The following is a post from my sports blog on FoxSports.com (blogs.foxsports.com/rogercwallace), about my experience of watching the Rose Bowl at Ginny's Little Longhorn. Most of you already know about Ginny's, so some of the opening descriptions will be a bit redundant for you. But whether you know Ginny's or not (especially if you do), it's a pretty good litttle yarn.

I started the Fox Sports blog to keep from boring you guys with my sports stuff. But, if I write one that I think is entertaining even to the non-sports-minded, I'll post it here too. Here you go:

Living The Rose Bowl In Austin: Honking, Hollering, And Who The Hell Am I Hugging?

I usually prefer to watch games at home, where I can curse, jump around like a buffoon, and gorge myself on chips and queso at my inexpensive leisure. For this year's Rose Bowl, however, I realized that no self-respecting Austinite and Longhorn fan could watch this game apart from his compatriots -- I watched the "best college football game ever" at Ginny's Little Longhorn Saloon, my home away from home in Austin.

First, some background on Ginny's: I could write volumes on Ginny's Little Longhorn, but suffice to say it's the quintessential honky-tonk, a kick-ass little shotgun beer joint, that some would call a modern mecca for real country music. It's world-famous in roots music circles, and has continuous visitors and fans from all continents. It's also the place where I've played most of my gigs for the last 10 years, and I'm proud be a part of the "1st generation" of staple acts at Ginny's. And to top all that, Ginny herself (everyone picture your Grandma, or your Mom's favorite Aunt -- that's Ginny) is one of the biggest Texas Longhorns fans on the planet, as evidenced by the burnt-orange and white decor, and the very name of her bar.

Ginny decided to rent a big-screen TV for the Rose Bowl, turn all the other TV's to the right channel, and cancel the night's enetrtainment, the Wednesday-night virtuoso Justin Trevino (the first time this has ever been done there to my knowledge, even as big a fan as Ginny is).

The place was jammed with intensely focused 'Horns fans, some of whom were good friends, and some I'd never seen before. There was a bizarre orange and white, craggly-old-football-encased-in-glass trophy standing on a table, obviously somebody's souvenir good luck charm for God knows how long. There was a huge crowd around the big screen on the bandstand, so my Miss K and I settled at an odd angle at the bar and watched the first half on the smaller TV overhead, contorting ourselves to try and not block the view of those at the tables who had the decency to get there on time.

We all cheered, jeered, hung our heads, and slammed our beer bottles throughout the first half, with half the bar (thanks to the recent anti-smoker facism in Austin) making the trek outside during commercial breaks to cuss and discuss the game's progress. We also were successful in our most important venture, which was to not watch Big & Rich in the halftime show. Whew.... thank God.... that crap causes seizures in small children and pets, not to mention makes almost everyone in Ginny's Little Longhorn wretch.

Luckily, we were able to squeeze in by the big screen for the second half, my girlfriend hunkered cross-legged on the floor, myself squatting between friends and strangers on a couple of overturned crates. And yes, I did offer her my seat, but she preferred the spot she had, about a foot and a half from the screen.

As the second half progressed, the score climbed higher and tighter, as did the mood inside the bar. There was a palpable sense of either upcoming jubilation or crushing disappointment -- either way, there was going to be a ruckus at Ginny's Little Longhorn that night. There's a sign above the bar at Ginny's that reads "No Fussin', No Cussin', No Hasslin', No Rasslin'", but that all went right out the window...errr... front door (there are no windows) every time a big play was made, or if there was a controversial call.

As the 'Horns made their final drive, ending with the now-infamous 4th down play with 19 seconds on the clock, the tension in that bar was higher than I had ever seen in 8 years of gigging, drinking, and practically living there. This was it. You don't get any more "for all the marbles" than this. The ball is snapped, Young fades back. He scrambles. We all leap to our feet. A spontaneous and simultaneous crescendo that went something like, "RUUUNTHROWITZONEREADLOOKOUTGORUNRUNRUNTHROWITDAMMITGOVINCE GOVINCEGOGOGOGOGOGO!!!!!!!!!!" whooshed upward in a plea to the football gods. And in he scoots, like he's playing touch football in the street. Touchdown, Texas. Ball game. WE RULE.

The melee that followed is indescribable -- mostly because I didn't see it. I was locked in a hopping, screaming, euphoric embrace with my big bald friend William and an Asian guy I didn't even know. When we finally disentagled, I grabbed Miss K and almost lopped her head right off in the ceiling fan, picking her up over my head and shaking her in my glee. I hugged Ginny. I hugged Sharon. I socked my buddy Tim (he's an Aggie) and his homemade USC shirt right square in the gut. I hugged more people I didn't know, and high-fived a little kid who had undoubtedly increased his vocabulary ten-fold over the course of four hours.

What a night. I think we would've gone all "Detroit" and set fire to the shed out back and turned over some cars -- but them pickup trucks is dang heavy. So we celebrated heartily for another half hour or so, but the crowd quickly dispersed, most folks being completely exhausted and having to get up for work in a few hours. On the way home, we got to see the campus tower lighted orange, soon to have the giant white-lit "1" in the middle. There was spontaneous honking of car horns, strangers waving at strangers and driving with one arm out the window, holding up a proud "#1" finger. Of course, that's a common occurence in Austin, except with a different finger....

'Horns rule. SoCal drools. And the eyes of Texas (and now the NFL) are on Vince Young. It's mighty good to be a 'Horn these days.

Roger