Alabama at Auburn
by Brian Oliu
Here’s the thing: the concept of iron is one that is larger than something we can even imagine–the earth itself is made from it; that at its core, this is what the world is, between the melted rock & the dead leaves, this is what we stand upon: that when we are born, we come from it, & when we die, we return to it, & what a beautiful life we lead. The talk, of course, is that they are our brothers–the ones that we look at with a slanted eye & a bless their heart; the ones that have left a better life to find something else on their own down on the Plains, that they think that a barn can give them something that columns cannot.
It is here that we find ourselves: in a bar fight when in the past there was no bar, in a place that even our most loyal kindred to the East never saw coming–a battle for all the marbles, all the ball-bearings, all the instances where we wanted to pluck a star from the sky & roll it on our hardwood floors, warped & splintered from the wetness of red clay.
At some point, none of this will be important: we will not be crying over illegal holds & missed blocks; we will not find joy in the folly of our fellow man, but this day will not be anytime soon. Instead, we lament the loss of trees with a shrug and a hidden smile, we think back on fumbled balls that miraculously stayed on a perfect line & we shudder. We will live this fear & we will sing this love long after we all turn to rust.