Mr. Man’s Dawgs

Opinion

December 5, 2012

Mr. Man’s Dawgs

Jan Wells Cordele Dispatch The Cordele Dispatch Wed Dec 05, 2012, 05:52 PM EST

Cordele — Unlike Mr. Man, I’m no sports nut, rarely watching a game of any sort, whether football, basketball or baseball. On top of that, you couldn’t pay me to sit through a tennis or a golf tournament.

That sets me apart from most of my friends, who proudly dress out in their favorite team colors, swap tailgating recipes, and hoot and holler with the enthusiasm of a gang of teenagers. Why, I know women who actually take a week off from work to watch the French Open.

It also sets me apart from Mr. Man, who would rather cut off his big toe than miss a college football game, and who would flat out die if the TV decided to go on the blink during a UGA showdown.

But, make no mistake; though I may not dress the part, I am, deep down, a devoted Bulldog fan.

After all, my first two years of life were in the middle of the Bulldog capital, in married housing, not far from the Oconee River.

Then, growing up a mere 17 miles away in Lexington, a sleepy little bump in the road where folks went about their business at a snail’s pace, I looked forward every Saturday to a chili-dog and chocolate shake, served through the open window of my grandmother’s 1956 Ford by a Varsity carhop in downtown Athens.

So, don’t count me out when the Dawgs are in the limelight.

Last Saturday afternoon, in the match-up of the season, in what should have been the national championship game, I rode the roller coaster of emotion along with the rest of the fans in the state of Georgia.

Excited to the point that I could not sit still in front of the TV for more than five minutes, I spent the evening running back and forth between the live blog on my computer screen and Mr. Man’s man cave.

Mr. Man, needless to say, found this very disconcerting.

“Shut your trap!” he hollered when I flew into his room and flitted about like a bird in a cage. To make matters worse, each time Georgia made a play, I wound my arms through the air in a windmill-like motion and squealed like a pig.

I know. Hard to picture.

With my heart racing faster than the roadrunner zipping through the desert…Wiley Coyote hot on his trail…I planted myself in front of the TV, completely blocking Mr. Man’s view.

Mr. Man loved that.

“Get your wide butt out of my way!” he screamed.

He may as well have said it to a brick wall. Mesmerized by instant replays of a crafty ’Bama boy diving for an interception, I found the suspense unbearable, fearing that my heart would burst into quivering bits of flesh while they replayed the scene from every angle.

As Murray paced in circles, waiting for the call, his grave look brought tears of compassion to my eyes. His worried face reminded me of a young boy who’d had his prized bicycle stolen. I wanted to pat him on the head…tell him it would all be okay. Mercifully, when they aired the final camera shot, we had the answer we wanted. The ball had hit the ground.

From that point on, though, all that remained were grueling seconds of torture until we collapsed in a heap of disappointment…our only salvation the knowledge that our boys had played like true champions.

But then, there’s always next year.

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