First of all let me say that Carver Hawkeye arena is quite possibly the safest place on the face of the planet. It makes Kinnick stadium look like ******* Thunderdome. The space right behind the Iowa bench is the most secure (it ain’t no coincidence that’s where I lay down the law) but the whole place is damn near perfect. Unlike Kinnick it’s a place you can take the whole family, and unless you venture into the student section by mistake you probably won’t encounter a single drunk or hear a single f-bomb. There is no better place to take your kids to enjoy an Iowa sporting event. Now that we got that out of the way, let’s get to the report.
Carver was louder than a sack of kittens in a clothes dryer tonight. I’d estimate turn-style at 13,000 strong. That’s a pretty darn good turnout on a night in which the weather was sketchier than Harlem street jeweler. Only the tops of the basket sections were a bit empty. While they numbered only 13,000, they sounded more like 20,000. It didn’t hurt that one tall white guy with hippy hair we have hit a three to start the game. Then that other medium height white guy who wears it high and tight decided to start making baskets and he didn’t stop until the students were carrying him off the floor. When the team cooled down the crowd heated up. It seemed like they literally carried the team the final 7 minutes or so.
In addition I was hella impressed with the bench, **** I’ve been hella impressed with the bench all season long. That kinda tall white coach with glasses and the side parted hair we got sure is a cool customer. Sure I’ve seen him chew zebra *** from time to time, and when he blows his top he’s so intense I’ve seen him make those pampered kids of high roller donors **** themselves from 7 rows away, but when the **** hits the fan that dude is one cool cat. He’s sucking in heat through the nose and exhaling ice cubes and his eyes shoot stone cold laser beems (the blue kind). That general sure controls his troops, he gives the orders and those ******* grunts step to and I mean now boy.
Lastly that clean cut gangly ginger is a straight up assassin. When the team needs a board he’s gonna get it and if someone tries to take it from him they are gonna get a white bread elbow sandwich for their trouble. When they need a cool customer to inbound the ball with a min left he gets the job. If you ever find yourself back to back with someone in a dark Chicago alley up against some big bad Leroy Brown’s you better pray to little infant Jesus that he’s the feller behind you cause if he is you know you are going home to that sweet tasting little lady when it’s over.
If you’ve found yourself yearning for the good old days when your momma layed out your clothes, cut the crusts off your bread, and fans blew the roof off Carver on a nightly basis you’d better stand up off the recliner, brush the Cheetos off your chest, grab your little lady and that pack of ruffians, pack them in that rust bucket you call a family truckster and haul your hairy *** down to Carver for one helluva good time on March 3rd.
Carver was louder than a sack of kittens in a clothes dryer tonight. I’d estimate turn-style at 13,000 strong. That’s a pretty darn good turnout on a night in which the weather was sketchier than Harlem street jeweler. Only the tops of the basket sections were a bit empty. While they numbered only 13,000, they sounded more like 20,000. It didn’t hurt that one tall white guy with hippy hair we have hit a three to start the game. Then that other medium height white guy who wears it high and tight decided to start making baskets and he didn’t stop until the students were carrying him off the floor. When the team cooled down the crowd heated up. It seemed like they literally carried the team the final 7 minutes or so.
In addition I was hella impressed with the bench, **** I’ve been hella impressed with the bench all season long. That kinda tall white coach with glasses and the side parted hair we got sure is a cool customer. Sure I’ve seen him chew zebra *** from time to time, and when he blows his top he’s so intense I’ve seen him make those pampered kids of high roller donors **** themselves from 7 rows away, but when the **** hits the fan that dude is one cool cat. He’s sucking in heat through the nose and exhaling ice cubes and his eyes shoot stone cold laser beems (the blue kind). That general sure controls his troops, he gives the orders and those ******* grunts step to and I mean now boy.
Lastly that clean cut gangly ginger is a straight up assassin. When the team needs a board he’s gonna get it and if someone tries to take it from him they are gonna get a white bread elbow sandwich for their trouble. When they need a cool customer to inbound the ball with a min left he gets the job. If you ever find yourself back to back with someone in a dark Chicago alley up against some big bad Leroy Brown’s you better pray to little infant Jesus that he’s the feller behind you cause if he is you know you are going home to that sweet tasting little lady when it’s over.
If you’ve found yourself yearning for the good old days when your momma layed out your clothes, cut the crusts off your bread, and fans blew the roof off Carver on a nightly basis you’d better stand up off the recliner, brush the Cheetos off your chest, grab your little lady and that pack of ruffians, pack them in that rust bucket you call a family truckster and haul your hairy *** down to Carver for one helluva good time on March 3rd.
