It was almost kickoff. All my gameday preparations were in order. Life was good.

We were all gathered in the backyard, bundled in warm clothes, with lows hovering around 50°F. The fire pit was roaring. The beer was cold enough to break your molars. My dogs were begging for food from anyone who could fog up a mirror.

The television was sitting on my deck, with extension cords snaking across our yard. The volume was at the maximum setting.

The televised tumult of a 90,278-person crowd inside Los Angeles County’s Rose Bowl Stadium was blaring through the feeble Samsung speakers.

God wanted Alabama to win. That much we knew.

The Rose Bowl pregame segments were steadily broadcasted on the screen. Lots of player footage. Lots of round-table discussions. And an onslaught of roughly 10 million prescription drug commercials.

Also, there were many expert commentators appearing on the screen, administering their deep analyses of what “needed to happen” in this game.

These pregame commentators earn millions of dollars per TV appearance, and here is an example of the wisdom they impart:

“Yeah, John, listen, this game is about running the ball, you have to run the ball, running the ball is key, even when you don’t want to run the ball you have to run the ball, then you have to run it again, you keep running the ball, because running the ball is everything, John, and if you run the ball, the fact is simple, you’re a team who runs the ball…”

I don’t want my dogs hearing this.

So I mute the TV. Then, I tend to the fire while Alabama rushes the field. Soon, we are all hollering. Even my dogs are making noise.

Alabama has a chance at the National Championship this year. And even if you aren’t a football fan, you know the National Championship is a big deal simply because of its namesake.

I have a lifelong connection with the University of Alabama football program. I was born during the third quarter of Bear Bryant’s Farewell Liberty Bowl in Memphis, Tennessee.

At the exact moment Peter Kim made the kick and officials ruled the kick was good, I was making my earthly presentation.

At the time, there was a black-and-white television mounted in the corner of the delivery room, broadcasting the game. My father was dressed in surgical scrubs, watching the TV, as his son emerged into the cold reality of existence.

The first words my infant ears ever heard the old man say were “HOOO BOY!” The OBGYN’s first words were: “HOT DIGGITY!” My mother’s first words were not fit for print.

So anyway, the Rose Bowl started beautifully. Alabama was on fire—for the first ten seconds.

Then, everything went to perdition.

The Indiana Hoosiers took Alabama to the woodpile and beat us like we stole something. Indiana, led by Heisman winner, Quarterback Fernando Mendoza, threw three touchdowns, rushed over 200 yards, and overwhelmed a struggling Alabama offense, crawling all over our team like a pack of dogs on a three-legged cat.

When the game was over, everyone in my backyard sat in dumbfounded silence. Even my dogs had curled up and gone to bed.

All the usual complacencies were uttered among us fans. “It’s only a game.” “We’ll get’em next year.” “I think I’m going to stick my head in an oven now.”

But it really IS just a game. None of this actually matters in the broad scope of Real Life. Football is just a game. A game of running the ball. Running the ball is key. You have to run the ball.

Too bad we didn’t.