I drove past Amon G. Carter the other day and got to thinking about the old Southwest Conference days. Nothing got the blood pumping like a Thursday night in November against Arkansas or Texas A&M. The whole town would smell like brisket and anticipation. You knew every kid on the roster because they grew up fifteen miles down the road. Now these kids suit up for a semester, take a bag of money from some collective they never met, and bolt the second a position coach from another school slides into their DMs. The portal killed the backyard brawl. You cannot build a rivalry when the roster turns over faster than the barbecue pit at Coopers.