Things will be fine in 2009.
War Eagle, myth of the rainy night. To cleave, to cleave…
Bama finally wins one. They finally win on their home field. It took a million years.
It was the worst game I’ve ever seen us play, capping one of the worst seasons.
But I would rather lose every game we played, then win a single game, let alone a championship, under that man.
Alabama fans, we loathe you. We hate the sin, and we hate the sinner.
And the reason we hate you, is because you see that shite, and you cheer.
You see that kind of icing, and you justify it. Smart coach, smart.
(One of you just found this blog by Googling ‘Nick Saban’s Secret of Success.’ Good Lord… )
You hear the sideline reporter tell of little Nicky begging his team to run up the score, not for the fun of it, not even for themselves, but because ‘don’t you know how much I f—–g hate these guys?’ … and you’re cool with it.
That’s your coach.
The duty of this eleven was
To put Tuscaloosa in tears.
There was Smith and Shafer and Johnny Glenn
And Brown and Williams too.
Many others with us came,
And wore the Orange and Blue
For eleven little tiger boys, lad,
For eleven little tiger boys.
Everyone’s mothers and their brothers
Just knew what they could do.
And eleven little tiger boys, lad,
Will break Tuscaloosa’s heart.
She is another that we will smother,
Before we drift apart.
The earliest surviving reference to the Auburn football team as “Tigers,” written by Walker R. Tichenor, Auburn’s quarterback, and youngest son of former Auburn president Isaac Taylor Tichenor, prior to the 1894 Auburn-Alabama game. Which we lost. But listen to the tone…
… and we were underdogs.
This Thanksgiving, I was thankful for Auburn’s genetic advantage in it’s rivalry with Alabama. Whether bringing eleven wins or eleven losses or five wins and six losses, Auburn will always enter the Iron Bowl as the underdog.
In the beginning, we owned them. When the fires of football, set by George Petrie, first engulfed the state, Tuscaloosa could but bend over before the gods of Auburn and pray for dark. Yet even then, in the bowers of innocence and conquest, the Tigers were a priori underdogs, presumed inferior, a mere college fighting… The University.
The wins came, as did the losses. The Bryant years were mostly misery. The Dye years mostly great. They’ve had a streak of nine. We’re on a streak of six. But Auburn, a tiny village, has never entered a game with Alabama, an entire state, without that Tiennamen Square middle finger and the support of heaven.
And it never will.
I often imagine the shift. What will happen? When the wins are even? When we take the lead? When our wins outnumber theirs by double digits? Triple digits?
Though we want it, though we await for it like Christ’s return, I once quietly feared that win column dominance would dull the blade that drew the nectar of ’72, of ’82, etc. I feared it would change us. But I fear no longer.
For over the course of the past six years, I have realized that the dynamic forged in the ’60s and ’70s – the wilderness of our fathers, a wilderness which our young hearts have never known, but that bore in them the hate on which we were nursed – provides them no alternative to the disgusting arrogance they’re known for.
That is who they are.
When the streak stretches to 10 … to 10 x 10 … they will bark and they will howl and they will return to their vomit. But they will never be able to tap the spirit of the underdog. It is a sixth sense kept from them by the facts of the world and by their sin.
Meanwhile, it is Auburn’s birthright. And that is why we will win the last Iron Bowl ever played, just like we won the first.
And that is why we have a much better shot of winning tomorrow than they do (and … shhhh … they’re just not that good).
And it’s why we’re better.
I quote myself:
Auburn is not pro-football, Auburn is not some damn, trendy logo team, we are Auburn University, we are Auburn, Alabama, we are the heart’s hail mary, the twice-blocked punts, we are 1989, we are 1993, we are 2004, hell, we are 1950, we are Christ-painted sunsets, we are hope in things unseen, we are Spirit – I kid you not, we are Christmas, and Coca-Cola, we are Tygers burning bright in the Forest of the Night…
It’s Americana, boys. It’s country boy goes to town.
“Always remember that Goliath was a 40-point favorite over David.” – Shug
So, gather ye freaking stones, men. Tomorrow, we ride.
War Damn Eagle. To everlasting hell with Alabama.
War Eagle Forever.
It’s never going to stop…
… like Brad Lester. Last play. “Look at that run.” I cry every time.
Do it again, Brad. And again. And again. This is it.
But Kodi, 2008 might be yours.
Torch the field. Make a cage of fire from which there is no escape. Light it up. 400 yards. No sliding. Go at them like they have the ball.
If you throw an intecerception, so be it. Chunk it down the field. Make it hurt anyone who touches it. If they pick it, relish it. Run down the field, zero in. Strip the ball from them. Hit them harder than they’ve ever been hit. Stand up, stand over them, and look down and say something horrible.
Kodi Burns Kodi Burns Kodi Burns. Make us remember you.
8 pans dressing
12 boxes greens
3 sweet potato souffles
24 lbs green beans
6 big bag carrots
12 lbs cranberry sauce
5 bags broccoli
1 case each strawberry cloud cake, chocolate dream cakes,
4 lemon meringue pies
4 pecan pies
320 dinner rolls
It just starts gettin’ hazy at this point in the streak… and I was even there, through the flea market of elephant porn and into the upper deck with my grandfather. But I watched the video and it comes back to me and it was fantastic and almost as good as ’05 in it’s own way.
We’re going to win.