEDIENCE TO ORDERS AND TO CREATE CONSTANT ALERTNESS. I don’t give a damn for a man who is not always on his toes. You men are veterans or you wouldn’t be here. You are ready. A man to continue breathing must be alert at all times. If not, sometime a Hartford son-of-a-bitch will sneak up behind him and beat him to death with a sock full of shit.

A team is an army. Lives, sleeps, eats, fights as a team. This individual heroic stuff is a lot of crap. The bilious bastards who wrote that kind of stuff for the Saturday Evening Post don’t know any more about real fighting, under fire, than they do about fucking. We have the best food, the finest equipment, the best spirit and the best fighting men in the world. Why, by God, I actually pity these poor sons-of-bitches we are going up against. By God, I do!

My men don’t surrender. I don’t want to hear of any player under my command being injured unless he is hit. Even if you are hit, you can still fight. That’s not just bullshit, either.

All real heroes are not story book combat fighters either. Every man in the army plays a vital part. Every little job is essential. Don’t ever let down, thinking your role is unimportant. Every man has a job to do. Every man is a link in the great chain. What if every water boy decided that he didn’t like the stink of gatorade powder, turned yellow and jumped headlong into the stands? He could say to himself, “They won’t miss me — just one in dozens.” What if every man said that? Where in hell would we be now? No, thank God, Suns don’t say that! Every man does his job; every man serves the whole. Every reserve, every unit, is important to the vast scheme of things.

Each man must not only think of himself, but of his buddy fighting beside him. We don’t want yellow cowards in this team. They should all be killed off like flies. If not they will go back home after the war and breed more cowards. The brave men will breed brave men. Kill off the goddamn cowards and we’ll have a nation of brave men.

Don’t forget, you don’t know I’m here. No word of the fact is to be mentioned in any emails. The world is not supposed to know what the hell became of me. I’m not supposed to be commanding this Army. I’m not even supposed to be in uniform. Let the first bastards to find out be the goddamn Indians. Someday I want them to raise up on their hind legs and howl, “Jesus Christ, it’s the goddamn Eaast Suns and that son-of-a-bitch Gengler again.”

We want to get the hell over there. We want to get over there and clear the goddamn thing up. You can’t win a war lying down. The quicker we clean up this goddamn mess, the quicker we can take a jaunt against the blue pissing spartans an clean their nest out too, before the field faries get all the goddamn credit.

Sure, we all want to be home. We want this thing over with. The quickest way to get it over is to get the bastards. The quicker they are whipped, the quicker we go home. The shortest way home is through Madison. When a man is lying in a whilrpool, if he just stays there all day, a beaver will get him eventually, and the hell with that idea. The hell with taking it. My men don’t use whilrpools. I don’t want them to. hot tubs only slow up an offensive. Keep moving. And don’t give the enemy time to find one. We’ll win this war but we’ll win it only by fighting and by showing coony we’ve got more guts than they have.

There is one great thing you men will all be able to say when you go home. You may thank God for it. Thank God, that at least, fifty years from now, when you are sitting around the fireside with your grandson on your knees, and he asks you what you did in high school, you won’t have to cough and say, “I grated cheese at Taco Bell.”

-General George S. Patton, abridged and edited

for years we have dreamed of being the titans, the bohemoths practicing in the dusk under the lights of the stadium. now, our last chance is at hand.

Some people listen to

themselves, rather than listen to what other people says.

These people don’t come along very often, but when they do, they remind us that once you set out on a path, even though critics may doubt you, it’s ok to believe.

There is NO Can’t, Won’t, or Impossible.

They remind us, that it is ok to believe.

Impossible is just, a small word thrown around by small men,

who finds it easier to live in the world they’ve been given,

than to explore the power they have to change it.

Impossible is not a fact. It’s an opinion.

Impossible is not a declaration. It’s a dare.

Impossible is potential.

Impossible is temporary.

Impossible is, nothing.

till things are brighter. nick.