For those of you out there who are not Clemson fans, I’m going to let you in on a not-so-little-secret. They’re passionate about football. Passionate in a college version of Packers fans kind of way.
I married into this strange cult of orange, so I am uniquely situated to report the events of yesterday.
News flash: the world ended last night when Florida State absolutely killed Clemson, at home, in Death Valley, 51-14. We’re talking apocalypse. Grown men crying. Cats and dogs, living together (particularly apropos, as Bill Murray did the Gameday picks).
This was a huge game for Clemson. ESPN’s College Gameday was there, as was most of South Carolina and a good portion of North Carolina. Mark and a friend left here at noon for a game with an 8:22 kickoff. One of my friends was out there at 6:30 a.m.
As Mark so delicately put it when he got home from the game at 2:00 this morning, “They didn’t even bother to use Vaseline.”
I awoke to the sight of my dear husband curled up, covers pulled to his chin, face pale in a manner that usually signals dire illness.
“Honey! Are you sick? You look like you’ve got the flu!”
“I’m fine,” he muttered.
“Oh,” I said, relieved. “You realize it’s just football, right?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Five minutes later, he threw back the covers.
“That’s it. I can’t think about it any more. I’ve got to do something.”
Since then, he’s done laundry, pruned the Carolina jessamine with great vigor (really, I hope there’s some left), cleaned out his car, replaced the filters in the HVAC system, and made a trip to Home Depot.
I hope he mourns this much when I die.