I have no desire to analyze this game. None. The weekend we experienced in Baton Rogue was a masterpiece. Perfection. Never have I had more fun at a sporting event, and never have I felt more proud of the collective effort of a team of Ole Miss Rebels. For the first time in an untold number of years, we are good at football for reasons not named Manning. Weird. To couple with my lack of desire to analyze this game, I am equally unqualified to do so. I was drunk as hell, and sitting at a low angle, in the Ole Miss section of the endzone, behind a sousaphone. So though I can tell you how weird the whole city smelled, how awesome the jambalaya tasted, and how elated the players looked while directing From Dixie With Love after the game, if you saw it on TV, you saw far more than I did. That being said, for many of the same reasons above, I am WAY cooler than you for having been there and experienced firsthand the most glorious ass-kicking I have ever vicariously been a part of. So that's the story I'll tell.
We spent Friday night in the small Burg of Hattie, home of LSU's non-accredited western campus
for theater majors and other people with hair gel. JUCO, Tower, OneMan, yours truly, and three other non-important compatriots ventured RedStickward bright and early that morning, anticipating stifling game day traffic, of which there was surprisingly little. Turns out that cities of over 230,000 can hold up to an influx of SEC visitors better than our fair hamlet of 10,000 townies.
On the highway, we saw (and were subsequently jeered at by) a modified school bus with the back roof removed to reveal 2 dozen or so purple-clad pre-gamers. When we got closer to town, our brave driver, in his preoccupation with glaring and waving his middle finger around, almost had a wreck or three as traffic stopped and started, causing an SUV full of LSU guys to mockingly slam on their brakes and make scaredy faces at us. Well played, guys. It was all in good fun, but at the same time, it was officially on. Before we got out of the car. We wove through traffic, parked at an LSU friend's apartment (thanks), finished off our 22oz bottles of Blue Moon (A great invention, or the greatest invention? You decide.), and struck out to find some more crunk juice.
And find it we did. At least I did. Before we left the apartment, two stout screwdrivers (as stout as something with OJ can be, anyways), a pint of Wild Turkey, and something else I don't remember, all came to party with the beer already in my bloodstream. I grabbed a to-go cup, and thusly marched towards the epicenter of all Cajun-dom: Tiger Stadium.
Tiger Bait. Yes, we heard you the first forty-two times. Tiger Bait. You almost lost to Troy. Tiger Bait. Georgia hung 50 on you. Tiger Bait. So did Florida. Tiger Bait. You smell funny. Tiger Bait. You dress like a 10 year old. Tiger Bait... ENOUGH ALREADY. It was at this point that I made the rapid transition, in the estimation of my colleagues, from: the Affable Companion with the Likable Sense of Humor, Lovable Quirks, and a Heart of Gold to: the Fucking Drunk Asshole who is Going to Get our Asses Kicked. I don't remember with exact clarity all that I said or did, but suffice it to say that most of it was vulgar, loud, sometimes clever, more often mean-spirited, and within spittin' distance of many, many LSU fans. My Whiskey Wednesday Quasi-weekly Awesomest Drunk Guy in my General Vicinity Award goes to me. Hands down. No complaining. For the most part though, people realized that I was harmless, and all shit-talk was good natured. Of that I am appreciative, make no mistake, ArTiger and friends. So I got to the stadium safely. As for the game...
We kicked LSU's ass. For sixty minutes. In all three phases of the game. No doubt in mind. The only people who thought the game was close were the Rebel faithful themselves, who aren't accustomed to such a feeling. Dominance? Of an SEC team? In football? Well ok, if you insist, Houston.
But you already knew the result of the game. What I'm here to tell you is that if you felt irrationally giddy, like something in your life had been fulfilled or re-affirmed: you weren't alone. The elation in the players, coaches, fans, and band was palpable and amazing after the game. LSU fans had retreated back to the swamps, and left us to celebrate in their vast government-funded hell-hole from which few escape, and fewer emerge convincingly victorious. Ahlee Palmer hoisted the Magnolia Trophy while Powe, Allen Walker, and others directed the band. It was amazing. I can't talk. The beer and pizza that night tasted incredibly sweet and delicious. The sketchy hotel sheets felt inviting and warm. The drive home was blissful and comfortable. All was well, all was right and beautiful. I couldn't watch the replays on TV frequently enough, but watching on TV was somehow still terribly unsatisfying in comparison with the way the stadium atmosphere did funny things to your stomach and to the hairs on your neck. If I ever feel that good after a win again, it will surely be a special day. Thanks Rebs, thanks to the gracious (???) LSU fans, and to the die-hard Rebs that came down and yelled their vocals into oblivion Thanks Houston, Peria, Dexter, all the players who spurned LSU to come to UM... It was a hell of a weekend. Please feel free to add any good stories from this weekend below. For me, I am done. Hotty Toddy, and goodnight.