by Brian Oliu
Week Ten: Alabama 38 – LSU 17
Here’s the problem with hyperbole: it can only be used once. It wasn’t that long ago that the game of the century was the game of the century: that all things before and after were proven to be lesser than one night in November–that we will spend the next eighty years wishing we could be brought back to that place: me, in a crowded bar feeling the pain of every ball that drifted left, every pass that skimmed off the grass on a third down with seven yards to go. This time, quieter: the Crescent Line train less crowded, less purple & gold vomiting forth from its automatic doors, less of a parade down to the stadium. This is the new normal: a comparison against the impossible–we must hold the day dear without holding it in contempt to what it was once: an event that discards all other events like strands of green beads left hanging off the grates of the gutter.
Week Eleven Preview: Alabama at Mississippi State
There truly is nothing there–we laugh about how our neighbors are surrounded by nothing: that it is a short trip from heaven to there–strip malls & chain restaurants, burnt out buildings, all a quest to find something golden. Me, I’ve never been: just driven past the exists that sprawl out from the highway on my way passing through to someplace a little more glamorous. If this town was ours, how we would we feel about it: would the lines grids laid forth ring out like cowbells on Saturday night, or would they simply flicker with whispers: that there is nothing to see here, that it would all be for the best if we just moved along. The boys in their crimson whites might mean more than they already do, if this is the hand that we were dealt: that we would hold these days even more dear as we fill up our gas tanks to get to the one place to be somewhere across town.