I hear you, but I tend to flush and forget games where we get beat badly. The close ones sting the worst. For that reason I would rather rip their hearts out again. If I could draw it up, another game winning play in front of section 103 would be perfect, this time with no time left on the clock. Fans storming the field, goalposts, etc. Dejected mutt fans leaving while we bask in the glory.
Given how often dwag fans come in to BDS and treat it as if it were their own practice field (and treat our campus like the trash dump in their back yards), this year I want to see them streaming out before the end of the third quarter. I want to see their band sit silently during the Budweiser song, because there are no dwaggies left for them to play to. I want to walk out of the stadium after the game to find that they are all gone from campus already, back in their pickup trucks and driving back to the trailer park.
Or, to put it another way...
“Lord our Father, our young patriots, idols of our hearts, go forth into battle — be Thou near them! With them — in spirit — we also go forth from the sweet peace of our beloved firesides to smite the foe. O Lord our God, help us tear their soldiers to bloody shreds with our shells; help us to cover their smiling fields with the pale forms of their patriot dead; help us to drown the thunder of the guns with the shrieks of their wounded, writhing in pain; help us to lay waste their humble homes with a hurricane of fire; help us to wring the hearts of their unoffending widows with unavailing grief; help us to turn them out roofless with their little children to wander unfriended in the wastes of their desolated land in rags and hunger and thirst, sports of the sun flames in summer and the icy winds of winter, broken in spirit, worn with travail, imploring thee for the refuge of the grave and denied it — For our sakes who adore Thee, Lord, blast their hopes, blight their lives, protract their bitter pilgrimmage, make heavy their steps, water their way with their tears, stain the white snow with the blood of their wounded feet!
We ask it, in the spirit of love, of Him Who is the Source of Love, and Who is the ever-faithful refuge and friend of all that are sore beset and seek His aid with humble and contrite hearts. Amen."
—Mark Twain, The War Prayer.