Proud Lake Highlanders who over the years have grown accustomed to a tradition of winning football have by now undoubtedly degenerated into red-and-black blobs of disillusioned, jiggly jello. (Don’t worry, gals, I don’t have anyone in particular in mind.) I know that I have personally witnessed more than one Wildcat fan choose the “Dancing with Singles” cha-cha room on Ferndale on Friday night, rather than subjecting themselves to yet another display of faux football.

How many different ways can you lose yardage running the option before a little football-shaped light bulb goes on under your little coach’s hat that says something like… “this not work”? I think it would save everyone a lot of time and trouble if we just presented our quarterback before the game as a human sacrifice to the other side.

Every Wildcat quarterback by now must have a helmet-shaped indentation in his chest from all the rib-breaking hits they’ve taken from every defensive end in the country.

The only applause to be heard coming from the loyal Wildcat fans this year has been for the marching band and the high-stepping Highlandettes during the halftime interlude that thankfully provided a break between two halves of spectator torture. Better games have been played this year by toddlers under the stands.

In short, if you spent this year rooting for the Wildcats, the SMU Mustangs and the Dallas Cowboys, the 2000 football season might be remembered around your house as the year that “Daddy went through the change.”

Now, here’s my real point. I have just offered my smart-alecky, armchair-quarterbacky, mister-know-it-ally assessment of this year’s Wildcat football team. But I was able to do it without the need for a censor and with language that the general public can read without receiving a parental advisory.

Unfortunately, not every Lake Highlander subscribes to this basic protocol.

At the Berkner game, while my family and I watched the Wildcats run the option 59 plays in a row for a total gain of – 3 yards, the crisp autumn air was punctuated by an uninhibited, seemingly endless string of expletives delivered at a decibel-busting volume. And it was not just a one-time, reckless, impassioned outburst. It happened play after play after (bleeping) play.

Once I determined that there was not a knife fight going on behind me, I turned around to identify the source of this unpleasantness. I spotted the human foghorn. As you might guess, he had a big square head with five big teeth, giving the impression that he might grow up someday to become a can opener.

Unbelievably, he had a girlfriend hanging on his every (bleeping) word. He was surrounded by an entourage of squarehead wannabes, who cheered his every curse.

No parents reacted. No teachers responded. In other words of a DISD English teacher, “nobody did nothing.” He was simple ignored, which is to say he was tolerated, which is to say there were no consequences for his behavior.

Of course, with the language we hear on TV, in movies and in songs, I guess it’s a wonder everyone doesn’t talk like the Squarehead. It shouldn’t take a better football team for us to expect – demand – better behavior.

Gosh darn it!