Dearest Mother: a Texas vs A&M Preview
Colonel Quinn Ewers writes a letter back home on the eve of battle.
A preview of Texas/Texas A&M or the Lone Star Showdown Reunion as if Quinn Ewers is a Civil War era Colonel encamped on the banks of the Brazos River who writes his mother back home. Inspired by the old Andrew Luck Twitter account. This is the dumbest greatest thing I have ever written.
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My Dearest Mother,
The ink of my quill finds this parchment as we camp some 100 miles away in the most awful of lands to the east of my home. The first phase of our fall campaign is coming to a close, and I wrap myself by the fire in the coat of the Wolverine, which I slayed in September in the North country.
To your last letter, yes, the sparking hat of gold whom we took back from the hands of the vanquished dirt robbers still rests upon my head. The precocious young Captain called Manning who filled in for me in my absence has asked if he may wear it some, but I have smiled and said, “Nay sir, but next campaign it shall be your turn.” You will find it strange to know I have lost the taste for the drink Dr. Pepper—it finds no quarter in my stomach now. I have given the rest of it to young Owens to carry in his rucksack. Did Father receive the Gator hide I sent home? I trust it looks magnificent in the front parlor.
Oh, but Mother, I get distracted—the way I do when General Sarkisian asks me to launch the ball of pigskin deep down the field at a galloping target. Why waste time on such futile efforts when thy swing pass to my good man Blue is so much nearer? The General says it will be key for me to follow this order with precision if we are to be victorious, and I shall try. Indeed, I shall try.
Yes, Mother, Blue and his compatriots have vowed to cease their fumbling with haste, for they know the large ogre named Elko will look for every chance to see that the ball comes tumbling to the ground. Trust that I am fit as a fiddle, my appendage is healed, as is my abdomen, and I am safe, Mother. My strong protectors, Banks and Williams, sit outside my tent. They warn of the dirty tricks that our foe Turner will try to employ. Loyal Helm remains close; I appreciate his nearness always. He will be key in tomorrow's fight, as those in maroon will try to attack me as the white and red Georgians did while I was still wounded.
We await the battle tomorrow near the river Brazos. Our force is ferocious, while the enemy are still licking their wounds after a defeat on the plains by some group called the Eagles of War, nay, maybe they’re called the Tigers? Matter it not, for I don’t actually know and neither do they. Back to the enemy, who thought they were safe here, but we have arrived ready to win their precious conference. They fled from our army 13 years ago, but Mother, we have found them at last! For some time, they were holed up with that slimy jailbird Fisher, thinking he would be their savior! Ha! That old swindler was exiled, but he was sent away with a large heap of treasure. Isn’t that quite humorous? Oh, this place…my word.
Though these “Aggies” hymns are sung about us, as are their most foolish “traditions” about us all, they have tried to avoid this battle for many years. Yellow bellies! Cowards! Even now, from my camp, I hear their hissing and their war cries echoing in the distance from the Yell they partake in each Friday at Midnight. What pomp! They speak a lot about “humping it.” Do not tell Sister of this, for it is filthy talk, and she knows not what it means. They are led by five jester like men in overalls, sometimes white, who spin and gyrate and sway and whoop. 'Tis a strange land, Mother. It is stranger than the legends and stories told by elders Campbell and Young and McCoy told it to be. No wonder the officer Schlossnagle deserted their diamond for our own.
Though we fight the farmers on their home ground, we are not afraid. We ride on the shoulders of our armies from the past, who too wore the white helmets emblazoned with our orange crest and were also clothed in white garments as pure as snow, were victorious on this supposedly “sacred” patch of grass many times before. The ferocious trio of Hill, Simmons, and Moore cannot stand to wait for another moment. They are ready to break the head man in maroon, Reed. My soul shall smile with glee as I watch the great Barron thwart Reed's best laid intentions. This will surely earn Barron the medal he so deserves. Then there is the terrifying one, the Bastrop Behemoth, Sir Collins, who ate nary a roll at our Thanksgiving feast, for he says he will dine only on the broken hearts of the insurgents after they are conquered.
Sergeants Bond and Golden ask if I will find them in the middle of thy field, for that is where the enemy is weakest. I reply, “Aye, sirs, I will indeed, have no doubt.” We will look to employ the weapon Wingo in our quest for victory, for he runs like the purest thoroughbred with whom you have gazed upon. The mighty Wisner’s head fills now with steam as well. He is running well mother and Bully for him! The valiant General Sarkisian promises that our entire arsenal will be unleashed on these lowly vermin, not a weapon will be spared or held back for future campaigns. Upon learning this news, I let out a loud Huzzah!
The magnificent steer who rides with us into battle desired to stampede into their camp this night and impale their fluffy little dog, dripping its blood upon the cemetery of their canines past, but Manning and I held his reins back. No sense in shedding the blood of beasts when we can bring about a flood of their tears tomorrow when the clock of the quarter fourth strikes zero.
Well, dearest Mother, the night grows late, dawn approaches, and I must attempt to sleep. A victory in the evening means we will head even further to thy east to face that portly visor-donner Smart and his army yet again. If we get that chance, I have all the confidence we will prevail this time. If we fail against our adversaries, we must await further instructions about our next battle. But I have no intention of failure, Mother—sweet victory is nigh, and tomorrow we shall drink the maroon blood of our adversaries from the boots of their pretend soldiers in front of their hordes of whooping and dejected disciples. I long to silence their pathetic hollers as Saint Tucker did half a score and three years past. I find that I have not been this ready for my soul to affix its bayonet and charge since my mullety locks were sheared and I shed the excess pounds I added from that miserable fall in Columbus.
Though they are many, the maroon are like flocks of wicked little sheep, Mother, and I am their wolf. I remember thy words from the Good Book you spoke to me before I left for the capital in January of 21', and I hold them close to my heart. They are written on my right arm, my instrument which will bring about their swift destruction.
And ye shall chase your enemies, and they shall fall before you by the sword. And five of you shall chase an hundred, and an hundred of you shall put ten thousand to flight: and your enemies shall fall before you by the sword.
—Leviticus 26:7-26
Do not fret for me, Mother. About some future draft, I know not, I care not, my eyes are fixed only on tomorrow. I am your victor, your champion always. As the greatest battle ballad sings: ‘tis Goodbye to A and M.
Yours,
Quinn
Texas 27, Aggies 16
Freaking Brilliant!