Monday September 01, 2008

Of Houndstooth and Fungo by LiterateTiger®

Of Houndstooth and Fungo

After Alabama “Cadillaced” its way to a 21-point third quarter lead (courtesy of a Julio Jones TD reception), there we stood dejected and disbelieving.

My good friend Stephen turned and made a simple yet sincere observation. “This is not how I had this game going in my head when we drove down here last night.”

And that sums up what I have to say about the Alabama-Clemson opener. I’d promised Crump something “polished, possibly funny, from a fan-in-the-stands perspective.” But Saturday night wouldn’t have been funny even if you’d thrown in jousting chimps or a drag show starring Ralph Friedgen.

As a matter of fact, the only thing on Saturday less funny than our game was the horrific “Ask Dr. Lou” bit ESPN re-aired. Bad enough on Thursday night, it only got worse after each replay. The astute commentary I received from the family of Rolltiders sitting behind me was only slightly less unfunny.

About midway through the second quarter Mrs. Rolltider observed very loudly in my ear, “We are in complete domination of them.” In my younger years, I would have suggested she use her Houndstooth purse to store away more nachos for the winter and then commented on her mastery of Alabama speak. As it was, all I could do was quietly agree: “Yes, they are in complete domination of us.”

When my team comes undone like that, it’s hard not to resort to internal shallowness … schadenfreude, the Germans call it. For example, “At least I’ll never have to buy one of those hats” or “So glad I don’t have to go to Starkville every other year.” But petty stuff like that only gets you so far.

As mind-blowing as the game was, the MARTA-related chaos afterwords was lifted right out of Yeats’ “Second Coming”:

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned.

Those who were there know what I mean. The crowds. The pushing. The confusion. It was as surreal as mass transport can get. Compounding the confusion, my wife and I were separated on the platform. She was lifted onto the train by a forceful wave of orange and crimson humanity. We made eye contact one final time as I pushed toward the closing door. She mouthed “I love you,” and the train rolled on to the next station.

It was like she’d just left for boot camp. My wireless carrier could never use my ensuing commentary without substantial editing: “This … phone … is … garbage.” Fortunately, after a few frantic, folly-filled minutes, I located her and agreed to meet her at the station where we left the car.

Our train, like all the others that night, was a standing-room-only affair that starred an odd ensemble of characters: annoyed commuters just trying to get home, fans from the game, and a young man dressed up like an anime character. The only thing that kept me from commenting on his getup (black cap, shorts, shoes, socks and shirt; Drew Cary glasses; uni-ear headset) was the red fungo bat he was toting. Though not physically intimating, he was theoretically so. That was enough to keep me quiet.

When he finally exited the train, we all breathed a collective sigh of relief. I got one last message from my wife, informing me that she was waiting at the car with our friends. Knowing where she was gave me some comfort as we slowed to a stop at North Springs.

Exiting the train, Stephen turned to speak for the first time in a while. “This is not how I had this game going in my head when we drove down here last night,” he said. In retrospect, though, it could have been far worse.

The chimpanzees could have turned on the crowd. We could have seen Friedgen in a two-piece. Mr. Anime could have gone Evel Knievel with his fungo bat. Or, worst of all, we could have to wear Houndstooth overalls.

It’s better now, but it still hurts.