Call me ENlightened, or at least something that's printable in mixed company. For the benefit of any readers who might happen to be my bosses, this is a for-free effort that in no way is meant to be representative of any views expressed in a certain South Texas newspaper. Thank you. For more on Texas football and my love of it, please check out my home page.

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Texas 41, New Mexico State 7
Texas 44, North Carolina 14
and how none of it matters much now

Three days ago, I thought I was really pissed. I saw a kid in a football uniform drop a football thrown by another kid in a football uniform. I saw a kid in the other team's football uniform elude the tackle attempt of a kid in the uniform of the team I follow. I saw a 34-point victory by my team followed by a 30-point victory by my team, and kept hearing alleged fans of my team bitching about both of them.

When I woke up today, I was ready to take many of those people to task with my annual missive ripping the fans who never seem to be happy about anything. I remember how happy I was that the godforsaken Goodwill Games were over, so I finally could get my "ER" fix on TNT. I remember walking over to the computer around 9:15 a.m. to check out some of the HornFans threads, about which I could then rant and rave.

Seconds later, I was looking at war on TV.

This was not one of those wars we've all seen for so long, where factions from one part of a country obliterate factions from another part, so that it will happen in reverse a few days later. Where it all takes place thousands of miles away and we can shake our heads knowingly and wonder what sense, if any, these people have.

This was war. In New York. In Washington. In the United States of America. And it was being waged on office workers by commercial aircraft. And I wondered, What the hell is going on here?

And then I realized that one of two things was correct: Either I hadn't actually been very pissed at all three days before, or I had a lot to learn about why one should get pissed in the first place. I realized, eight days before my 38th birthday, that I never had been this genuinely angry in my entire life (more than 13 hours later, I still am).

It was one of those moments etched into time, when one instantly takes stock of one's priorities. I realized that, in one of those bittersweet ironic moments, I was in one of the safest cities in America, since San Antonio has a large military presence and these twisted cowards weren't about to attack a target that could fight back or even defend itself. I realized that the world in which my 8-year-old daughter is growing up had been instantly transformed, and that I would have a lot of questions to answer that night after I got off work.

I knew my day would be hectic, given my job (and it was). I know also that it would be exhilarating, since that kind of rush is what drew many of us into the business in the first place (and it was). I knew I had to get on the phone and start ... well, just communicating. Venting. Preaching. Whatever. I just had to have that reassurance that this was really happening, even though I was wishing it wasn't.

I started racking my brain trying to remember if I had any friends or family who might be affected (answer: a handful, but all are OK). I knew the day would fly by, yet nearly every moment would be in a semi-permanent frozen state. I knew every image I saw would haunt me more than the one before. I knew that soon, the body counts would begin, and the stories would start to be told that put the tragic, human faces on such catastrophes. I knew I wouldn't cry, but that I would want to.

And then I began to debate the little things that also define events such as these; specifically, I wondered if the games would go on. I knew they wouldn't today, but what about tomorrow? What about Friday and Saturday and Sunday, the big days this time of year? They just didn't matter ... and yet, somehow, they did. These are those twisted moments when nothing ever will be the same, yet you have to put on a face that says things will be fine. You hear the words such as "routine" and "normalcy" and it hits you that sports are such a huge part of that. Where life is tragedy, sports are triumph. When one wants to weep, one needs to celebrate. You hear yourself repeat a cliché such as "life goes on," then realize how true it is.

So I was a little upset when I heard that the Longhorns practiced, albeit for less time than usual, when there wasn't even a game that weekend for which to prepare. I was more than a little upset when I heard that the NFL, which justifiably took heat 38 years ago for playing the weekend after John F. Kennedy's assassination, was vacillating over whether to play this time around. I wondered why high school kids and collegians and professionals alike would be forced to actually risk their lives traveling somewhere to play a game.

And then I remembered. Because passes are dropped. And tackles are missed. And life goes on.

— ENlightened