In my mind, I can feel the crisp air of autumn even now as I settle into April. I can hear the crowds and the marching bands. I can smell wood smoke. I can see the leaves turning red, orange, and yellow. I am looking forward to that distant college football season with full schedules being played, with packed stadia, with all the color and pageantry and vitality of a real season without Covid19 disruptions. And of course, I have confidence that my team, the admirable Iowa Hawkeyes, will reign triumphant week after week.
I got hooked on the Hawks when I was in elementary school. They were headed for a Big Ten championship guided by an All-American quarterback named Kenny Ploen (pronounced "Plain") whose parents lived across the street from my school. We would play pickup games and throw the ball around while listening to the play-by-play on Mike's transistor radio. And after they won the Rose Bowl, I got to meet Ploen and shake his hand and get his autograph. That was the 1956 Iowa team, still my favorite.
So when this year's team rolls out to play Indiana's Hoosiers in late August, I will be glued to my TV screen at home in South Carolina, cheering them on as my long-suffering wife reminds me that, "They can't hear you, John." As I've said before, I think they can.
