I know what you may be thinking: This guy is about to rave and bluster about what an injustice it is that the Hogs do not play a few of their games at the corner of Markham Street and Fair Park Boulevard in Little Rock.

You needn't fret. I am not going to do that. But in this seemingly hopeless season the Razorbacks are having in Fayetteville, I cannot help but think symbolically. I am an English teacher, after all. I know that when a storm circles over the protagonist, there's a storm brewing inside his soul. So when a state forsakes something at its very core (War Memorial Stadium), it leaves something essential behind, something purely and wholly Arkansas.

"But it's a football stadium," you say. "Well, this is Arkansas," I say, "and Arkansas is in America, where football has a permanent hold on our attention, whether we like it or not."

In Arkansas, there is that wild band of Razorbacks whose fandom transcends class, race, and education; it spans the entire state, reaching every city, suburb, small town, holler, and hamlet. Around the age of 12 you come to realize this fandom is an affliction you can never shake. They don't call 'em the Heartbreak Hogs for nothin'.

The Razorbacks aren't just a football team. You already knew that. You've over-reacted, for a grown adult, to some horrible heart-wrenching losses. It was the officials' fault. It always is. You commiserate with the stranger sitting next to you at the game. You share where you're from: You're from Harrison, he's from Mountain Home--high school rivals now united by sorrow and disappointment. You make hasty plans with him to find where the officials live and where the nearest store is that sells eggs. After you shake hands in farewell, you sit in solemn silence on the ride home, while the talk-radio host runs the post-game recap, comforting thousands of other Arkansawyers joined by the same........

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