by Brian Oliu
Week Six: Alabama 45 – Georgia State 3
There are times that we have to remember that these warriors of ours are children; they find themselves in worlds that they have only dreamed of: they have older voices in their ears whispering for them to grow older faster, as if there is a race against time when it moves this slowly–remembering to melt the butter in the frying pan before cracking the shell, remembering which younger sibling likes scrambled, which one prefers the yolk unbroken.
On a week where there was nothing to talk about: a going through the motions, a time for excited grandparents to point at the television–pause and rewind for every assisted tackle, every time their beloved lined up correctly–the name that they passed down stitched in white on the backs of giants–we have more to talk about than what we had hoped; that our machine that hums and spits is made of bodies that have pasts more intricate than ours, hands that do not know what it is to not want.
Week Seven Preview: Alabama at Kentucky
When the spring comes, we will be hopeless: roof over our heads, wood underneath our feet. We will compare; we have grown fat and spoiled from what is possible here, that we can bring any fast-twitch sinew to our city, we can plant them in red clay & have them sprout wings. & yet they grow too wide. They are plucked too early & we are left with no crop until the air begins to cool again. We will not wake with the sun.
The Wildcat thinks in reverse: they are waiting for the month before the cruelest one. However, here, now is where their patience is tested; here amongst the bluegrass, here amongst the horses. Just you wait until we get you inside, they will bray, & we will pretend that the day will never come: that this upwards fall will have no end, that our harvest will keep us full until the days start to shorten.