The Angry Czeck

Part One: Bitterness, Thy Name is Ray Perkins

According to the majority of Arkansans, the state boasts only one college football team, the University of Arkansas Razorbacks. (We’re a small state. Maybe that’s all we deserve.) For Arkansans, you need not attend UofA, or even benefit from a college education, to be a fanatical follower of the Hogs. When you’re born in Arkansas, the plastic Hog Helmet is your birthright.

Except the Angry Czeck never really gave a damn about the fucking Hogs. The fervency for Razorback Football aggravated me. I was expected to care. Frank Broyles, the Orwellian athletic director of the University of Arkansas, expected me to care. Wally Hall, the ass licking columnist for the Arkansas Gazette sports section, expected me to care. But there is one thing you cannot make the Angry Czeck do, and that is to care.

My brother (we’ll call him Angela) and I entered the poor cousin of the University of Arkansas – Arkansas State – as freshmen in the Fall of 1992. This was a big year for Arkansas State football. For the first time, the Indians were a Division-I program. Better yet, the athletic department had scored the coup of the decade by hiring ex-NFL and ‘Bama coach Ray Perkins to lead the Tribe, replacing the impossibly popular Larry Lacewell, who had led us to 11 seasons of Division-II glory. Those who sneered at A-State’s brazen entry into Division-I were to become a grisly victim of an Indian uprising.

Except there was no uprising. From 1992 to 1994, the Indians won a total of 5 contests, lost 27, and tied one. Ray Perkins, after one year of misery, abruptly retired (his Wikapedia makes no mention of his brief stint at A-State). Despite the horror, Angela and I attended most of the home games. As students, entry was free and Indian Stadium had plenty of aluminum seating for us to best view the terrible carnage.

One year, we didn’t score a touchdown for the first five games. Angela and I were witness to the first TD of the season. It was commemorated with a nifty digital display on the scoreboard: WE SCORED!

I also recall a defining moment when one of our male cheerleaders was running the perimeter of the football field, carrying the proud Arkansas State Indians flag before a mostly comatose crowd. Suddenly, the stadium erupted with alarm – alarm that was soon to become shame and chagrin. The opposing team’s male cheerleader was quickly gaining on ours! “Run, you idiot!” we screamed at our muscle-headed cheerleader, who mistook our pleas for encouragement. As he leisurely jogged the remaining twenty yards, the opposing cheerleader streaked by with his team’s flag waving majestically in the breeze. Even our male cheerleaders were losers.

Apathy was our fight song at ASU. One evening, me and Angela and assorted others convened at the University’s cafeteria for a dinner of Fried Everything. A moment of disruption in an otherwise ordinary eating experience occurred when campus personality Boston Pete leaped on top of a cafeteria table and shouted, “Arkansas State….INDIANS!” After four breathless chants, and only blank stares in return, a deflated Boston Pete sank back into his chair and into the comfort of his applesauce.

Meanwhile, many of my high school friends had enrolled at the University of Arkansas. Occasionally, Angela and I would trek to Fayetteville for a visit, where we were often dumbfounded by the degree of intensity focused on the school’s football program. Defeats created a statewide depression. Victories generated irritating enthusiasm. Slights waged in Top 25 polls inspired angry letters to Wally Hall, who would pacify his readers with slobbering reminders that Frank Broyles’ first job was Athletic Director, and his second job was being Jesus. In Arkansas, this is not blasphemy.

The Indians, during my four-year stay at ASU, went largely unnoticed, even after a 6-5 season in 1995. The Indians were ghosts even in Jonesboro, home of ASU. My brother seethed at Jonesboro’s lack of support. Few area businesses bothered to put up a “Go State!” sign on their facades. Everywhere in town, one could buy Hog t-shirts, Hog hats, Hog underwear, but handsome Indian apparel was available only at the campus bookstore. An indignant Angela questioned the manager at JC Pennys, and the response was, “ASU stuff just doesn’t sell.” Not even in the city that hosted the Tribe game a damn.

The only person who took a dimmer view of the Indians leap to Division-I than the people of Jonesboro was the sinister Emperor of Fayetteville, Frank Broyles. You may have heard of Oklahoma vs. Oklahoma State. You might be familiar with North Carolina vs. North Carolina State. But while Frank Broyles lives and breathes, the world will not know Arkansas vs. Arkansas State. “There’s only one football team in Arkansas,” Broyles has reportedly stated.

After one humiliating season after another, even the Angry Czeck was beginning to see Frank Broyles’ narrow-minded logic. The Arkansas Indians simply could not compete with legitimate Division-I schools. We were the official tune-up. Scores like 75-3 were common for us. And I fell into the malaise of crippling defeats and statewide disinterest. I obtained my degree and abandoned A-State in 1996.

Part II: The Angry Czeck Becomes the Angry Indian

Until DeAngelo Williams made some Heisman noise in 2005, the most famous football player from the University of Memphis was wide receiver Isaac Bruce. Memphians love Isaac Bruce. Not only did he make the NFL, he made it in the NFL. He fueled the Greatest Show on Turf for the St. Louis Rams when Kurt Warner wasn’t a weird religious has-been, but a two-time MVP. So long as Isaac Bruce wears a football jersey, he’ll never be less than a 4th round fantasy football pick in Memphis.

The Angry Czeck moved to Memphis, Tennessee in 1997. Arkansas couldn’t make me care about the Hogs, so Tennessee sure as hell wasn’t going to make me care about the Memphis Tigers. But I admired the grim, defeatist enthusiasm Tiger fans displayed for their largely unsuccessful team. Diehard Tiger fans are like that buddy of yours who’ll take a savage beating for you in a bar fight. They do it for two reasons: (1) They feel an unexplainable loyalty to you, and (2) they kind of like the pain.

For most of my tenure in Memphis, the Tigers were lovable losers. They were the bane and the passion of my circle of friends, who spent hours debating the merits of the coaching staff, the quarterback, the defensive line. They spoke wistfully of celebrity coaches they could never recruit in a billion years, and they earmarked a significant chuck of their personal budgets to season tickets. In many respects, The Memphis Tigers were the Arkansas State Indians, but with a hungry following who appreciated their triumphs and lamented their failures. I never became a fan, but I did become a fan of the fans.

One year, with both Angela and I employed in Memphis, it became known that the Tigers and the Indians would continue their historic football rivalry. (This was news to me. Even though Memphis is less than two hours from Jonesboro, I never realized that the two schools met regularly.) The overall record is surprisingly close: 27-20-5 (What? Five ties!?) Since 1975, the Indians had defeated the Tigers three times, the last in 1989, which was the legendary Larry Lacewell’s last year at the helm. On this year, the Tigers were enjoying a pretty good season, which had prompted a few cutting jabs from my friends, who didn’t think much about Arkansas State’s football program. The game was to be played at beautiful Indian Stadium, and I suggested that a few of us attend the game.

I don’t remember many details of the game, except that it was played close and with passion, and that the Indians ultimately fell by a very close score (a field goal, if I recall). Angela and I were thrilled, not necessarily by the outcome, but by how well the A-State Indians had played against the much larger Tigers. I went to congratulate my friends, who I suspected would be happy as well. But I was wrong.

“That really sucked,” growled one chum.

“Winning by a field goal,” snarled another. “That’s just embarrassing.”

I couldn’t believe it. My pals were besmirching a solid victory over an opponent who played possibly their best game in years. I assumed that this dreary attitude was unique to my friends, but a trip to the bathroom revealed otherwise. As I urinated into a steel trough, a fight broke out behind me. Not between A-State and Memphis fans, but between Memphis fans and Memphis fans! Apparently, one fan had made the mistake of cheerfully accepting the victory. Several fans had taken umbrage to this nod to the bright side, and the matter nearly came to blows.

This began for me a renewed passion for A-State football. I couldn’t call myself a rabid fan, but I paid attention to the newspapers. I even attended the A-State/Ole Miss game (a game that cemented my belief that Ole Miss fans are the biggest assholes in sports). And I saw something I hadn’t seen in my four years as a student: improvement. No longer was a game against A-State a conceded victory. Between my friends and I, a new rivalry began, and I became the Indian’s vocal champion against a high tide of blue. (Yes, tigers are orange, but the official University of Memphis color is blue.)

Meanwhile, both programs were making headway. The Indians left the Big West conference and joined the new Sun Belt conference, which features big names like Troy and Florida International. Memphis, just across the Mississippi River, joined the Conference USA and began to receive notice from Top 25 pollsters. In 2004, the USA Today/ESPN Coaches Poll ranked Memphis #25 just in time for its sort-of-annual dust-up with the Indians.

By then I had witnessed a number of A-State defeats at the hairy paws of the Tigers. Each game had been hard-fought, with A-State holding a lead before falling apart. My friends took my allegiance to A-State good-naturedly, viewing me as a boxer who fights valiantly but always gets his ass kicked anyway. When pressed, I could get my friends to say, “True, A-State always plays the Tigers tough!” And then their would be some amusing discussion as to whether or not Memphis belonged in the Big Ten.

The Indians/Tigers game of 2004 was played at scenic Indian Stadium. Because of the #25 distinction, thousands of Tiger fans made the easy journey to Jonesboro to witness the validation of their ranking. Angela and I accompanied a dozen chums for a day-long tailgate outside the stadium, and I cheerfully admit that I became immensely intoxicated before the game.

We staggered into the stadium and watched A-State manhandle #25 Memphis for three exhilarating quarters of smash-mouthed football. Made smarter with booze, I antagonized a nice female Tigers fan by continuously screaming, “You’ll get nothing…AND LIKE IT!” For 45 minutes, I was an intoxicated version of Ted Knight reveling in the victory denied me these many, many years.

With 4:01 left in the game, my boozy triumph ground to a devastating halt. Memphis scored 21 unanswered points, polishing off the game with a beautiful pass into the end zone to seal the Indian’s doom. As I stood in stunned silence, the affects of the alcohol painful evaporating on my brain, the woman whom I had tortured for the entire football game turned around and said quietly, “You’ll get nothing…and like it.”

Part III: No More Peace Pipe for You

2006 was not going well for the Memphis Tigers. Their celebrated running back, DeAngelo Williams, was drafted by the Carolina Panthers in the first round. The team’s defense was surrendering too many points, and the offense was scoring too few. Memphis was a horrifying 1-4 by the time Indians/Tigers 2006 arrived, to be played at the Liberty Bowl in Memphis.

But things were going pretty well for the Indians, who had opened the season with an unexpected drumming of Army. Our fans tore down the goal posts for that one, earning me more than a few snide comments from my Tiger friends, who viewed themselves as more mature victors. “Those goal posts were old,” explained my brother. “We plan to get a new set of goal posts from the Liberty Bowl.”

Boasts of this nature were not uncommon from Angela and me. But this year felt a little different. Even after a thumping from Oklahoma State and an embarrassing trashing from SMU, we were 3-2 going into our barn-burner with Memphis. Our offensive line boasted a center who was garnering All-American consideration, and our running game was pretty stout. Couple that with the Tiger’s season-long collapse, and Angela and I felt pretty good about our chances.

Memphis fans must of felt the same way. In years past, entering the Liberty Bowl for a Tiger game was a jubilant affair with plenty of hee-hawing and high-fiving. This year, the sea of blue sort of trundled reluctantly into the stadium, their collective shoulders slumped, and the conversation simmering at the “We better not lose this one” level. Angela and I were accompanying three guys whose credentials as Tiger f
ans could never be rescinded or even questioned. One of them sports a tiger tattooed on his body, so you know he means business. For these three gridiron gurus, a victory over A-State was not simply a mark in the win column – it was essential for the survival of the season.

My friends were not alone in this assessment. A loss at the hands of A-State would be the ultimate underscore to a season of woe. Yet, there was still plenty of moxie exhibited amongst the Tiger faithful. One University of Memphis student authored a letter to The Commercial Appeal shaming the athletic department for “putting teams like Arkansas State” on the schedule, as it demoralizes the team. (Apparently, another advocate for Memphis belonging to The Big East.) Angela and I took a very dim view of that opinion, and I yearned to see a final score that would make the letter writer eat his ill-chosen words.

Fueled by a mixture of Full Throttle “energy” drink and vodka, we assumed our seats (nice season ticket seats courtesy of one of my Tiger buddies). The first half ended the way many first halves end between the Tigers and the Indians: with the Indians on top, this time 17-6. Wisely, I put a cork into any urge I had to scream, “You’ll get nothing and like it!” It helped that I was surrounded by seething Tiger fans who were in no mood for my Judge Smails impersonation.

A season ticket holder nearby, who befriended me on the strength of my Yankee accent, asked for my prediction for the second half. “I predict,” I said honestly, “that the real Memphis emerges from the locker room and takes over the game.”

As it is usually with Angry Czeck predictions, this one was right on the money. Right away, Memphis put on its Sheriff’s badge and reestablished the law with 17 bruising points. Six of those points came courtesy of a slick trick play that might have been drawn up by the Harlem Globetrotters. With every Tiger first-down, me and Angela sank deeper into despair as the Tigers established a very business-like 23-20 lead with a 1:36 to play.

Relieved Memphis fans began to file out of the stadium, confident that victory had been sealed. My Tiger pals insulted them as they left. Real Tiger fans don’t vacate until the last second ticks off the scoreboard! But my friends were fairly relaxed by now. They had snatched victory from the black hole of defeat. True, the Tigers were now 2-4 on the season, but hell, a victory was a victory, right? God was in His heaven and all was good in the world.

When the Indian freshman quarterback, Corey Leonard, was sacked in the backfield, my woe only deepened. But then, a miracle: flag on the play! Face mask against defense! “Excellent call!” I announced as 25,000 Tiger fans voiced their own opinions. The Indians marched 15 yards closer.

Then something kind of weird happened.

During the next play, the pocket collapsed on Leonard, and he crawled out of the pile missing one shoe. The clock was ticking to zero, and Leonard was fumbling around for his shoe! “Christ!” I thought, “Our chance for victory for a shoe!” Then, displaying poise I will forever admire, Leonard kicked off his remaining shoe, stepped to the line, and tossed a lightening bolt to a receiver who inexplicably missed the pass. No shoes!

The clock stopped at 00:06. Head Coach Steve Roberts called for a pow-wow with his Indian braves. The Indians were 52 yards away from the goal line. Really, there was only one play to call, and when the ball was snapped, that course of action was confirmed.

Leonard accepted the shot-gun snap, faked a short pass, and then casually drifted left. Indian receivers raced to the end zone with Tiger defenders waiting for them. The Indian offensive line gave Leonard all the time he needed. With a mighty effort, he hurled the ball into the air, and it came down like a Yard Jart tossed by Zeus.

This was no wobbly Doug Flutie duck-ball. No sir! It was a supersonic missile with its sensors tuned for more than fifteen years of red-hot Indian rage. The Magic Loaf of Bread peaked 10,000 feet in the air, then dropped like Satan to the earth. Awaiting its arrival were six men in blue and four men in red. The football landed in a swell of hands, and the bodies collapsed to the grass like children playing London Bridge.

The bulging teepee that was the ASU bench burst onto the field. Wide receiver Patrick Higgens leaped into the arms of his teammates, and 25,000 Tiger fans screamed with rage as the men in black-and-white stripes raised their arms to signal that my years of football inadequacy had come to a thunderous conclusion. The Indians had finally staged their uprising.

But there would be no peace-pipe shared between me and the Tigers. Failure has only hardened Memphis’ hatred for Arkansas State. And that’s fine with me. It’s good. It’s terrific. Because I want them angry for next year. I want them to get their blood up for us. Just this once.

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3. I Am Sorely Displeased With College Sports
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