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Screw picking a score - do we win or lose tomorrow?


Rocketsan

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I got a feeling deep down that we somehow pull this off.

 

As long as we set the tone from the get go, a la MSU, and get a lead in the first quarter, I think we'll silence the crowd, make their offense do some shaky nonsense, and beat them physically.

 

Do all this and we go home 8-0.

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IRISH: Victory

Sooners: Punch in the Nuts

 

Almost everyone is picking against us. We haven't won a game like this for a while. We are overdue. The weather will be on our side. We will be jacked up and want it more. Kelly will outcoach Big Game Bob. Our secondary will rise to the challenge and do what it takes to come out of Norman with a W.

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Oklahoma is a good, but not great team. We'll own both lines tomorrow, but we need to consistently pressure Jones or its over. I like us in a close one. Irish get it done. This team has angels watching over them, karma, mojo, luck, or whatever you want to call it on their side.

 

God bless and Go Irish!!!

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Sorry guys the first loss of the season comes tomorrow.

 

Come Monday you are going to be joyfully celebrating being wrong.

 

 

 

IRISH: Victory

Sooners: Punch in the Nuts

 

Almost everyone is picking against us. We haven't won a game like this for a while. We are overdue. The weather will be on our side. We will be jacked up and want it more. Kelly will outcoach Big Game Bob. Our secondary will rise to the challenge and do what it takes to come out of Norman with a W.

 

This. ^

 

And then this:

 

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[/ame]

 

No subtitles will be necessary. You know why.

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Here’s what’s going to happen tomorrow night:

 

After an afternoon filled with mostly lackluster games, football fans across America will begin settling into their couches and recliners around 7:50 pm EST. The majority of these people will have smirks spread across their faces, and their eyes will display the droopy-lidded cynicism of someone already assured of the outcome. And why not? They’ve seen this show so many times they can recite the lines on cue, or forecast the plot points with a shake of the head and a roll of the eyes. “See?” They’ll laugh to themselves or with the other people in the room, “Same shit, different year.”

 

But sometime around 9 or 9:30, something in them will begin to shift.

 

Their brows will begin to crease and their grins will begin to fade. The thought which had earlier begun creeping its way into their heads will, by that time, be growing more and more stubborn, refusing to be dismissed with each commercial break. Dinners will begin to sit less comfortably in stomachs; mouths will dry up and hands will reach for beers with more frequency. Sarcastic guffaws will be replaced with nervous snickers. Fingernails will be inserted into mouths and absentmindedly gnawed as eyes begin to wander toward the dwindling game clock. Temples will be rubbed, throats will need to be cleared, and necks will begin to ache. People will begin to cross their arms and sink further back into their chairs, retreating from the scene unspooling before them. The rooms they occupy will grow quieter and quieter, until comments evaporate completely and the only sounds remaining are Musberger and Herbstreit’s panicked attempts at making sense out of what they’re witnessing.

 

And then, around 11:30, TVs will be shut off and lights will be extinguished as people drag themselves to bed for a night of restless sleep. Still many others will find themselves sitting alone in that dark with their unpleasant thoughts, unable to move or do anything other than stare into emptiness as the grey phosphorescence of the TV screen gradually fades to black. They’ll sit like that—resigned—for a few minutes before rubbing their bleary eyes, letting out a sigh, and uttering a final capitulation: “Shit.”

 

Shit. It’s real . . .

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