In which your least favorite blogger-son returns to cut pre-game promos, written devoid of any objectivity whatsoever.
Feel the hype, my friends. Don't be afraid. Let it run amok through your veins; through your being. It's football season, dammit. Let's go.
On the eve of this kickoff, the talk has long left the station of hopeful bowldom, of predictions couched in "ifs" and "coulds".
The talk, of course, now revolves around one word, and one word only: "time."
Time -- for rebuilding and inexperienced to drop their long-despised prefixes; for that stockpile of promise and potential to be realized; for a once in a generation quarterback to carve out his final masterpieces at Strawberry Canyon; for those seasons of waiting and losing and waiting and losing to finally pay off; for postseason to find its way back into the Berkeley lexicon; for a return to respectability, and a rocketing past that low bar.