Anyway, I was wallowing in self pity when I read this article and it just made me feel worse.
The entire South is about ready to explode as summer ends and autumn begins. Football's coming. The preseason magazines appear. Wallet-sized schedules materialize on gas station counters. Meals out are eaten over the soundtrack of folks predicting wins and losses -- and not just sports fans with fantasy teams and chicken wing sauce on their chins. No, grandmothers in Chanel and pearls get worked up -- I mean fired up, brother -- about beating LSU.
I love most everything about Southern football, but more than anything else, I love for it to begin. This year, the twinges hit hard in mid-July. A work trip takes me to Cayce, near the South Carolina campus, where I find myself sitting at the counter of a local restaurant called the Kingsman. It's one of those places that seems as if it has been there forever, like the planets, or Styrofoam. I order a pimento cheeseburger. The Kingsman's famous for these gobs of cholesterol-laden goodness. They're messier than a small-town divorce, but damn, they're good. A woman works a hot griddle covered in sizzling, dancing meat. Then, apropos of nothing, she turns to a waitress who's calling in an order. The spirit's in her. And it's got to come out.
"Only 52 more days 'til football!" she hollers.
They've both stopped work for a moment. The waitress shakes her head.
"It's 51!" she hollers back.
The wait is almost over.
I love how people who get it are standing up in their office chairs right now ready to get it on and people who don't are scratching their heads and wondering what in the hell is wrong with these rednecks.
I get it. I'll be up and in front of College GameDay at like 8am tomorrow (Mountain time zone, you know). And I'll be living vicariously through those of you who will be there, so, holler extra loud for me, and if anybody asks, "What's the good word?" Give them the answer from me: