“Go! Go! Go!” shouts the guy at the bar.
“Run! Run! Run!” screams another.
“Touchdown!” says the rowdy behind me.
“Aw [bad word]!” shouts the bartender, throwing a wet rag across the room.
The people in this joint are going nuts. Even my wife is part of the pandemonium. Half the patrons in the room are wearing Clemson University orange, the other half wears Louisiana State University purple-and-gold.
I glance out the window. I scan the parking lot to make sure my truck is still there. This is an old habit of mine.
Tonight is the National Championship college football game. And in our part of the world this is the height of our year.
In other nations, the most important calendar days are religious holidays. But in the sleepy hamlets and electric burrows of the USA, football is religion. And the National Championship is high mass.
My wife and I are in a typical bar. It’s dark. Ugly wood paneling. Long ago, I remember when they still allowed smoking here. This room used to be
nothing but fog from unfiltered Camels. Now it just smells like French fries and stale beer.
Everyone leans on the bar and watching the television. During crucial plays many scream. Some cheer. Some boo. Some pound chests and make Tarzan calls. It’s great.
I walk to the window again to make sure my truck is still there.
Several years ago, I watched a National Championship in a crowded big-city bar with friends. The University of Alabama was playing the Texas Longhorns. Three of my pals were Alabama fans, the other two were Texas sympathizers. I will never forget it.
That night, I was the designated driver—which is why I still remember the night with clarity.
At halftime, two of my friends (the Texans) snuck outside. They told me they were going to make a phone call. This seemed odd since nobody in these parts—not…