(March 18, 1932 – January 27, 2009)
Texts are like pieces of a puzzle that only roughly fit. There are little irregular spaces between them, and through these cracks, one feels, truth slips. History, unlike fiction and physics, never quite jells; it is an armature or rather randomly preserved verbal and physical remains upon which historians slap wads of supposition in hopes of the lumpy statue’s coming to life.
John Updike, Memories of the Ford Administration
Texts are like pieces of a puzzle that only roughly fit. There are little irregular spaces between them, and through these cracks, one feels, truth slips. History, unlike fiction and physics, never quite jells; it is an armature or rather randomly preserved verbal and physical remains upon which historians slap wads of supposition in hopes of the lumpy statue’s coming to life.
John Updike, Memories of the Ford Administration
Knowing that John Updike, BELOVED dean of American letters for a full half of the twentieth century, has now passed to THE AFTERLIFE, 50-48 is left in a state of supreme SELF CONSCIOUSNESS, STILL LOOKING for some kind of respite, staring at THE ALLIGATORS on campus here in Lafayette, FACING NATURE in its cruelest form, as if we were looking at THE FIRST PICTURE BOOK we ever saw.
Of course, the monumental PROBLEMS of the Razorback basketball team as it moves past the MIDPOINT of the season don’t help, leaving us standing as COUPLES, broken as GERTRUDE AND CLAUDIUS, as we stare at the PICKED-UP PIECES of yet another Hogball swoon. The ASSORTED PROSE of 50-48 is just MORE MATTER piled onto the back of a camel who is already broken by time and distance.
We are TOSSING AND TURNING over here at 50-48 headquarters, seeing our twelve hapless players turn from world-beaters into a JESTER’S DOZEN, JUST LOOKING as inferior players who would be better served taking ODD JOBS at the local A&P run past them to the basket, the PIGEON FEATHERS flying in the resulting melee. We fans, alas, are left HUGGING THE SHORE of sanity, knowing that this team may have TOO FAR TO GO before the short time allotted them has run dry, all the while giving DUE CONSIDERATIONS to the simple fact of their youth and inexperience.
Take, for example, our recent catastrophe against the boys from the Plains. We entered the game assuming that Jeff Lebo and his Auburn players were THE CARPTENERED HEN AND OTHER TAME CREATURES, but they turned, in the shuffle of real time game play, into THE CENTAUR. And we were no Theseus, unable to find the resolve OF THE FARM and translate it to the basketball court.
All over the state, we hear the same refrain: I am broken by these LICKS OF LOVE, doused in the misery of losing, crying MY FATHER’S TEARS, desperate for MORE STATELY MANSIONS, for that time that I will stand once again IN THE BEAUTY OF LILIES, that place of peace with MUSEUMS AND WOMEN, that place where I found myself somewhere in the depths of 1994. But those days are long gone. We’ve entered THE POORHOUSE FAIR, exiting through the SAME DOOR from which we entered.
What we really need is the return of Corey BECH, A BOOK about the fundamentals of basketball, or THE TWELVE TERRORS OF CHRISTMAS to come scare us back into action. Can you imagine? “BECH IS BACK!” the crowd would scream, knowing that the opposition would never keep BECH AT BAY.
As it stands now, we’d have a better chance if THE MUSIC SCHOOL ran a team out there to compete with Southeastern Conference competition. With the way a certain S. Welsh has been playing, defenders could stand as still as TELEPHONE POLES and remain confident that no harm will come to them. He is, in a sense, a TERRORIST, striking fear into the hearts of the towns and VILLAGES of Arkansas. Jimminy Cricket—or some other suitable representation of conscience—needs to sit quietly on Stephan’s shoulder and tell him when and when not to shoot. “BROTHER GRASSHOPPER,” he would say, “SEEK MY FACE. I promise you I can make this shot.” And the grasshopper would just frown, as if he were William Rufus King watching James BUCHANAN DYING. He would shake his head. “TRUST ME,” the grasshopper would say. “This is no SOFT SPRING NIGHT IN SHILLINGTON. This is the crush and muttle of a major college basketball game. Don’t shoot. For the love of God, don’t shoot.”
It’s almost as if we’re chasing an elusive white rabbit, hoping once found he will be the source of unimaginable wealth. We watch the RABBIT, RUN after it. “The RABBIT IS RICH!” we scream. But when we reach our destination, we find the RABBIT AT REST, nothing but fur and shit in its wake. There is no wealth. No riches. And no RABBIT REDUX will ever bring back our original vision, no matter how hard we try.
It has been A MONTH OF SUNDAYS since our last victory, leaving all of us with GOLF DREAMS, hoping that a conference championship, even in a minor sport like golf, can salve our bruised and aching wounds. It leaves us with MEMORIES OF THE FORD ADMINISTRATION, when Eddie Sutton’s teams clamored to life and gave Hogball fans everywhere hope.
But that hope seems frustratingly dead at this point. I have a better chance of getting to BRAZIL than getting to the conference basketball title. I have a better chance of convincing some poor, naïve girl to MARRY ME. It’s as if we traded in the Fayetteville squad for a ROGERS VERSION of the same team.
Of course, that isn’t to say the future isn’t bright. Our players are young, and TOWARD THE END OF TIME we might see some kind of success. Perhaps a visit to the WITCHES OF EASTWICK could provide some sort of potion or elixir that might heal our broken promise. Of course, there are plenty of widows there, too. And we here at 50-48 hear that THE WIDOWS OF EASTWICK are pretty slutty.
Which is good. We here at 50-48 are unashamed members of the VALENTINE GENERATION, selfish as it may be. And as lonely as we are right now, Hogball victories are just about the only thing we wouldn’t trade for hothouse monkey sex with any available widow. (Or, for that matter, non-widow.)
All of this can be rectified, of course, with a win on Thursday night against Alabama. The Hogs will attempt THE COUP on national television, so 50-48 encourages everyone to watch. We will be cheering on the Hogs with every ounce of our being, though, admittedly, that being is a bit on the shabby side these days.
Finally, 50-48 would like to say that we spend a lot of time here ON LITERARY BIOGRAPHY. Our love of books is the only thing that comes close to rivaling our admiration for and devotion to Razorback athletics. And the loss of John Updike today has completely felled us. We’ve been getting drunker and drunker as we’ve written this, hoping that those of you who are familiar with his titles will appreciate the composition.
Go Hogs Go. The world is a shittier place today without John Updike in it.
50-48
Fuck Texas
WPS
PS: We know, we know. Corey Beck spells his name with a “k,” not an “h.” Let it go.
PPS: If you’re bored (and unwilling to come to Lafayette to have hothouse monkey sex at 50-48 headquarters), please check out one of the titles in all-caps above. John Updike’s books can make your life magic. If you let them.
The past, insofar as it consists of human feelings, mostly vanishes, less enduring than recycled nitrogen.
John Updike, Memories of the Ford Administration
John Updike, Memories of the Ford Administration
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