(SON OF DEX walks into a crowded storage unit. He still has blood on his hands from a violent encounter with a bricklayer earlier in the day. His WLA leather bears the stains of battle. Reaching into a plain cardboard box, he finds a manila envelope. Curious, he opens it and stares at the contents ..)

THE LIFE AND TIMES OF THE WLA: HOW THE SONS OF MICHIGAN LOST THEIR WAY

(A note is attached to the first page. He reads …)

This is for all who follow us. What we started as is not what we have become. I write so that you may someday have the chance to set right the wrongs of your predecessors.

(He continues to the manuscript that follows …)

Our humble army was born, in theory, the night of October 30th, 2004. I stood, as best I could, on the bleachers in Michigan Stadium and screamed with rage for the head of Lloyd Carr. I said things that should never be said in public. I called a perfect game and mapped out the post-Carr era of Michigan.

People around me, no doubt, loathed my very existence. Lloyd could not hear my rage, and I know that even if he could he was too good of a man to seriously acknowledge it. I questioned the Michigan Man potential of Henne, Hart, Edwards, and Long. I had no faith in the defenders. It was, to that point, the darkest time of my life as a Michigan fan.

Touchdowns rained from the heavens. I screamed. I might have cried. I hugged strangers. And inside, I knew my joy was a sham. It was not deserved. I had quit. These men in winged helmets had not.

It was there, walking back in the mob scene to campus, I made a change. Never again would I abandon the ship. Unquestioned faith leads to the most glorious of joys. Bet hedging leaves you empty on the inside even during the most fulfilling victories. Our job as a fan is easy. Cheer – and hope.

The next season, I found MGoBlog – a community of sense in a sea of irrational hand wringing that made me feel like I belonged. Approximately three and a half years after that Halloween epiphany I registered a blogspot site and put up my crude ramblings about the coming glory under Rich Rodriguez. It began as an aimless project. It evolved into a desire to cultivate a place where people who had unquestioned belief in Michigan could talk about their team in sensible terms without the armchairing so prevalent on the internet.

It turned into a militant mob bent on the destruction of the unbelievers. It became a slur used by the cynics to tar anyone who dared say that Rich Rodriguez was not the antichrist. It is now an entity out of my hands – synonymous with internet rage, kool-aid, and sticking your head in the sand.

It’s been five years since Braylon Edwards touched the hand of the football Gods and pulled down touchdown after touchdown against the cold dark sky. Things are not the same. Our world is in disarray. The information superhighway runs red with the e-blood of Michigan fans pitted in a battle to the death with one another. This is not what any of us wanted. It is not what I dreamed of. It is, as the popular saying goes, unacceptable.

I sat down to write an impassioned defense of Rich Rodriguez in the wake of a gutwrenching loss to Illinois. I instead write to you, in the future, so that you may one day resurrect the original vision. So that you may go and create the community I so wanted to be a part of.

You see, too much anger has been spilled now. We are fractured. It may not be able to be repaired in time for me. The lines have been drawn.

There is a misconception about me. There is animosity. It is not wholly undeserved. The truth is that I understand slant concepts, scrape counter exchanges, defensive alignments, and blocking techniques better than most people imagine I do. I’ve studied the game, I’ve played the game. I’ll wager that many of the new crop of e-experts haven’t sat down and managed to read most of Bill Walsh’s 1000 page opus on running a football team. The simple truth is that football is complicated, because 22 individuals are executing multiple actions on a single play in an unpredictable environment. The more you study, the easier it is to admit you don’t know shit. And once you admit you don’t know shit, you can sit back and watch and let the professionals do their job.

We make this complicated. We grade and chart and break down plays and try to understand so that we can be better. But we often ignore the obvious truth that was spoken so eloquently by Al Pacino – this is a game of inches. Wins and losses are very often decided more by who gets their shoulder in front of their man and who beats their man by a quarter second than the game theory abilities of coaches.

But we dissect – and then we argue. This isn’t being a fan anymore, it’s a contest to prove who knows best. On some level, we all want to be the guy who was right. And we tear each other to pieces over that. Meanwhile, the game goes on. Not as THE event, but as an event that is used to further our personal agendas.

I am not naive – my creation has done much to fuel this development. It weighs on my e-soul. It hurts.

I miss cheering for Michigan and being oblivious of the frothing at the mouth mob that knows best. I miss being a child and thinking Derrick Alexander was a God. I don’t like knowing about transfers and recruits and “factions” in the Athletic Department. It’s sapping my enthusiasm, and that is just sad.

I loaded the e-webs on Monday ready to battle. Then I stared at the screen for a while. These weren’t people that ever had the same vision as I, and they never will. Why fight so hard to change things that will never change? The fighting, the crusade, is pointless. Michigan will exist, and we will cheer for it, no matter who the coach is and where the program is headed. Those who do not share this unquestioned faith – not faith in any particular coach or player, but faith in Michigan – will never understand.

All we can do is control what we can. It’s time for me, and hopefully our club, to return to the roots of what brought us here.

We are Michigan fans. We will cheer. We will hope.

(SON OF DEX sets down the book and does his best Emmy Award stare into the sky while lighting a cigarette. The screen fades to black and mournful southern rock plays. A WLA logo fades in …)