Each year before the Iron Bowl, Chris Shelling Jr. has a dream. Last year’s had him stalking JP Wilson on the Tusc. campus and gifting him a pillow. Wilson, surprised, asked the reason. Shelling Jr. replied “so you can bite down on it when Quentin Groves is … ”
New year, new dream. I asked him to send details as soon as possible. They came yesterday.
Not a dream. a vision. I was driving when I noticed two young lovers laying in a pile of leaves. she in orange; he in blue. At this moment, I saw it all. I’ll try to reproduce the vision with failing words:
I am an Auburn man. I have Auburn hands and Auburn feet. Auburn heart. Auburn mind. My Auburn legs propel me to the top of a giant mountain. My Auburn eyes look down and see. One side of the mountain is beauty; the other ugliness. On one side there is a shining “6”; on the other a rusty “12”. On one side there are eagles; on the other there is a dead bear. Astronauts communing with farmers here; lawyers chasing ambulances there. Pat Sullivan is beating cancer; Joe Namath and The Snake are leaving rehab. Tiger walk; Men with toilet paper and detergent boxes on their heads.
And on the border the unwashed masses were building a golden temple to their mercenary leader. Their newest god. More Col. Kurtz than Alexander the Great, he stood before the rabid crowd with his thuggish brigade and his Secret Service (headed by a striped man named Penn Wagers). The trailer parks had emptied, they were all here exalting with chants of “We Rollin”, “Row Tahd”,and even “Rammer Jammer”. It was a spectacle the Auburn people had grown accustomed to, but the Tuscaloosa mouth breather seemed to suffer from some amnesia (maybe it was all the Boone’s their pregnant mothers drank). No one noticed the large eared man with his knife, gun, and missile waiting in the bushes. Not to mention the other seventy or so tigers trained and aimed right at their crimson necks.
It was a bloodbath. The survivors ran back to the dead bear and dreamed of gymnastics season.