Mama, What is Dixie? Asked and answered in my own terms....

I had a poignant moment this week, courtesy of Facebook. Now, you are probably saying to yourself, "Facebook? Really?" In the midst of all the political rhetoric, Farmville requests, baby bump pictures, the vague "hey, look at me" posts, complaints about traffic, descriptions of what somebody ate for dinner, and how much everyone hates their job....you can find a source of inspiration or a random quote that actually makes your day. Mine came from my friend Rachel, who I've known for a decade. She now lives in Washington DC with her husband Will, who I've known about the same amount of time. I went to college with these two wonderful people and sadly, I have not seen them in a long while. I can say the same for many of my college friends, time and distance have rendered our relationship digital. Despite its faults, Facebook is an avenue to keep up with long distance friends and I am glad a few nerds from Harvard took it upon themselves to create it. Anyhow, Will and Rachel have a young daughter named Eileen. I would not know what she looks like if it were not for Facebook. She is a cute little blonde girl with curls, one of those quintessential Southern sweethearts. Rachel posed a question on Facebook that Eileen asked of her and I share with you now:

"Mama, what's Dixie?"

I thought about that question for quite some time. Is there a definition of "Dixie?" Is it limited to the physical? Can it be a mental state of mind as well? I pondered it over a cup of coffee. Then another. I realized that I have been trying to define this term my entire life. To hear a young child, with her life ahead of her, ask that question ignited the ever-present pilot light inside my brain. So, Miss Eileen, I will tell you what Dixie is, according to me.

It's where I was born, "early on one frosty morn," dear. Elvis sang this line in "American Trilogy" so beautifully that it renders my eyes misty every time. You should listen to Elvis, Eileen. You may not end up being a lifelong fan, but he defines Dixie in his own sense. Ask your parents and grandparents.  If you grow up in a small town, you will get the best sense of Dixie that is possible. There's nothing wrong with a big city, I live in one now, as do you. However, these melting pots often dilute culture as much as they build it. It has not changed me one bit, that much I can say. If you cut me open, my bones would be made of red clay and my blood would be water from Two Run Creek. I played in that creek countless times as a child. There is no telling how many periwinkles I collected, water moccasins I dodged, bream I caught, or rocks I skipped in this tiny trickle of muddy water. In fact, Eileen, the name of this blog is derived from memories of that creek. I hope you get a creek someday. Stick your bare feet in it. Grab a handful of the mud and get it under your fingernails. That mud is Dixie, my dear.  Walk downstream, using branches from ferns and willow trees to guide you. Just don't grab any poison ivy or poison oak or you'll be pink from your mother smothering you in Calamine lotion. I know from experience.

Get a Slip n Slide during the summer when it is so unbearably hot and humid that it feels like you are breathing in a wet dish rag. That heat? That's Dixie. Plug in your Iphone, if that's what you have, and blare some good music while you cool off. Listen to Marshall Tucker, the Allman Brothers Band, Lynyrd Skynyrd, and the Outlaws. Hear those guitars echo in the pine trees that hopefully still surround the area. That sound defines us. While you are waiting your turn on the Slip n Slide, take a moment to listen to Duane play his slide guitar. It will stick to your soul, just like that pine sap that you will undoubtedly get all over your hands. When I am having a bad day, I just turn on "Mountain Jam" and recall the smell of pine sap on my hands. That was from the countless forts that I tried to build. Build forts, Eileen. Build lots of them.

I had a dogwood tree outside my window growing up. I hope you get one too. When in bloom, they smell like Heaven. That smell? Dixie. Climb its branches, that is what they are made for. Endure a rain shower sitting on a dogwood branch, it will change your life. Ride your bike to the local store, if such a thing still exists. Go downhill with no hands on the handlebars, that is the only way I ever exited Kimsey Circle on my GT bike with 6 gears. Talk to the old men who hang around and drink coffee. Eat ice cream and candy. Heat up a Moon Pie and drink a pint of whole milk. You will not find people in coats and ties here, these people wear dirty boots all day and talk about chainsaws, backhoes, people named Ricky who call in sick too much, the Atlanta Braves, water heater elements, 3/4 inch PVC elbows and radiators. They are characters, but such is life in a small town. They are Dixie.

During the Fall, your life will revolve around football. Get used to it. Your dad will get with his friends, like me, and relive glory days and bark like a dog. Do not be alarmed, dear. This is Dixie. The smell of barbecue and a faint whiff of bourbon. Women in their Saturday best, which consists of red shirts, black skirts, heels and red lipstick, by God, let's not forget the red lipstick. You will burn up in August and then freeze in November. You will eat fried chicken, mashed potatoes (with gravy), macaroni and cheese (because it's a vegetable) and sweet potatoes. You will sing "Glory, Glory" when we win and ride home in silence when we lose (your dad will get over the loss around next Tuesday, that's about as long as it takes me). This ritual takes place in all Southern states, dear. No matter where you go to school, nothing will compare to the experiences you will have in Athens. There is no telling how many fake touchdowns I scored in the Hull Street parking lot, posing as Lindsay Scott. How many I threw to my parents and my brother, posing as Buck Belue. You may not do that very thing, but I want you to witness it, just the same. Learn the importance of a great offensive line, creative play calling in the red zone and always hate Tech.

As you get older, you will learn history. Our history is spotted, yet proud. You will hear of "lost causes, hate, segregation and Reconstruction." Many people will judge you because you are from Dixie, make assumptions about you and your way of life. Remind them, that the American way of life has been preserved by armed forces made up of an inordinate amount of your Southern ancestors. My grandfather landed on Omaha Beach on June 6, 1944 and lived to tell it. My other grandfather served in Korea. Many of the people who judge you are too cowardly and weak to endure such a violent and bloody struggle. Listen to the older generations. Learn from them. Love your Neen and your Meemaw, your Granddaddy and your Peepaw. They are like a welcome summer rain storm, wonderful in so many ways. Pouring on you while you dance around. Cooling you off when times are hot. Like the storm, they will not be around forever. Take lots of pictures and never, ever turn down a milkshake or a piece of cake they made. Always say "yes" to the question, "you wanna go fishing?" They are Dixie.

I speak in colloquial terms often, it's a Southern thing to do. We are the kings of reading between the lines. You will know when somebody says "bless their heart," to watch out for gossip immediately thereafter. You will understand when someone you don't know talks about the weather too much, to put your hand on your wallet. You will know that you "pull" corn, you do not "pick" it. When somebody says, "I don't know about that boy," that does not mean exactly what it says. When your grandmother "hopes you don't get in that cloud" on the way home, that does not mean you are physically entering a cumulonimbic realm of destruction. You can use phrases like "Y'all ain't never..." and get away with it. We have our own language. That's Dixie.

So, what is Dixie? It is defined by you. It's sitting in silence in an old cotton field, like I used to do. Breathing in that thick air. Watching the carpenter bees pollinate every flower. Looking down at my skinned knees, not remembering how it happened. Catching lightning bugs with my brother or listening to the Doobie Brothers with Mom while she catches some sun on the deck. Working at the store with Dad, hauling horse feed and checking oil, talking about whether Gregg Allman sounded better on "Queen of Hearts" or "Multi Colored Lady." It is the place where you feel most content, no matter how far you may travel. Where you learned more about who you are, than what you are. Where chivalry is not dead and a good drag laying by a 1977 Camaro will elicit as many cheers as a touchdown on a Saturday. Where you can be friends with people named Dwayne, Harold, Buck, Leon, Junior and Jubal. Where you get your first kiss, your first heartbreak and your first breakup song ("When I Call Your Name" by Vince Gill) If you ever forget, Eileen, do yourself a favor. Go back to your creek. Grab a handful of mud and put your feet in. It won't take long for it to come back.

The World Needs More Characters, Happy Monday and Lynyrd Skynyrd revives my Southernness

Happy Monday, y'all. I can safely say this without sarcasm. For one, it is 57 degrees outside and the wind is not impaling my face like an Arctic samurai sword. I am halfway through my first northern winter and I'm here to tell you, it is definitely colder here, and it is on account of the wind.

**Sidenote: "On account of" is one of my favorite Southern sayings. I have never heard any other culture use this phrase. It is usually said when blaming others for your problems or reasons why someone has fallen ill.

"Dakota was kicked outta school on account of that damn teacher upair (up there). She ain't heard the end of this. He won that fake Rebel flag tattoo at Six Flags, far (fair) and squar (square)."

"Chastity was not at school today, on account of her bronchitis." (Southern people tend to get bronchitis more than any demographic in the known universe.) Here are my sentiments regarding bronchitis:

Anyhow, in other great news, Lynyrd Skynyrd will be in concert tomorrow night at the Beacon Theater and I will be there. I see this concert as a golden opportunity to renew my "Southernness." Three straight hours of "Swamp Music," "Tuesday's Gone," "Call Me the Breeze" and "Gimme Three Steps." (at least I hope they play these underrated songs) I jump at the chance to revisit my roots. I am not afraid to dust off my Russell moccasins, my faded Georgia Bulldog t-shirt and relive some glory days. There are other Southern things that I may need at this concert and I have inquired by phone to the Beacon management to see if they can be done:

1) A creamed corn fountain;

2) A redneck toddler with a Kool-Aid mustache, a full diaper, and his momma on her cell phone arguing about child support, puffing a Newport;

3) People drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon because they actually like it (seriously, what is this new urban obsession with PBR? Cassville people have been drinking this crap FOR-EV-ER) (+1 for Sandlot reference);

4) When someone says "hell yeah!" it sounds like "Ha-yul ye-uh!" rather than "Hall ya!" or somebody than pronounces "Tuesday" like "Toosdee." ;

5) Somebody in the crowd has on a Bill Elliott t-shirt

My co-workers are already on notice about my lack of productivity before and after this concert takes place. Skynyrd is not so popular here and many people are not aware that they sing any other songs outside of "Freebird" and "Sweet Home Alabama." This is tragic, but a reality, and a testament to regional differences. Honestly, Southern people, name two New York Dolls songs right now without going to Wikipedia. (FYI: it's a band, not a house of ill repute) Finally, I purchased my Allman Brothers Band tickets for the March 15th show. They will be here from March 1 - March 16. This is a lifelong dream coming true, as I have always wanted to see them live in New York City. Strangely, unlike Skynyrd, they are immensely popular here and the tickets for all SIXTEEN shows sold out in a manner of minutes.  So yes, I can say Happy Monday and mean it!

I know one person who cannot say the same.....Lance Armstrong. The world's most decorated cyclist is about to become the latest pariah in sports history. Today, he is expected to admit that he doped during his incredible Tour de France victory streak and basically confirm what most people figured all along. Do I care? Not really. I never watched the Tour de France. In fact, I cannot tell you when it takes place, how long it takes or who has won the damn thing before or after Lance. The same can be said for soccer outside the World Cup, swimming other than the Olympic games and almost all winter sports. They could dope, cheat, lie, throw games, conspire, retire and set the stadium on fire and I would not know the difference.

What makes me sad is that so many athletes of my generation are being exposed as frauds, cheaters, dopers, criminals, drunks, addicts, gamblers, and some who are just bad people.  McGwire, Clemens, Sosa and Bonds....four men who captivated baseball during an era of revival for the sport that had lost so many fans to a strike....all cast down with Pete Rose, Shoeless Joe Jackson and others who will likely never make the Hall of Fame. They will be known for steroid use and Congressional hearings rather than home runs or ERA. Tiger Woods. Mike Tyson. Kobe Bryant. Hell, somebody tried to throw Michael Jordan under the bus for gambling HIS OWN money on golf games in the offseason. The guy wrote a whole damn book about it. The media has even reached back in time with their scandalous bloodlust. It's like they flipped a switch in the 1990's.

BEFORE: Mickey Mantle - # 7, 536 home runs, multiple World Series championships, MVPs, Triple Crown,  New York Yankee legend, centerfielder, Hall of Famer

AFTER: Mickey Mantle - #7, 536 home runs, drunk, womanizer, MVP, bar room brawler, New York Yankee legend, alcoholic, centerfielder, Hall of Famer

The Mick never cheated. Maybe he was hungover during some games. Maybe he got into fights. Frankly, I do not care about any of those things. I like to remember him as an icon of a simpler time, back when people minded their own business, and went to the ballpark to see him in all his greatness. To hear my Dad talk of him like he was larger than life. Even Mom, who does not follow sports very closely, knows something about Mickey Mantle. So what if Mickey and Billy Martin got into a fistfight with randoms at the Copacabana?  So what if he stayed out all night at the Plaza Hotel? He's not stealing from you. He's not forcing you to the ballpark. Media people knew Mickey partied, but they stayed out of his personal life, out of respect for him, his team and baseball. So what if Charles Barkley threw a guy through a window in a bar in Wisconsin? I met Charles once at the Four Seasons Hotel in Atlanta. You could not ask for a nicer, more genuine guy than Charles Barkley. Or that Kobe runs around with twenty five girlfriends or that Tiger's car was wrecked by his own nine-iron. I am not justifying the dopers or the frauds. They tarnished their game, their results are not true and any victory or records they have should be null and void. However, as the great Don Henley once said, "people love it when you lose, they love Dirty Laundry." Where does it end?

I think back to all the people from Cassville I know. None of them were perfect, nor am I. I knew people who drank too much. Got into fights. Spent time in jail or prison. If I judged these people like the country judges these athletes, I would have to read comic books to find heroes and friends. (+1 for Randy Travis song reference) I liked these people because they WERE characters, not in spite of their character. These people are interesting, not homogeneous robots with no story to tell. Imagine childhood without scraped knees, black eyes and bloody noses. It would the same if these guys towed the morality line every single minute of the day. I would have no blog or stories to tell you.

Like Billy, who used to tell us of nights at an underground watering hole in Kingston, Georgia where it was so rough that "you'd get knifed for lookin' at somebody crossways" or Tom, who would talk of wading through a sea of drunken fighters in bars all across Georgia. Another guy who discussed the time my great-grandfather paid him to haul illegal liquor for him back in the 1940's or my great uncle who drove the souped-up Ford that ran interference for it all. His brother, a combat veteran of WWII, used to own the store before Dad. He was a character himself who once got thrown in jail in North Carolina for staying past sunset in a town where he was not welcome. He did not go down without a fight, that much is true. Take Rick, who would smoke five Winstons in 10 minutes and tell me how he "whupped ever' (every) ice (ass) in Centre, Alabama" one night in 1984. Or our neighbor Johnny, who at 16 years old, wiped out this 25 year old guy from New York in the Big Lots parking lot who made a crass remark about his sister's posterior. I mean, he just cold-cocked this guy and stood over him and said, "don't you never talk to my people like 'at." I personally witnessed this and I don't think I have ever laughed so hard in my life. Johnny just lit a cigarette, laughed and peeled out in the parking lot in his ragged out Chevy Beretta. None of these guys pretended to be angels and I genuinely enjoyed being around these people and I think my life has been enriched by them immeasurably. Seriously, since when did a good story start out with, "this one time, when I was playing X-Box on a Saturday night....."

The point is this: I hope America stops indicting people in the court of public opinion who are not 100% squeaky clean. For every Lance Armstrong, there is a Charles Barkley or a Pistol Pete Maravich, who may have been flaky but is one of the best basketball players to ever live. Some people are characters. Some people stand their ground when challenged and do not care what people think. Some guys like to party. I swear, the 1970's Oakland Raiders would be the scourge of the sports world today. The city of Oakland would have to start a new paper called "The Raider Rap Sheet." All those great Yankee teams of the 1950's would be suspended for half the season in today's world. Now, these guys have to tiptoe through their personal lives, speak in "coachspeak" when interviewed and issue public apologies for every transgression. Good Lord, if the guys from Cassville had to issue public apologies, the Daily-Tribune would look like a dictionary and this would be the most boring blog in history. Some folks may not see it this way and that is understandable. Maybe the pristine choir boy image benefits some people. However, if I had my choice, to quote Ronnie Van Zant, "I'd rather live with the hound dogs, for the rest of my natural born life."

Recap of the C(r)apital One Bowl: Corn shucked, Tide Rolled, SEC dominance continues

Well, bowl season has come and gone. A two week slate of gridiron grudge matches pitting 6-6 teams against each other in the Pocket Lint Bowl in East Bumble, Tennessee. Seriously, could the matchups have been worse? Better yet, could there possibly be more? I swear, 87 bowl games were played across the nation and very few of them incited any fanfare or interest. We have a new (old) champion in the Alabama Crimson Tide, who seem to make a habit of dismantling out of conference opponents like a 5 year old losing interest in his Lego fort. It was like Muhammad Ali of 1965 fighting Muhammad Ali of 2012. Notre Dame woke up no echoes on this day. The only echo I heard was "Noooooooooo!" as their championship hopes were thrown from a cliff and "poofed" in the dirt like Wile E. Coyote after another futile try to catch the Roadrunner. The SEC turned in an impressive bowl performance, save Florida and Mississippi State, who laid stinkbombs in their games. Florida was especially terrible. They had 4,235 yards of unsportsmanlike conduct/personal foul penalties, Will Muschamp had seven strokes, and the Florida "fanbase" just sat there stunned while a bunch of motivated nobodies pummeled them. Jeff Driskell did his best "Let's Panic and See If That Helps" routine and turned the ball over more times than an Auburn fan can count. It was like a Nutella milkshake with a side of steak on a fishing boat in the Keys with both of my grandfathers. That was my level of enjoyment. Thank you Teddy Bridgewater, I'm naming my next pet after you.

The Dawgs faced the Nebraska Cornhuskers in the Capital One Bowl on New Year's Day. Another ****** Capital One Bowl. We are the kings of the Capital One Bowl, followed closely by the Outback Bowl. If the Capital One Bowl were children, we would be Octomom. If the Outback Bowl were cuss words, we would be a Quentin Tarantino movie. Mark Richt should be the spokesperson for both.

Richt (in Crocodile Dundee regalia): "Why don't we put another shrimp on the barbie with our new Capital One card? With low, low interest rates and free rewards, that Dawg WILL hunt! G'day, y'all!"
(insert 3-4 UGA players pulling up in a go-cart and one says "the dingo ate your baby!")

Shoot me. I guess the draw was two programs hoping to revive past glory after disappointing losses in their conference championships. Nebraska was clubbed like a harp seal by Wisconsin, who lost their coach and only played because Ohio State was on probation. We came within 4 yards of the national championship. 4 terrible, awful, no good yards. 12 feet. 144 inches. Thinking about it makes me want to vomit. It's like downloading ITunes only to find out that your only choices are Lady Gaga, a bluegrass tribute to Led Zeppelin album and Right Said Fred. It's like getting a tee time at Augusta National and forgetting your putter. It's a thousand paper cuts, forks scraping plates and screaming 6 year olds wanting ice cream. Pure, unadulterated hell. I watched a replay of it and instantly threw myself into a subway puddle.

Anyhow, we teed it up and made the best of it. Our guys looked good running out of the tunnel. Thankfully, without black jerseys on. I am so tired of the fake juice Blackouts and the constant underlying threat of our teams wearing them for big games. Just put on the silver britches and freakin' hit somebody! Aaron Murray came out firing on all cylinders. For a man who has had some downs in his career, Aaron has had a tremendous amount of ups lately. The guy can simply throw a football as good as anyone in the country. He bombed Nebraska all afternoon. The vaunted #1 pass defense in the nation was shredded by our receivers to the tune of 427 yards. That's 1,281 feet. 15,372 inches. I guess it's easy to lead the nation in pass defense playing the likes of Idaho State, Arkansas State, Iowa, Minnesota, a probation-crippled Penn State and an 0-12 Southern Miss team. Real impressive resume there.

Our defense was quite suspect at first. Frankly, they have been suspect many times this season. Jenkins and Geathers did not play well this season. Many people fear that the NFL dream got into their head and they were worried about getting injured. People ran up the gut on us all year. Kentucky had their best game against us. Alabama rushed for 350 yards. Tech and Georgia Southern had field days, statistically. Hell, even Buffalo had some success running the ball. Nebraska obviously watched film because Ameer Abdullah ran. And ran. And ran. This little guy from Homewood, Alabama had an excellent first half. Thank God for Murray, King, Gurley and a blocked punt or we would have been down at the half by 10 or more. Todd Gurley is quickly becoming a legend. He was voted Freshman All-America, probably earned the starting nod against Clemson next season and was featured in the latest Lil Wayne music video knocking out a tiger bare handed. (Ok, I made that up. Sue me.)

The second half began inauspiciously. Nebraska ran the ball right down our throats, 75 yards for a score that chewed the clock like a water buffalo in South Africa. Now, we are down by eight points and the defense looks like hell. Grantham picked up a kicking tee and began to chew on it. I think Richt even said "darn it." Cue Chris Conley. The boy from Paulding County, Georgia. The Dallas Dart. The Hiram High Speed Missile. Murray finds him for a 49 yard score and then hooks up with Rhett McGowan to tie the score. Another northwest Georgia boy. The Gordon County Grabber. The Calhoun Catch Machine. The Sugar Valley Snagger. We force a three and out and Murray goes right back to work. We get to the 24 yard line and he connects with Keith Marshall on a beautiful pass and catch for the go-ahead score. Keith is going to be a great one, y'all. Nobody in the league will catch this guy from behind. There are still burn marks on Auburn's field from Keith's touchdown run there.

When Nebraska comes back out on the field, I notice some serious jawing going on between Shawn Williams and their quarterback, Taylor Martinez. This jawing also coincided with Nebraska's offense shutting down and doing nothing. News flash, Taylor. You are not in Corona, California anymore. You are dealing with a man from Damascus, Georgia. Early County. While you were cruising to the mall, he was lifting weights in an outdated gym with hand-me-down equipment. While you were having cul-de-sac parties and listening to John Mayer, he was having fish fries on the banks of the Flint River. While you were getting your awesome barbed wire tattoo, he was running on his dirt road, thinking about you. Things soured for Nebraska quickly and they had to punt once again. Murray lined us up on our own thirteen yard line and called the signals. Receivers ran their routes and Chris Conley broke open on a tunnel screen. 87 yards later, there was not a Nebraska defender in sight and Chris was halfway to Valdosta before he stopped. If you ever wanted to see SEC speed at its finest, Youtube that play. It was like a video game. In fact, I can only think of five things faster than Chris Conley:

1) Keith Marshall

2) The pace of the Florida fanbase jumping off the bandwagon

3) Charlie Weis's heartrate

4) Me, upon finding out about a free cannoli giveaway at Cafe Palermo in Little Italy

5) Lou Holtz trying to find a new pair of Depends before his segment about how Notre Dame could have beaten Alabama, if every player on Alabama's team contracted malaria at halftime, drank a roofied Gatorade and were put in strait jackets.

It was 45-31 then and the game fizzled into a clock running snoozer until it ended. Shawn Williams decleated Martinez on the next to last play of the game and screamed something into his earhole. I was hoping the UGA beat writer would ask Shawn what he said, but alas he did not. I guess he did not want his article to look like a script from Django Unchained. A good win in an unceremonious bowl game. There was one thing I did realize that made me sad, though. I'll never see Tavarres King catch another pass in a Georgia uniform. He dropped the last pass Murray threw to him, a beauty that would have made the score 52-31. I wonder if he thought about that as he ran to the sidelines. I will never see Jarvis sack another quarterback or jar the ball loose from an unsuspecting defender. I've enjoyed the Predator references in this blog and I will never bestow that title upon anyone else, I promise. The shoulder gun belongs to Jarvis in perpetuity. No more Shawn Williams. No more Ogletree. No more Rambo. No more Richard Samuel. I'm so proud of my fellow Cass High graduate. He is a Dawg legend simply for one amazing quarter on one amazing night in Jacksonville. I follow each and every recruiting class we get and I will miss these guys terribly. 2008 and 2010 were forgettable years, but I believe those days prepared us for the greatness of 2012.

In other news, Aaron Murray has announced that he will return for 2013. This instantly boosts our stock for next season. We go to Clemson in our first game and I can think of nobody I would rather have leading us on the field than Aaron. He has earned his day in the sun and I hope he can carry us to new heights in 2013. Malcolm Mitchell returns. Conley returns. Gurshall. Every single offensive lineman. I'm telling y'all right now, barring injuries, 2013 could be another special year. 235 days to kickoff! Go Dawgs!

Other highlights:

1) Florida State played Northern Illinois in the Orange Bowl. They won. 26 people watched the game, which was one more than Alaska Tech's game against Southeastern Guatemala A&M.

2) Alabama just scored another touchdown and Brent Musburger is dancing in the mirror to "Call Me Maybe" while looking at a still picture of AJ McCarron's girlfriend. What a dirty old man.

3) In a moment of clarity, at the post game conference, Coach Richt wisely said, "It's more fun to win than to lose." It's also colder in Canada than in Mexico, oceans are bigger than lakes, 2 is more than 1 and Florida had the worst bowl game of any SEC team and their fanbase bailed on them quicker than the rich people on the Titanic. (sorry, those are some of the most obvious things in the world to me right now.)

4) I think the statement "they didn't beat us, we beat ourselves" should be banned. Louis Nix, the nose guard from Notre Dame, said something to this effect after their game. Nebraska players also went this route to explain their loss. I mean seriously, if you "beat yourself" to the tune of 42-14 and 45-31...that's just pure masochism.

5) I am happy for Alabama. I really am. I have many wonderful friends who attended this fine institution and for them, I am pleased. However, I am not of the "SEC! SEC!" crowd anymore and my fellow Dawgs should jump off this bandwagon now. Alabama's victory is theirs and theirs alone. They will use this to recruit against us and I don't blame them. Our other rivals have done the same. They are not sharing this trophy. We are not getting a day with the trophy to take a team picture with it. We are not raising any flags before our first home game. Some people have questioned me on my stance, "this is a Southern thing, man! You, of all people, should understand that." Hey, you will not find a more proud Southerner than I. I have proven this my entire life. I am loyal to my state and my institution beyond measure. However, conference loyalty, to me, is totally Pyrrhic. What have the last seven championships gotten us? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Maybe some pride, but what is that worth?