Those of you who regularly read my highly opinionated garbage on screen know that occasionally I’ll tuck my tail and quietly back away from writing about a particular game. I’m now up to four confirmed readers, so you guys have probably noticed I get a little hesitant when it comes to ugly defeats. I don’t think anybody can blame me on this one. That was a beating. I mean, we WERE playing fifth-ranked Brock. We knew what was coming to town. I was just hoping for one of those inspirational sports movie deals where we take a few punches, somebody delivers a speech, and the music changes about halfway through the third quarter. Well, the music never changed. I think somebody at Brock had the remote. As much as I’d like to write about how close it was, every one of us has functioning eyeballs. The Eagles caught the Tiger by the tail and swung us against that green turf repeatedly, apparently making sure we understood what was happening. We understood, fellas. Some of us figured it out a little earlier than others, but there wasn’t much confusion left by the end of the evening. But in true Tiger fashion, our boys got back up and kept swinging. I’ll give them that all day long. It doesn’t make the evening feel much better, and I doubt anybody wants “we kept getting up” printed on a district championship shirt, but I’ll always respect kids who keep fighting through a night like that. All I can say is there better have been some good lessons learned. At that tuition rate, I expect everybody to leave with a certificate. Now, I have a personal grievance I need to get off my chest. Most games, I fill all three tanks to 150 PSI and still need a little shot of CO2 by the fourth quarter. That’s how this arrangement is supposed to work. The boys score, I make an unreasonable amount of noise, somebody spills a little popcorn, and we all go home happy. Friday night, I had plenty of air left over. PLENTY. I could’ve stopped on the way home and filled every tire in Somervell County. Boys, I need to expel some air. There’s preparation involved in this deal. Hoses, tanks, pressure, and a wife who has accepted that this is apparently what we do with our lives on Fridays. You can’t have me standing down there fully pressurized with nothing to contribute but facial expressions. I’m sure Jessica enjoyed not having to help refill everything, but I didn’t build this thing to conserve resources. Meanwhile, big ol’ dude sitting in his little blue golf cart got to blow his horn all night. Just having himself a wonderful evening. I’m standing there looking at my gauges, and he’s over there getting another turn. And another turn. I tried to be happy for him. Didn’t take. The few times I did get to let the old train loose, though, I got ’em jumping. I saw it. Somewhere in those stands was somebody who briefly left their seat without planning to, and on a night like that, I’m counting it as a win. Might not have helped the scoreboard, but it helped my attitude. It’s okay, though. District is here, and I’m getting her aired up and ready to rattle some ears. We’ve carried enough leftover air and aggravation around for one week. It’s time to put both to use. Forty-two consecutive district wins. Let that sit for a second. There are boys wearing Tiger uniforms now who were little kids in the stands watching some of those teams, waiting for their chance to put that jersey on. A whole lot of players and coaches put work into keeping that streak alive, one Friday at a time. Now it belongs to this bunch to carry it forward, and you can bet everybody on the other sideline would love to be the ones who end it. They aren’t going to care that we played Brock. They won’t give us a few extra points because we had a tough schedule, and I seriously doubt anybody is losing sleep over my surplus air situation. We’ve got to take whatever we learned through those losses and hard-fought wins and actually use it. Make the block. Finish the tackle. Hang on to the football. When something goes wrong, get it fixed before we get to watch it go wrong three more times. I’ve seen enough out of these boys to know there’s plenty to work with. We’ve seen them fight, we’ve seen them respond, and we’ve seen what happens when things start clicking. I’d just appreciate it if we could get some of that clicking started early. Give us old folks a chance to enjoy a lead without first having to work through all the stages of grief. It’s time to take the dirty dozen to the house and chase another undefeated district run. Take the tough losses, the wins we had to fight for, and every lesson that came with them, and get ready to make our run through the playoffs. There’s work to do, boys. Get after it and find that way to success. And please, for the sake of one mildly bitter Tunnel Dad, give me a reason to refill these tanks.