Man caves are cute, but if you really want something done correctly…you know who to call! My (wo)man cave is nothing short of a little piece of (purple) heaven. Just stepping in the room lets me know that all is right with the world. It is where I go when I need a little reassurance.
Our world is filled with people who cannot grasp the complexity of being a sports fan, people who don’t understand the true meaning of love and hate and people who have the audacity to utter such nonsense as “it’s just a game.” My cave is a safe place away from those people.
I go to my cave to dream about a world where the grass grows purple and the puffy clouds in the sky form powercats. I envision a world where purple animal prints are more common than taupe in Johnson County; where Frank Martin is still coaching in Manhattan and where the echo of The Wabash Cannonball can be heard everyday.
My cave is as close to this dream world as it can ever get. From the shag purple carpet to the helmet-silver ceiling, there is more K-State than ever thought possible and proof that I own more purple than Bill Snyder himself. The purple walls are dotted with ticket stubs, photos and historic memorabilia. There is a map showing evidence of game-day road trips and photos with celebrities like Willie the Wildcat. My cave is outfitted so that never a wildcat need left unmet.