Big Time In the Swamp

It's a molasses and coffee kind of morning. I don't mean to turn this into a weekly breakfast-drink themed dispatch, but I feel like it's at least worth mentioning. This morning, there's no ceremony and no plan. Last night went longer than it should. It's cold. It's raining, and I got nowhere to be. Today is Basil and the Arkansans' turn to beat the war drums and head into the breach.



"Oh the drop point was dusty and the drill sergeant was loud. And he could not see the corpses for the raging dust cloud. Grab your duffle bags, head to the checkpoint. Welcome to Vietnam, boys. You're in for a hell of a fight. Take it from the ones who know."

I'm going to build off Basil's post from last night, because I think there's some value to the idea of heading into an inevitable fight that you know has a high probability of leaving you mentally and physically damaged. If you gotta go, you might as well hit the ground with a head full of bad intentions, and I feel like that's where the Hogs are at. That being said, in the back of your mind there's always the lingering wish for a death that's just quick and clean. It's an instinct that is almost universal and universally repressed, but it's there-- I just wish they'd kick our ass early and let me get on with my weekend. Then you end up with something that's drawn-out and dirty, but in the end, still defeat.

So is it worth it? If all roads end at the same cliff, why wouldn't you take the easiest, fastest, most direct path?

Even in the darkest days of the Coach O era when disarray and despair reigned, on those game weekends where you strongly consider putting your ticket back in your pocket, pouring another bourbon and watching the game from the Grove...there's a moment. For me, it almost always comes about halfway into the pregame "From Dixie With Love," where you start to believe. No matter the opponent, the circumstances, the odds...we've got a chance. So you take up your ticket, stash some whiskey on your date (there's a term as a student...the three-airline bottle bust line. Most people wouldn't think there'd be any way to place more value on breasts. Most people also haven't seen the glory of Jack Daniels mini-bottles magically appearing from the top of a red dress, either. Praise be.) and join the migration of the faithful into the stadium, and you carry that mustard seed with you. And then there's something, a long pass, a trick play, a turnover...and the mustard seed bursts. You don't just believe, you know, "We're going to beat these bastards."

The Hogs are going to have these moments today. I have no doubt. And no matter what happens, the brilliance of those sparks of faith trumps whatever darkness follows...when you round the last turn before the cliff and think, "Fuck it. This car's going to fly."