So much that we could be talking about this week: Auburn and LSU, Tom Osborne returning to Nebraska, Jimmy Clausen getting benched.
But you know what? None of it matters. Not this week. My heart’s just not in it to talk about that crap. It’s all secondary. There is only one topic of conversation that’s important this week.
So, instead, a little story. It’ll be quick, I promise.
God bless my wife, but she asked me on Monday to pick up an Alabama “Roll Tide” hat for her Daddy’s birthday. Being distracted at work and needing to pick up an Auburn hat for her boss, anyway, I said, “Sure, dear,” and hung up the phone. As I was driving to the mall, to my horror, I realized what I’d committed to do. In my narrow little mind, this is like selling weapons of mass destruction to enemy foreign intelligence.
I mean, the Ghost. Touching, and BUYING an Alabama cap. On THIS of all weeks. For a GIFT!!!! This was for the man who threatens to turn my unborn children into Tide fans. Searching in my head for an excuse to not buy it, I couldn’t find one. So, I walked in the mall.
Traitorous thoughts swarmed through my mind. What if somebody I knew saw me with a Bama hat? What if I wrecked my truck and died and that THING sat in the bag next to my lifeless body? What if I got the stench of Bammers on me from being in that university store? What if by me doing this, somehow, the karma of my actions seeped northward to Knoxville and permeated the Vols’ psyche?
What have I done?
As I strolled casually into the store, I picked up the Auburn hat pretty quickly. Hey, man, I don’t mind the Tigers. They’re the furthest thing from the Tide other than the Vols, so we can be cordial when we’re not playing each other.
And then there I was: Standing before the sea of crimson hats, speckled with the plaid of houndstooths and the Got Saban? shirts in between.
I felt like I was in an adult toystore. And it was there I made up my mind. … (Not in the adult toystore, but standing in front of the Bammer gear). I WOULD NOT do this. My wife works close enough to the mall. SHE could buy the hat! I’d have no part of it. I’d not condone this. Even if nobody saw me with the hat, God would know. That was too much for me.
So, I picked up my cell phone. “I’m not buying the hat. I don’t know which one he wants,” I told my wife. “Plus, I don’t want to be seen with that thing this week.” Thank God, my wife understood. Even though she’s an Alabama fan, she owes me bigtime, and she knows it. When we got married, it was either build on my parents’ Tennessee farm or her parents’ Alabama farm two miles away. After war was waged for several years, she put her high heel down. Basically, I’d live there if I wanted to marry her.
(It wasn’t quite like that. We lived in Tennessee the first five years while I chased my occupational dream).
But it sounds better to make an Alabama fan the enemy here, right? Anyway, I walked out of that store with a smile on my face and no Bama hat in my hand. I’d survived one of the scariest moments of my life. I’d stood up to the demons, stared them in the face and made a decision.
I’d never support that Crimson crap. Get used to it. The Ghost don’t back down to nobody. (Plus, my wife gave me permission).
Ghost of Neyland


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