CHARLIE WEIS' TENURE AT KANSAS BEGINS; STREET MEAT VENDORS REJOICE

"Utah, get me two!"

Six fingers.

That’s how many Jorge Moreno held up.  Assuming that number couldn’t be accurate, I asked the vendor to clarify his declaration.  Again, he held up six fingers and this time nodded vigorously to indicate that the number was solid.

I tried to hold Moreno’s look through the haze of fumes rising from the peppers and onions sizzling on the cart between us.  My eyes watered.  Jorge’s delighted smile blurred in front of me.  I started to ask again –

But a drunken Kansas student stumbled up to Jorge’s cart and screamed across the 16 inches between them for one of Jorge’s bacon-wrapped pork products.  I waited politely while Jorge filled the young man’s order.  Jorge passed the hot dog, or sausage (it’s still unclear which log of meat was in the bun), to the near-drooling fan.  Money was exchanged – awkwardly – and the fan greedily devoured the first third of his purchase in one gigantic bite. 

He smiled.  Juices leaked onto his shirt.  He didn’t notice.  Or care.  He jabbed me in the ribs with an elbow.  Unable to properly communicate through the pile of future intestinal wreckage clogging his mouth, he excitedly gestured to me that, yes, this was the best purchase of his life.  He slobbered through several more syllables that I took for well-intentioned words but, having only narrowly escaped around the sides of the “sausage,” sounded like a mash of gibberish instead.  Assuming his message was thoroughly received, he stumbled away.

I turned back to Jorge.  His own smile grew.  My own stomach churned.  Seeking final confirmation, I gestured again.  The language barrier between us was immense and earlier in our negotiations I had resorted to wild pantomimes and play-acting.  Moreno folded his arms across his chest and nodded once – a single movement full of self assurance that left no doubt as to the veracity of his claim.

Jorge Moreno, a man short in stature but tall in the eyes of the drunk and famished, was not being asked how many wins he thought Kansas would accrue this year.  He was asked how many of his "sausages" Charlie Weis ritually consumed after every home game.  Six.  Sweet Jesus.

I walked away shaking my head, and, for reasons still unknown to me, the enthusiastic opening strums of Solisbury Hill drifted through my mind.  Sickened though I was by his pronouncement, and still trying to dry my eyes, I was happy.  And so was Jorge.  College football was back.  And so was Charlie Weis.

I glanced back over my shoulder.  One final time, Jorge held up six fingers … and he still had four more to use.  Like Kansas football, there was always room for improvement.