So I was at Belterra last weekend, playing Black Jack with a Canadian couple and a couple of other Kentucky fans at the table.
The Canadians were from Toronto, said they were Argonaut fans, but didn’t seem much into it.
So me and the Cat fans talk, give our projections, mentioned a few names of our and other teams players . . . just general pre-season, bullsh!t, and the Canadian lady asks how we know so much detail.
I ask her if she’s ever heard of Ole Miss. she says yes, and I rattle off their chant in response . . .
“Hotty Toddie, Gosh Almighty
Who the Hell are We?
. . .
Flim Flam, Bim Bam
Ole Miss, By Damn!!”
She looks incredulous, and I tell her that SEC football just gets into your blood and it is hard to describe the hold it has on the region. I told her I could sing Rocky Top from beginning to end, but I never do. Then I do the Rammer/Jammer, Yellow Hammer chant.
I gave her some stories: When Bill and Caroline Curry were being introduced to the Bama Faithful in 1989, she told her minister’s wife that Bama Football was as big as Religion, and the minister’s wife laughed and said, “Honey, it’s a WHOLE LOT BIGGER THAN THAT!”
It was 2:30 a.m., and I told the Canucks I was gambling at that hour because I have trouble sleeping the last two weeks before the season.
Then taking note that about everybody still gambling was UK folks, I sang the fight song, and in general made an ass of myself.
Recurring Pre-Season Dream(s):
For decades, the last couple of weeks prior to kickoff, I have a recurring dream that we are pasting Auburn on the Plains. Why not UF or UT?
I don’t know.
So Tuesday night, I dream we are at home and lined up for a field goal and the snap hits the third row of the Tate’s Creek end zone, amongst the student body.
I think we’ll be better.
Sometime the last two weeks, I have one of those disjointed, bizarre dreams in which both a Circuit Judge and a Baldy Cow (black with a white face) end two separate casual conversations with “I guess it all comes down to how clean we keep Leary’s jersey.” I tell the judge his words were word-for-word the same as a baldy cow had told me.
I wake up and my cat is staring me in the face in the slender light: I thought to myself, if he says anything about Leary I will soon thereafter have shat my pants.
He was mum. But he’s a Cat fan. He focuses on the D-line, mostly.
And occasionally, you encounter the non-sports-fan, who honest-to-God doesn’t give a rat’s ass for any sport. I only envy them the last week before the season.
I ponder sneaking moonshine into the stadium . . . and I actually have some legal hooch from the Neeley Family Distillery,
just South of the River near Belterra. Given it’s anti-septic properties, I could pass it off as Covid prevention! Then I remember I wear cowboy boots.
I even enjoy the pregame traffic jam: I roll my windows down and talk/shout at folk.
Just a warm afternoon with 60,000 of my closest friends.
The Canadians were from Toronto, said they were Argonaut fans, but didn’t seem much into it.
So me and the Cat fans talk, give our projections, mentioned a few names of our and other teams players . . . just general pre-season, bullsh!t, and the Canadian lady asks how we know so much detail.
I ask her if she’s ever heard of Ole Miss. she says yes, and I rattle off their chant in response . . .
“Hotty Toddie, Gosh Almighty
Who the Hell are We?
. . .
Flim Flam, Bim Bam
Ole Miss, By Damn!!”
She looks incredulous, and I tell her that SEC football just gets into your blood and it is hard to describe the hold it has on the region. I told her I could sing Rocky Top from beginning to end, but I never do. Then I do the Rammer/Jammer, Yellow Hammer chant.
I gave her some stories: When Bill and Caroline Curry were being introduced to the Bama Faithful in 1989, she told her minister’s wife that Bama Football was as big as Religion, and the minister’s wife laughed and said, “Honey, it’s a WHOLE LOT BIGGER THAN THAT!”
It was 2:30 a.m., and I told the Canucks I was gambling at that hour because I have trouble sleeping the last two weeks before the season.
Then taking note that about everybody still gambling was UK folks, I sang the fight song, and in general made an ass of myself.
Recurring Pre-Season Dream(s):
For decades, the last couple of weeks prior to kickoff, I have a recurring dream that we are pasting Auburn on the Plains. Why not UF or UT?
I don’t know.
So Tuesday night, I dream we are at home and lined up for a field goal and the snap hits the third row of the Tate’s Creek end zone, amongst the student body.
I think we’ll be better.
Sometime the last two weeks, I have one of those disjointed, bizarre dreams in which both a Circuit Judge and a Baldy Cow (black with a white face) end two separate casual conversations with “I guess it all comes down to how clean we keep Leary’s jersey.” I tell the judge his words were word-for-word the same as a baldy cow had told me.
I wake up and my cat is staring me in the face in the slender light: I thought to myself, if he says anything about Leary I will soon thereafter have shat my pants.
He was mum. But he’s a Cat fan. He focuses on the D-line, mostly.
And occasionally, you encounter the non-sports-fan, who honest-to-God doesn’t give a rat’s ass for any sport. I only envy them the last week before the season.
I ponder sneaking moonshine into the stadium . . . and I actually have some legal hooch from the Neeley Family Distillery,
just South of the River near Belterra. Given it’s anti-septic properties, I could pass it off as Covid prevention! Then I remember I wear cowboy boots.
I even enjoy the pregame traffic jam: I roll my windows down and talk/shout at folk.
Just a warm afternoon with 60,000 of my closest friends.
