Dawgs vs. Tigers/Plainsmen/WarDamnEagles: The Game Day Experience Vol IV

Well now, THAT was satisfying wasn't it?

Before I get to the tailgate and game itself, one note about the trip down. I could have hijacked a plane. Fortunately, I'm just a mild mannered traveler, not interested in downing a jet over a centuries old land war, or to prove that my mythical deity can kick the ass of your mythical deity on the schoolyard. Or because I'm offended by the crass and disgusting popular culture that America foists on the rest of the world. (Wait -- I hate reality TV. And I don't think I could stop it by downing a jet. But even if I could -- I don't think I'd crash a plane just to save the planet from another edition of The Real World or Flavor Flav's latest attempt to get laid). Anyway, I have a tiny pocketknife that I use as my keychain. Actually, a "penknife." I tiny swiss army knife keychain that I got at The Masters. It contains a small blade, barely an inch long, that I don't think could cut open a bag of M&Ms. It has a pair of tweezers, a nail file and a toothpick. There are 3 keys on it, unlike Freebird's, whose keychain resembles something The Keymaker from the only slightly disappointing first Matrix sequel would have. Normally, I go through the ritual of taking this Weapon of Mass Destruction off my car keys and leave it in the vehicle before I make my way into the airport terminal. But Friday was a frazzled day from beginning to end, and I was running late for the flight with a thousand things on my mind. I just stuck the keys, with penknife, into the designated key compartment in my briefcase and made my way to the terminal. Checked my big bag (with Antonio Freeman's dad again) and got in the security line. Went through the usual drill, took off the shoes, the belt, unpacked the laptop -- all the usual hassles. However, at the end, the dude in the blue gloves brought my bag over and asked to search it. (Blue gloves? Shades of Firefly, I'm telling you! I thought they were going to melt my brain!) Instantly, it dawned on me. I was about to fly with the penknife. I could taken the crew hostage and threatened to pluck their eyebrows or give them a manicure! I could have poked a hole in a styrofoam coffee cup! So what to do? Fess up about the keychain, have them take it, and lose a valued piece of memorabilia that can only be purchased one place and one place only on the face of the earth? And it's not like I'm making that annual pilgrimage to Augusta, GA for a little golf every year now. Or, I could just continue to play innocent and hope they don't find it. Or if they do, feign surprise and hope they chalk it up as a forgetful accident and don't call Jack Bauer to interrogate me with a table lamp. I kept my mouth shut, the bag went back through the X-Ray machine and hands of blue searched it thoroughly. Well, not so thoroughly, since he didn't find my penknife keychain. Off to the plane, armed with a toothpick!

In hindsight, I'm not sure this makes me feel safer. But I'm happy to have my Masters keychain.

Okay, enough of that silliness. Friday night was a sedate, relaxing cool down. We all actually turned in early. No drama on the drive down, either. No pedestrians were almost mauled under the wheels of a crossover vehicle. No marriages tested by backseat driving. (until, of course, we tried to park in the spot at the tailgate. For some reason, it took two drivers and a guide outside to get us properly aligned within the yellow stripes).

We were the first ones there, and got the PC and AV all set up and all was well. Noted Professional Sports Commentator and Expert Buddha showed up, and offered this insightful analysis of Darren McFadden vs. the Vols D: "He should run through them like soup." Not sure if he, McFadden, was the soup in that analogy. Of if Chavis' boys were the soup. Or even what it's like to run through soup. Is it a big, streaming waterfall of soup? Is it more difficult to run through if it's something like Chunky Soup or Chili? Or easier if it's water, like egg drop soup? We pondered that for a while and had a few more beers.

The tailgaters beside us insisted (again) on recreating Freaknik out of their car stereo. Which was odd, coming from a tall white dude in a big red pick up truck, but annoying nonetheless. Hopefully, their car batter will die soon.

Gordo arrived late, but with a rolling cooler full of steamed hot dogs delicately wrapped in foil. Yes, they were tasty.

Tailgate raconteur DHuff was apparently high on life. I don't know if it was the fact with all the black around him, absorbing the light, he didn't have to slather on SPF-70 with a paint roller and put on his demented beekeeper get up, or if he was sniffing glue behind the dumpster, but the boy was certainly excited without the benefit of draining a huge flask. I need to score me a bag of this "life" stuff.

Here's where things start getting sketchy for me. I don't know if it's because of only having two hot dogs as a "base" for an afternoon of imbibing, or that I had way too many tallboys wandering around chatting with everyone, but my note taking became intermittent and sloppy. I recall accusing Ricky Bobby of wearing blue socks with "Blackout" ensemble, but after careful inspection, it appeared that they were indeed black, and even more importantly, perfectly matched. Later, it turns out that it was Miz Huff who participated in the "Blueout" with regard to hosiery. That's why I have two separate drawers for blue socks and black socks. Always difficult to make that distinction in the haze of the morning.

I recall the Good Doctor calling to tell us that they saw a chick with a big sign that read "Knowshon is on my To Do list." I recall some worry about the local fuzz trying to bust people for open containers again. So A. we took the "back way" to the stadium, and B. I eschewed the normal red 12 oz. Solo cup for a less conspicuous huge, Chic-Fil-A "big gulp" foam cup. It was used, laying on the group beside the car, and I just dumped half a bottle of Crown in it and Voila! A Ball Game Drink. I recall walking to the stadium, and after negotiating with some roadies for Public Enemy on ticket prices, I arrived at the top of the stadium stair in our section just in time to see the team run on to the field, resplendent in the rumored and now confirmed black jerseys to the strains of this all time classic:



Wow.

Sitting there, looking around, I don't think I've ever seen anything quite like that. Usually, most of the stadium is a sea of red, with a little black and white mixed in. Saturday, Sanford looked like a cavernous, living black hole, rippling with electricity. Truly a sight to behold.

I won't go into detail about the nuances of the game, since I don't recall a lot of them. But a few observations:

Now that Richt has given up the responsibilities of calling all the plays, he's had more time to focus on recruiting (we're either the number 1 or 2 school in many early 2008 forecasts) and skillfully working the head coach duties of motivation and management. Between the Cocktail Party celebration and this week's Blackout, I'd say he's doing okay. And even though it was Richt who called the 45 yard Stafford to Bailey TD pass, I'd say Bobo (after a shaky start) is doing okay, too. We haven't put up 40+ in three straight games since 1942. And this wasn't against a coterie of directional schools, either. Yes, Troy was in there, but they were bookended by the Gators and the (previously) stout Tigers/Plainsmen/WarDamnEagle Ds.

You couldn't ask for more in a game. There was the scintillating atmosphere from the Blackout. A first quarter lead. A second quarter fade. An Auburn lead that made it a close contest and typical SEC slugfest in the third quarter. And then a take you out behind the woodshed for a total ass whooping to close the game out. From David Ching's excellent UGA blog, there's this:
After Wes Byrum hit a 33-yard field goal to put Auburn up 20-17 with 6:47 left in the third quarter:

• Georgia's offense totaled 308 yards of offense in the next quarter and a half and scored touchdowns on each of its next four possessions.
• Auburn totaled 39 yards on 19 plays, with three drives ending on interceptions, one with a punt and one with a turnover on downs.

As for the Blackout, there was lots of speculation about who knew what and when. You can check out the AJC for some detail: Inside story of the Blackout

Only the seniors knew, and they kept it quiet. Center Fernando Velasco: "I didn't tell my girlfriend, I didn't tell my mama, I didn't tell nobody. That was the only way it could work."

Just awesome.

Even more unbelievable? Positive press from the normally UGA unfriendly Stewart Mandel over on SI.com.

I haven't watched the recording of the game, but I do remember being outraged on more than one occasion about the quality of the officiating. Perhaps I may have let fly with some vehement questioning of the officiating crew's ancestral heritage, or suggestions that they engage in animal husbandry with relatives of a maternal nature.

The win was so sweet and so savory, I didn't mind my own personal re-enactment of Thursday's episode of The Office, where Michael was dropped in the middle of the woods alone to play "Survivorman." I left the game solo, and made the mistake of walking out the back entrance (note to self: DON'T EVER DO THIS AGAIN. YOU ALWAYS GET LOST). Moments later, I had no fucking clue where I was on a campus I haunted for 5 years and have been back to on and off for the past two decades. I recall being by the Coliseum for a while (paying homage to Dennis Felton's boys?), before finally receiving a call from Miz Freebird wondering where the hell I was. (Humorously and ironically, they got lost as well, but still beat Magellan back to the tailgate). Fortunately, before I could collapse in a puddle of whiskey and hopeless despair, Freebird and Scrat played Dwight Schrute to my Michael and led me back to civilization. I felt like I was also in an episode of Alias or 24, when Miz Scrat was asking over the cell phones "do you have the package?" All's well that ends well, with a post game journey to Applebees for the Fifth Quarter show and celebration of one of the Best Days of Georgia Bulldog Football Ever.

Once again, many thanks to my hosts, chauffeurs, bartenders and rescuers. One more trip back to the Motherland next week, and that's it for 2007.

Go Dawgs!