The police better ready the pepper spray and riot gear -- the Land Grant Trophy is once again on the line.

At the very least, they should set up one of those portable jails in the bowels of Beaver Stadium like they do at the Vet, because this could make soccer riots look like your grandmother's bridge meetings.

Do you think either Penn State or Michigan State could stand with the thought of not possessing the only trophy that could make the World Series trophy look tasteful? How could either side leave Beaver Stadium without this amulet representing nine years of storied lore? How could the combatants break bread in this rivalry so intense that the Spartans have won only twice since the end-of-the-season battles started in 1993?

If only the world were a simpler place. Instead, the two towers of Happy Valley and East Lansing are pitted against one another in a battle for an object so coveted that no one in middle America cares. In fact, no one in America, or anywhere else for that matter, cares either.

The idea of an annual late-season rivalry is a novel one, something that has succeeded at schools across the country, hence ESPN's forthcoming bombardment of rivalry week ads. The Nittany Lions and Spartans just got in on the game a little late. The Big Axe; taken. The Little Brown Jug; taken. The Slop Bucket; taken. And sadly, apparently all the spots in meaningful late-season games were taken as well.

What we have here is a classic case of envy. The Lions and Spartans saw what everybody else had and wanted it to. But just like that kid who tries to build a football helmet out of tin foil and duct tape, they failed miserably. Instead, these normally proud football players are reduced to playing for something more fake than Pamela Anderson and N'SYNC put together. This trophy is so fake it should be made out of plastic from melted-down Hollywood props.

The Land Grant Trophy, designed by Michigan State's then-head coach George Perles -- first mistake, letting a football coach design something other than a play -- features little statuettes of The Nittany Lion and the Spartan, a classical Greek-looking athlete type-thing and pictures of Old Main and Michigan State's Beaumont Tower, all stuck on a slab of veneered wood. The word "eyesore" doesn't begin to describe this monstrosity. It's cluttered. It's cramped. It would get booed out of the Museum of Bad Art.

Having said this, the sheer ugliness of the LGT is not the primary reason why it should be dragged into Curtin Road and incinerated while 106,000 drunk revelers danced around in celebration of the fact this laughably poor excuse for a rivalry game would never be contested again.

Now I love Pennsylvania, lived here my whole life, but this is the type of idea people come up with here. Think back to when former governor/soon-to-be Cabinet level member of the Bush Administration Tom Ridge bet California governor Gray Davis as to who would win the NBA title between the 76ers and Lakers.

Instead of something along the normal lines of political bets based on regional delicacies, something like a cheesesteak and soft pretzel for a plate of tofu, Ridge wagered an ad for California tourism on Pennsylvania's website. Aside from being the most gutless bet in sports history, it shows how things that normally bring joy to so many, like say a rivalry game, can be muddled by those who don't know what they're doing.

Now I'm not saying I know more about football than Joe Paterno or any of the good folks at Michigan State. Maybe they were just caught up in the heady times of Penn State expanding the Big Ten to 11 teams.

Maybe they had both wanted to do it for so long for so long that when it finally came time for a rivalry game everything just came together so quick with both parties caught up in the moment that we all feel unfulfilled and frankly, a little used after the initial euphoria has passed.

The point is, after nine years after our first experiences with the LGT, we're all a little older and wiser, and should understand it's time to put this so-called tradition to rest.