It’s been more than six weeks here on the island, and I’ve yet to say that I’m feeling homesick. There are pangs of homesick-like tendencies though, feelings of nostalgia uncovered from whatever crevice or fold they were concealed in within your mind, hitting you like a sack of bricks when least expected. The most recent one I can remember was evoked from football. It just occurred to me the other day that it’ll be one of my first years where I won’t have season football tickets for college football. “Sunday” and “Monday” will not precede “Night Football.” I won’t be able to fall asleep watching football highlights to Sportscenter on ESPN. The Chicago Bears’ and the Wisconsin Badgers’ victories will never be seen live, but only as replays and second-hand information from the likes of the internet and old commentators. Am I being over-dramatic? A tad. Am I being stupid? NOPE. Football is a culture and even paradise itself can’t destroy what you deem as habit and an institution. I guess I’ll just have to start learning how to stream games live via the internet. It’s still never as good as watching a game live at a bar surrounded by other go-hard-or-go-home fans or, better yet, being there, chanting obscenities, taking part in an ostentatious display of crassness, losing all accountability, consigned to oblivion in a sea of crimson red and Badger pride.