Bemidji State v Creighton - PREVIEW

How to Watch, Stream, Listen, Follow

Game Time: 7:00pm CT

Location: CenturyLink Center, Omaha, NE

TV: FS2

Stream: Fox Sports Go

Radio: 1620AM the Zone in Omaha

Other Blogs: White & Blue Review - Creighton

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Odds & Ends

There are no odds on this game that I could find because you’d have to be a desperate idiot to bet on this game either way. If I could set the odds on this one I’d favor Creighton by one billion points and if I were a stupid betting man I’d definitely take the overs on that.

Kenpom has this as a win. There’s no predicted score because even the mathematical algorithm couldn’t accurately predict how many hundreds of points the Bluejays are going to score tonight.

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Series History

These two teams have never played one another before because one team exists in Division 1 college basketball and the other team lost to Upper Iowa and the University of Mary this season.

Greg McDermott is no stranger to the Beavers, however, as he’s seen their uniforms and can vouch for their existence during his tenure as Wayne State’s head coach back in the late 90’s. He never lost to Bemidji at home, but he did lose to them once in 13 games.

McDermott is also familiar with Bemidji’s head coach Mike Boschee as he coached him way back when pogs were totally rad in the late 80’s when McDermott was an assistant at North Dakota. Boschee was known for shooting free throws and getting into the grunge scene before it was cool.

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Verba de Ludis

“I christen this team the Beavers!”

They called him Deputy.

President Deputy.

In the early aughts of the 20th century, with the rush to acquire timber from the northern most parts of the United States in full swing, a relatively simple man received a telegram from a stranger proclaiming that a college on the western most banks of Lake Bemidji was set to open soon. The stranger was seeking the simple man’s assistance, asking if he would become part of something new, something bold.

This simple man had never inquired on the position. In his hometown of Vernon, Indiana, he was known mostly as an outsider, someone who never bent to the ‘rules’ of society, someone who spent more time dancing with nature’s beasts than exchanging pleasantries with the commonfolk. A rebel. A menace. A literate badass.

As our rugged hero stood outside of his tent in the park off of main street, urinating on a tree and peering upon the typed words of the telegram as citizens went about their daily routines just feet away, his heart filled with the sense of adventure.

This was a call to action.

This was a future with purpose.

He pondered the offer for a few hours, sipped a little moonshine in the afternoon sun, fell asleep in the middle of main street much to the dismay of the town’s uppity bourgeois, woke up at about 8pm and enjoyed a loaf of bread with more moonshine, ran through a field as fast as he could, threw an axe at a farmer, fought the farmer, drank some more moonshine, blacked out for a few hours, came to at the local baptist church where he found himself in a shouting match with a portrait of Jesus, went back to his tent to drink more moonshine, blacked out again, woke up the next day around 6pm in the middle of main street, packed up his tent, drank more moonshine, stole the sheriff’s horse and headed north.

The adventure was on.

STOP ONE: INDIANAPOLIS

The sheriff’s horse was a mighty steed, one of the finest Kentucky thoroughbreds that southeast Indiana had to offer.

This pony had never experienced a man on moonshine on a mission. That became clear once the duo passed through Edinburgh going full tilt with no pauses, no breaks. Perhaps it was the hot summer night, but when our simple man finally stopped to urinate, the horse made a break for Camp Atterbury, leaving our protagonist behind without proper transport.

“No worries,” the man confidently whispered to himself, “the moonshine will get me to where I’m needed most.”

With one devastatingly strong pull from his jug, the man began to feel the effects of the elixir he made in a corroded bathtub he stumbled upon in a landfill outside of Vernon. The ingredients of this magical tonic?

• 1 part rubbing alcohol
• 3 parts Kentucky Bourbon
• 1 part more rubbing alcohol

With this as his jetfuel, the man blacked out for roughly 72 hours. Following the stars in the sky, or the hallucinations that clouded his judgment, he ended up in a jail cell in Indianapolis.

He was no prisoner, however.

He’d just been deputized.

According to some of the townfolk, our hero managed to thwart two robberies on the same night, saving local businessmen hundreds of dollars worth of inventory, and even rescued a baby from a burning building.*

*he set the fire

With the town at his beck and call, the man simply became known as ‘Deputy.’ The stories of his heroism spread like the fire he started, and he quickly became a local legend in three short days. He was awarded a brand new automobile, a pistol, a barrel full of Kentucky Bourbon, and a friendly confidant - Peter - to help him in his travels. With a parade aiding him in his way out of Indy, Deputy and Peter waved goodbye to the beautiful people of Indianapolis.

STOP TWO: CHICAGO

Peter became wary of Deputy’s drinking the closer they got to Chicago. For roughly 40 miles Deputy was asleep at the wheel while the vehicle veered through farmlands. Whenever Peter attempted to grab the wheel to correct course, Deputy would unconsciously slap his hand away.

The terrain became unbearable for Peter. He knocked his head on the side of the cabin multiple times until he too became unconscious. The two of them pushed forth, pedal to the metal, in collective comas, until the vehicle gently crashed into a well built brick building in downtown Chicago.

When the two finally awoke from their slumber, they found themselves surrounded by an unruly crowd. Women, children, men in stylish hats, babbling amongst themselves, trying to make sense of these two weary men in their beat up automobile.

As the two emerged from their time capsule, audible gasps echoed against the brick facades of downtown Chicago.

“Is it really him?” one child whispered.

“Is it the Deputy and his boy?” another whispered back.

Deputy, recognizing that he and Peter’s fame had already reached the shores of Lake Michigan, acknowledged the crowd by declaring that, yes, they were the men they’d been rumored to be.

“It is me, Deputy,” Deputy bellowed, “and this is Peter, my loyal and concuss confidant. Hello Chicago!”

The crowd roared. Applause rained down from the rooftops of the bustling downtown metropolis. A syphilitic Al Capone elbowed his way through the crowd to shake hands with Deputy and Peter. The crowd, aghast at seeing the leader of the criminal syndicate of their city, began to disperse back into their hidey holes.

“Man... manfr...ed I am glad... t-t-t-to see you Deputy,” the clearly ill Capone murmured, “mah friend, will you have lunch with myself and other very violent criminals?”

“This seems like a bad idea, Deputy,” Peter whispered, “also did he just call you Manfred?”

“Yeah he called me Manfred. That’s my name now. It has to be my name or else he might become violent with me,” Deputy whispered back.

Capone seemed distraught that our two heroes were whispering to one another instead of acknowledging him first. Capone was in no mood to be toyed around with, so he slowly reached for his gun. Manfred Deputy, seeing the violent Capone reaching for his weapon, drew his pistol quicker, and shot Capone in the foot.

“Owie!” Capone yelped, “get out of here you rapscallions!”

The two did just that. Manfred Deputy and Peter proceeded to re-enter their vehicle and set off further north, towards prosperity.

STOP THREE: EU CLAIRE

Manfred Deputy and Peter drove in silence through most of Wisconsin. There wasn’t much to say and Manfred Deputy didn’t feel like openly indulging in his Kentucky Bourbon. At times, Peter tried to tell Manfred Deputy his life story, but once he began telling his tale Manfred Deputy started reaching for his Kentucky Bourbon. Knowing how poorly that worked out for him on the drive to Chicago, Peter decided it best to just stay silent. Manfred Deputy’s bluff was paying off in dividends.

Plus, for Manfred Deputy, there was a lot to contemplate. If he were to make a good first impression in Bemidji he decided it best to have a clear and sober state of mind.

The abuse to their automobile began to show as they approached Eu Claire. Smoke began pouring from the engine compartment and they’d been riding on a metal rim since Tomah. Manfred Deputy decided to pull over and camp for the night since a breakdown was imminent and the closest service station was miles west in Minneapolis.

After Peter had retired for the night, Manfred Deputy gazed lovingly at the stars. It was here that he fantasized of libraries, mess halls, campus greeneries, football, freshman hazing, safe spaces, educated dialogue, building boys and girls into prosperous men and women, pranks, greek life, homecoming traditions, all nighters, cram seshes, good friends that were different from high school friends, asking mom and dad to send money, hosting college gameday on ESPN, degrees, campus protests, and Jay Wright’s Armani suits.

He’d become infatuated with the idea of the college experience and he wanted to make sure that, when he got to Bemidji, he’d implement all of this. With all these thoughts swimming through his mind he decided to walk along the shore of Altoona Lake.

He wandered for hours. He thought about what mascot he’d attach to the college. He thought about what their fight song would be, what tune would accompany it, what colors the sports teams would wear. He began to grow tired, so he doubled back and headed for camp.

When he got to camp he found a colony of beavers stalking the campsite. Panicked, Manfred Deputy quickly huddled behind a group of bushes, afraid that these ferocious animals might take him alive.

Instead, they took poor Peter. He didn’t put up much of a fight, the beavers had overcome him completely, and whisked him into the woods.

Manfred Deputy never saw Peter again, but he did see the utter brutality that a colony of beavers can wage upon an unsuspecting soul.

Manfred Deputy quickly gathered his belongings, fearing the beavers would be back, and began heading north towards his destiny.

STOP FOUR: SAINT CROIX STATE FOREST

Manfred Deputy ditched his previous plan of going into Bemidji stone cold sober. Seeing his young confidant get eaten alive by beavers had shaken him to his core and needed something to take his mind off of the horrific incident.

As the bourbon took hold, his travels became more brisk. The more he consumed, the further he went, the more time he lost, and then, as it always does, the black out took control.

When Manfred Deputy came to, he found himself in the middle of a wooded area, surrounded by bloodthirsty wolves.

Panic began coursing through his body. He glanced around, making eye contact with each wolf, not knowing what to make of his situation. Death, for the second time this trip, seemed to be staring him right in the eye.

Then, one of the wolves lunged at him, yet Manfred Deputy’s reaction time was hampered by his recent binge of Kentucky Bourbon, and he wasn’t able to fend off the ferocious beast. Manfred Deputy simply shut his eyes and tensed up, ready for his demise.

Until he felt a warm tongue licking his face.

Manfred Deputy opened one eye and saw his dire situation melt into a joyous, playful romp with a pack of wolves.

These were not his enemies.

This was his family.

One wolf came forth with a platter of healthy greens. Another came to his aide with a perfectly mixed Old Fashioned. Another with a side of freshly made lentils. Another howled life affirming things towards him.

For the next day or so Manfred Deputy got to know each individual wolf in his pack. Manfred Deputy listened. Cared. Found food and shelter for his family. Manfred Deputy told his pack of his mission in Bemidji, how he was to ascend the ranks and become top dog at a newfound college in the sleepy lakeshore town.

The wolves became excited at Manfred Deputy’s prospects. A few of his pack created a sled for Manfred Deputy to ride on for the last leg of his journey; the wolves agreeing to pull him through the rough terrain.

When morning came, Manfred Deputy and his pack of wolves set north, with Bemidji in their crosshairs.

STOP FIVE: BEMIDJI

The ride was rough and unforgiving, but Manfred ‘Wolfe’ Deputy rode gallantly through northern Minnesota, through lakes, over rickety bridges, through forests, and finally arrived in the promised land.

Bemidji.

As the wolves mushed forth down main street, the town gathering at windows and doorways to watch as Manfred ‘Wolfe’ Deputy rode like a Greek God towards campus, he arrived at the front door of the administration building. Manfred ‘Wolfe’ Deputy climbed out of his sled, ascended the stairs, forcefully thrust the doors open and boldly announced his arrival.

“It is I! Manfred ‘Wolfe’ Deputy! I am here to speak with the stranger who sent for me to assist in the creation of this fine institution!”

A group of well dressed businessmen and women greeted Manfred ‘Wolfe’ Deputy, each individually thanking him for making the journey north, complimenting him on his wolves, and noting that he was the bravest man they’d ever met.

From then on, they spent hours listening to Manfred ‘Wolfe’ Deputy speak passionately about what he wanted the college to look, smell, and feel like. He went into deep detail, with his audience hanging on every word. He drew schematics, built budgets, created a Facebook page, and informed them that the primary goal was to create a kickass college experience for every Minnesotan - and non-Minnesotan - that chose to enroll. The audience wept with glee, for every word that Manfred ‘Wolfe’ Deputy spoke was delicately and perfectly placed, as if he were singing a prophetic hymn.

At the end of the day, by unanimous vote, the fine folks of Bemidji gave him the title of ‘President.’

Night and day President Manfred ‘Wolfe’ Deputy worked to make Bemidji Normal School the most wild and open minded place young adults could attend if they wanted to become an educator, a physicist, a dog walker, a dropout, a journalist, a shoe shine boy, a pogo stick inventor, or a hockey player.

Years passed, enrollment grew as word of mouth of the fantastic college spread, and soon they were awarded with top-tier athletic programs. With these athletic programs they needed a mascot.

As President Deputy looked on as the footballers mashed themselves into the running back, carrying him away from the scrum and off of the field, the thought of Peter popped into his mind. He rushed down to the field, threw his hands up, and simply proclaimed:

“I christen this team the Beavers!”

THE END

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