Uniform Code

I gorged myself on football. I started yesterday with a game between Nebraska and Penn State and topped it off with the Washington-Oregon State game, with as many games sandwiched in between as I could find.

This isn't a shocking piece of news in terms of my tolerance. In fact, I'm about to watch a little more football today and even more on Monday. It's been a while since I've had the time to just sit and watch games all day, so it was kind of nice. Now that the college season is winding down, I've started thinking about what's in store next year–players leaving early, new coaches, teams switching conferences, incoming recruits, perhaps a rule change or two.

Watching college football this season has made me think of one other change I'd like to see. Is it too much trouble to pick a set of uniforms and stick with them? Chrome? Really? The gold-inlaid, mirror finished, diamond-played helmets are pretty ridiculous. And black. Every damn team has a black version of their uniform–even schools whose school colors are white and off white have a black version. And Oregon, with the 47 shades of yellow, 29 shades of green, black, gray, white–what's next, take the field with numbers painted on their backs for their "clear" uniforms. Hmm, shouldn't have given the Nike designers any ideas.

More and more teams have started dressing in bizarre alternative jerseys, except I hesitate to call them alternative because so many teams have some many variations I don't even know what the standard uniform is. That's the whole idea of a uniform. There's a certain element of, I don't know, uniformity to it. It's not enough to look like each other. There's a level of consistency involved. Thank God for that Nebraska-Penn State game. The same uniforms as last week, the week before and the last 40 years.

I get it, though. The uniform variations are an expression of team values, of the school's mission, which is to get every last dollar out of their supporters as possible. I mean, Nebraska fans don't buy the Mauve or Lavender or Maize or Stainless Steel uniform tops because they don't exist. But if you love the Oregon Ducks and don't have all 914 uniform tops they wear, how can you really call yourself a fan? Poser! You make me sick.

And forget about the benefits to the student body. Division I college football teams have 85 scholarship players–multiplied by $500 (on the cheap), multiplied by four alternate looks equals about $170,000. Over the course of a four-year college career, that's more than a half a million dollars. At least the rest of the student-body has to pay higher tuition fees, though. Fair enough. I mean, the most any University of Oregon graduate ever did was start the largest employer in the State of Oregon that designs ridiculous uniforms for their sports teams, build a basketball arena and is one of the school's largest donors. I mean, why should everyday students reap any kind of special treatment?

But never mind all of that. Isn't it easy enough to just remind these teams they are supposedly football players and not performers in the Nutcracker? You're supposed to embody the spirit of toughness, gritty determination. You should love adversity, snow, ice, rain, mud, cuts, scrapes, bruises. The words of warfare litter the sport–the blitz, the bomb, a field general, marching troops down the field. And yet, here you are, week after week, taking the field looking like a piece of ribbon candy. Manly. Very manly.