The obscene beauty of Pac-12 After Dark

Last night I watched a team give up more than 700 yards of offense and win. The same team that, two weeks ago, rushed for 400 yards and lost.

In the Big Ten, where I grew up, if you rush for 400 yards they give you the keys to the conference and a new tractor. In the Pac-12, where these games take place, you can rush for 400 yards and still lose because the other team threw the ball nearly 80 times.

In the Pac-12, and especially in the Pac-12 After Dark, nothing matters.

Replay doesn’t matter. The Pac-12 has transcended replay. What you think you see, you didn’t. What should be won’t. What will be won’t make any damn sense.

Game trends? The Pac-12 doesn’t need your game trends. Running the ball at will only means it’s time to pass. Got a quarterback making play after play after play? Time to let a running back throw.

The Pac-12 is a nihilist and yes it’s exhausting.

The Pac-12 is meth and yes it’s enthralling.

The Pac-12 is Los Angeles and I’m Axl Rose getting off the bus from Indiana with a little piece of the Midwest hanging from my mouth, seconds from my first encounter with drug dealers and women in fishnets and Slash. The Pac-12 is straight jackets and over-stimulation and booze in brown paper sacks and it’s fantastic, isn’t it?


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