Barbecue. There will be a ton of that, with Jamie's own sauce, which is a three-generation-old secret. I'll miss that stuff. Eat your fill, then force yourself to eat more. That's what I'd do.

If you're reading this, I want you to attend my funeral — whenever that tragic day occurs. Please come. I'll pay your travel expenses. It won't hurt my wallet. Hell, I'll be dead.

I promise, it'll be a fan-damn-tastic beach party. Willie Nelson will be there, since he'll outlive us all. Oh sure, Willie charges a lot for this sort of thing, but my wife, Jamie, will work it all out.

Let's see, what else.

Ah yes, I want you to play baseball before the sun goes down. Let Jamie play first base, Willie can be catcher. Make my mother-in-law pitcher. Don't worry, she'll know how. She knows everything, just ask her.

Barbecue. There will be a ton of that, with Jamie's own sauce, which is a three-generation-old secret. I'll miss that stuff. Eat your fill, then force yourself to eat more. That's what I'd do.

At the proper time, I want you to lay me out on a pinelog raft, with

flowers. Not fancy ones, but wildflowers from the pastures of my childhood. I'll be wearing Daddy's wristwatch, covered in Mother's quilt. And I'll have my wife's wedding ring in my pocket; I intend on returning it when I see her again.

Then, push me into the surf and light me on fire. Willie can play "Mamas Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys," because as it turns out, I never did.

Afterward, resume eating and dancing like idiots. I want you to have so much damned fun you regret it come morning. Because on that day, life won't be about me anymore. In fact, it never was. It was about friends, baseball, dogs, music, fishing, and women who loved you enough to make barbecue sauce. I was just too self-absorbed to notice that.

Bring your own bottle.

That means you, Willie.

Mother's contractions got worse. "I felt like a washing machine," she said. "Crammed with a bean bag chair — set on spin cycle."

I'm about to break my own rule and write about something I swore I never would. Not since Chad Talbot read a five-page essay on Joe Namath in the fifth grade and put the class to sleep.

May God have mercy on my soul.

It was late December. Cold as hell. My mother went into labor during the first quarter of the Liberty Bowl. Bama versus Illinois.

She huffed like a freight train, while my father sat on a vinyl chair watching the black and white television. When the doctor came to visit Mother, he too made a beeline toward the TV. Daddy cranked up the volume.

The voice of announcer, Joe Kapp, called a four-yard touchdown, drowning out Mother's panting.

"Touchdown!" Daddy and the doctor yelled in unison. Then, Mother says they did some happy-cussing.

During bowl games, there are two kinds of cussing. Happy-cussing: reserved for touchdowns. And dog-cussing: when fans instruct opposing coaches or referees to eat a substance commonly found in barnyards and cow pastures.

By the third quarter the

delivery room was full; two custodians, four doctors, a handful of lab techs, and one maintenance man, each with his back facing Mother.

Illinois scored. A river of dog-cussing followed.

Mother's contractions got worse. "I felt like a washing machine," she said. "Crammed with a bean bag chair — set on spin cycle."

Fourth quarter: Mother was already baying like a coonhound. The doctor asked if she wouldn't mind keeping her voice down.

And then it happened.

As fate would have it, during Bama's winning touchdown, a long-legged, big-toed, redheaded bullfrog entered this world, covered in crimson slime.

My daddy snatched the toad up and brought it near the television set. He tapped the screen. “You see that man, son? That's Bear Bryant, the best coach of all time."

"Yep," said the doctor to the frog. "This was Coach Bryant's very last game tonight. History in…