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he coolly stood over his fallen foe.
    “Jane Austen lives.”
    It was all over. My room was never the same again, even after hosing it down repeatedly and soaking the walls and floor and, yes, even the ceiling with powerful disinfectants. Big Al lay prone, his immense bulk quivering as giant spasms shook his frame. His followers, white-faced and stricken, rallied to his aid. They tugged and pulled his almost lifeless hulk down the hall, trailing noxious fumes. It was then that Umbaugh displayed the style of a true champion.
    “Well, boys.” He stretched luxuriously and scratched his ribs with satisfaction. “It’s been an exciting evening. And as a nameless Phoenician captain once wrote: When the ship sinks, you’ve lost the battle.”
    His followers, their eyes glowing with admiration, applauded their hero. I kept my silence. After all, he had disemboweled me.
    From far down the hall came the sounds of rushing water and the rumble of an expiring beast.
    Walking to the casement window, Umbaugh squinted out into the dawn, the faint red glow of Jack’s neon sign playing over his ascetic, chiseled features.
    “I feel like a spot of breakfast. A healthy hunger or, as the English would say, I’m a bit peckish. A stack of blueberry buckwheatsdrenched with maple syrup and a scoop of butter would just hit the spot. And since I am now somewhat flush this morning, I’ll treat the gang to what the old Golden Dome Diner has to offer. What do you say?”
    I lay back limply on my monk’s slab. Within moments the room was empty. The arena was silenced. Only the ghost of the heroic struggle remained.
    Later that fateful day our Alma Mater went down to humiliating defeat. Michigan, a decided underdog, had pulled off an upset. I still have a clipping that reads:
    LOSS OF ALL-AMERICAN COSTLY TO STATE
    (State Campus, AP) Missing his first game in three years of All-American play, Big Al Dagellio, State’s brilliant All-American tackle, was the probable cause of Saturday’s defeat. State’s losing 26–20 cost the home team a trip to the Rose Bowl and the league championship
.
    The head coach refused to be interviewed after the game as to the cause of Dagellio’s failure to play, stating only: “The bum lost a lot of weight.” He would not elaborate
.
    Dagellio himself was unavailable for comment and remained in seclusion today. Rumors that Dagellio had been suspended from the team were neither confirmed nor denied by officials, leading to further speculation
.
    I shifted uneasily on that goddamn bean-bag loveseat, which I have hated since the day I bought it. Taking a deep, inhaling suck at my bourbon, I squinted closely at Umbaugh’s triumphant face on the screen.
    “I hope that some of our viewers today, Mr. Cooke, have come to appreciate the role Boredom has played in the world’s history. As a little-known Phoenician captain once inscribed: ‘When the ship sinks, you’ve lost the battle.’ Yes, Mr. Cooke, it is never wise to put your bets on the favorite. As the legend of Icarus shows …”
    The truth, after all these years, hit me. With a hoarse cry I toppledforward, knocking my precious Thomas Jefferson tumbler to the floor with a crash, his stony visage shattering into slivery shards, the rich amber bourbon staining the
Times
editorial page, thoroughly soaking a Tom Wicker column entitled: “The Intellectual; America’s Most Precious Asset.”
    You Benedict Arnold. You crummy, rotten Quisling. Selling out State to Michigan. You son of a bitch. For the first time I truly understood why the Archie Bunkers of the world, the slobs of the universe, instinctively distrusted the Intellectual. They were right all along!
    I moaned weakly in my shame. I had been cruelly used by this smarmy, poetry-quoting wimp. My simple, innocent lust for Fig Newtons had led to the defeat of my beloved State by the hated Wolverines. Oh, God, if the
Alumni Journal
ever gets wind of this!
    I took a deep swig of Jack Daniels straight from