
                         Roanoke Times
                 Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.

DATE: SATURDAY, November 19, 1994                   TAG: 9411230090
SECTION: CURRENT                    PAGE: NRV-1   EDITION: NEW RIVER VALLEY 
SOURCE: STEPHEN FOSTER STAFF WRITER
DATELINE:                                 LENGTH: Medium

HOKIE-HOO HARMONY? HARDLY.

For days, I pondered how to tell the tale of what's to come. How to impress upon the Wahoos the inevitability of their team's demise, while allowing them some shred of dignity. How to show my counterpart - whose propaganda sits across this page - the futility of his endeavor, while leaving a bit of his pride intact.

Then I got over it.

I pity those who suffer from their misguided loyalty: allegiance to the University of Virginia. I could quote the Bible: "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do." I could quote Lou Reed: "The first thing that they see that allows them the right to be, why they follow it. You know, it's called, 'bad luck.'"

No matter, they have made their choice. They must live with it. Come ye all, into our lair.

Why shall Virginia Tech win today? Let me count the ways.

We wear boots. You wear loafers. One's for kicking, one's for tip-toeing.

George DelRicco. Hank Coleman. Antonio Freeman. Those are football names, names of power. Find me such names from the other side. Tiki and Ronde Barber? Wa-Who?

Cannon fire. A booming manifestation of pride and glory fired off for all to hear whenever Tech scores. How do Wahoo fans celebrate? They sing - I kid you not - "The Good Ole Song," a less-than-rousing tune lifted from "Auld Lang Syne." Puh-lease.

We want it more. Picture the Tech fan: fired up, shirt out, talking trash. Football-wise. Picture the Wahoo: aloof, more knowledgeable about hoops than this game of combat, too worried about the dandruff sprinkled on the shoulder of the ever-present blue blazer to be concerned with football. In short, dweeb.

I give you as an example: my opponent on this page. Now, even the most misguided are not without some merit. This professed gentleman of The Lawn has hiked the Appalachian Trail. He has a penchant for good ale. He's smart, possesses wit, and is a fine reporter. But in the interests of gamesmanship, I'll thrash him anyway.

My esteemed colleague veritably embodies that sham of decorum flaunted by UVa attendees. He possesses more oxford shirts than the University across the ocean has students. Yes, of course those are khakis he's wearing. He counts among his books, a prized 1969 copy of Esquire's "Good Grooming for Men." His hair is perfect.

His nickname is - this is true - "Mr. Tidy."

I say to him, and to the rest of those for whom he writes, you're in Blacksburg now. The mountains. Farmers. Coal mining. Engineers. Builders of roads and edifices. Basic, real, achieving people. Football country.

To put it simply:

We're gonna kick your coat-and-tie donning, Virginia Gentleman Bourbon-drinking, think-you're-the-commonwealth's-cultural-elite, Wahoo-squealing butts.

Stephen Foster, Virginia Tech '90, says wayward Wahoos can voice complaints about this column by calling 381-1668 or writing P.O. Box 540, Christiansburg, Va., 24073. Fan mail eagerly accepted, too.

by CNB