Four score and minus seventy years ago

our athletic director brought forth on this campus a new team, conceived in fecklessness, and dedicated to the proposition that DJ Richardson must move.

Now we are engaged in a great battle, testing whether that team, or any team, so conceived and so dedicated, can beat Penn State. We are met on our shitty, outdated stadium with no air conditioning of that battle. We have come to dedicate a portion of that stadium, as a final resting place for those who here gave 23 seconds of random running around and pants-shitting so that that Sam Maniscalco might chuck a 27 footer as the shot clock expires. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate, we can not consecrate, we can not hallow this stadium. The brave players, active and alum, who struggled, I mean SERIOUSLY STRUGGLED, here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The east coast-dominated media will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the fans, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so half-assedly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these 3 stars we take increased devotion to that cause for which they drunkenly drove around campus without permit or license —that we here highly resolve that these athletes shall not have scored 38 points against Iowa in vain —that this team, under Groce, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that basketball with joy, aggression, and dunking, shall not perish from this conference.