With football season approaching fast coupled with my inability to make friends, I had to find a solution to solve both problems at once. Searching the athletic programs Web site, I caught the upcoming schedule and decided it was time to catch some Bull fever. I’m going to the games. But wait, I don’t have a car. How am I supposed to get to Raymond James on my Huffy? I decided to hop on my 10-speed hog and give it a shot. All 10 speeds of magic could not have prepared me for what I was about to endure.

I started off on Fletcher heading towards I-275. I stopped at the corner of 46th to take a gander at the Claw. Tumbleweeds blew by as an old man approached, resembling Doc Brown, with shoddy teeth and a glass eye. “Go back from whence you came if you want to live,” he said, thrusting his cane into the ground. Scared to death, I hopped back on Hubert Huffy and sped off, traveling close to 88 miles per hour.

As I neared I-275 I noticed my tire was going flat. I pulled off at the RaceTrac to fill up and rejuvenate myself with a frosty Gatorade. Making my way to the front counter, I reached into my back pocket. My wallet was gone. The old man! He was probably laughing all the way to the bank to retrieve my $6.00 from savings. Luckily I had two quarters in my pocket to fill up the tire and move on.

The problems continued as I extended my left arm in the merge lane of I-275. Apparently, people heading towards downtown lack the appreciation and manners to allow me to pass. Listening to my headphones, I heard the local radio stations complaining about a large backup on said interstate. It turns out some dipstick on a 10-speed was riding down the interstate, clogging up things just before malfunction junction. Moron. This was only impeding my progress.

I got off at Martin Luther King just in time to get clotheslined off my bike by a 12-year-old girl. She dropped the scooter she was riding and ran over to me. “Are you ok?” she asked. “I think I’ll be ok,” I replied. She then kicked me in the ribs and stole my helmet. Never trust children.

Battered and bruised but still in good spirits, I scooted down MLK towards the stadium. I could see it on the horizon. The skull and bones radiated in the dark sky. As I pulled up to the stadium, a man with an orange jumper told me it was $8 dollars to park my bike. I glanced up to see the BullRunner drive by, filled with students. I slapped myself on the forehead. Free transportation!

With the last money I had, I paid to park my dilapidated bike.

Downtrodden, I walked up to the entrance gate. “Ticket please,” a woman at the gate said. “I’m a student,” I replied. “Do you have your ID?” she asked. “An old man with a glass eye stole it from me next to campus,” I said, smiling sheepishly. She merely pointed her finger away from the line. I walked away, defeated.

As I caught the BullRunner back to campus, clothes torn and broke, I decided that maybe friends weren’t that important and that I’d always have video games. I got off at 46th again, looking off in the distance for Doc Brown. The empty Claw stared at me, laughing.

And then it dawned on me: We should tear it down and build a stadium there. But that thought was fleeting; the only way to get a new stadium is to go 0-11 and lose 15 straight. I went home, put on my old UCF shirt and cried myself to sleep.