[M]y truck is older than the Big 12. There is no storied legacy. There are no traditions steeped in years of repetition, no bridges between the eras built when children of the digital age reignite flames first lit by children of the Great War, the Great Depression, World War II, the Cold War, the Summer of Love, the Disco Era, or even MTV. The lifetime of every single student on a Big 12 campus barring the odd 6th-grade super-genius or two, and they’re probably at MIT encompasses the entire history of the Big 12, whether you date from the 1996 start of competition or the official formation announcement in 1994.
Of course, the real issue here is something else entirely:
Meanwhile, at the various dogs all these tails are wagging, tuition rises faster than inflation, classes the size of some small towns are taught by adjuncts for whom English may be a third language or by some bored prof committing death by PowerPoint on a battlefield scale, young adults learn that they can act like animals as long as they commit no sins against diversity, graduates hock diploma frames to pay back student loans and seniors learn that employers don’t much care about uncovering the patriarchy-silenced voices of 13th century Lithuanian quilt makers, because your résumé lists your “previous experence.”
Which, if nothing else, suggests a replacement for one of the defectors: Rice University. The Krispies aren’t exactly a football power, but they are in Division I, and the scholastic average for the league, about which the NCAA claims to care once in a while, would lurch upward overnight.