Yes, I have wandered through the desert for 40 years (and more) and finally was delivered in 2021 by the finest Bulldog team ever assembled. Yes, maybe the finest college football team ever. They were so good that their fortune has spilled over into ensuing years and I have become used to seeing Georgia’s banner high at the top of all charts. Ironically, I now become morose and despondent when their performance doesn’t align with my expectations. I analyze the work habits and motivations of everyone associated with the program from the eighteen year old millionaires and their Scat Packs to the program directors who play Seven Nation Army over the loudspeakers incessantly rather than allow the band to show their chops. I try not to level scorn at individuals on the team because I know they are teenagers playing a game. Alas, I am human, and do occasionally fail in this endeavor. But the coaches, oh man, the coaches. They are the alpha and omega. From evaluating talent and refining athletes’ skills to fostering team productivity both on the field and in life, the responsibility lies with the coaches.

We have been blessed beyond description with Kirby Smart. He is karma rewarding us for enduring plagues of bugs, chickens, alligators, poly morph eagle/tigers and the occasional elephant while we wandered in the desert looking for someone to lead us to the promised land. While there are no infallible leaders, he comes awfully close. If one considers the number of real time decisions he makes under intense pressure (8 OTs?) and still maintains the respect and love of his charges you would wonder why MIT isn’t asking to do some brain scans.

If there’s a significant flaw in the program—and opinions on this may vary—for me, it lies in his development of assistants capable of advancing to the next level and independently managing their own programs. Here’s a list of the 2021 staff, follow their careers. The list is missing the Oregon coach that we will likely face in the championship game. That constant “brain drain” is why we are experiencing so many hiccups this year, IMO. There’s a plethora of 6’5″ tight end recruits out there but only one Todd Monken. “Reload and repeat” doesn’t work for him.

I feel that another reason for the repeated cases of singultus this year has been our schedule. Coach Smart addressed the issue directly at the SECCG awards celebration. In addition to playing more games this season, all of the “big” games, but one, were on the road. Here’s Kirby speaking truth to power at the end of the SECCG.

If Kirby was less of a classy guy, he might have told Greg Sankey, “You did everything you could to gift wrap Texas an SEC championship in their first year, which not only diminishes the hard-earned credibility of the league, but makes you look like you only follow the money.” To his credit, he didn’t say that. He did point out the wear and tear that the schedule places on young men who have been thrown into battle for almost six months now. I believe Kirby truly does care about his kids above all, unlike any number of coach’s names we could rattle off.

The best part of the season, so far, has been snatching the candy right out of the thumb-sucking, bottle-throwing Texas degenerates’ mouth, twice. Beating a team twice in one season is nearly impossible, particularly when both games are away. We did it, and now Matthew McConaughey, that well known jock sniffer, can return to Texas in his role of Safe Sex Administrator to continue his work in painting large X’s on all of the cows known to kick.

In Kirby we trust.

With the CFP playoff berth securely in hand, we think, I thought I’d go back to a mini-discussion from last week. All the talk about Mezkin Fenders and Epiphone Les Pauls (how about those coil splitting humbuckers?), got me to thinking about the guys that put in their 10,000 hours plus of practice an achieved super stardom. If we were to pick a #1 guitar player, who would it be? Certainly Django Rheinardt would be top ten even if we don’t count “degree of difficulty“, but would he be number one? These two guys have got to be in the top five:

Gary Moore would probably be my number one pick. If you’re a picker and have tried to emulate some of his bends, you’ll know why I rank him so high. B.B. King seems to create his magic effortlessly. I’m told he once won the Cutting Contest in Las Vegas using just two strings. There’s Chet Atkins and his “Certified Guitar Pickers,” Jerry Reed, Steve Wariner, John Knowles, Paul Yandell and Tommy Emanuel. Roy Clark could tear up Malaguena and Glen Campbell could give off a little Classical Gas when he wasn’t working as a Beach Boy or a Lineman for the County.

Eric Clapton and Duane Allman can share boasting rights for Layla. Duane could also boast about the legacy he left behind in Dickie Betts, who could certainly make the Sky Blue. Speaking of Blue Skies, how about that Screaming Eagle Jimi Hendrix?

The British Invasion brought us Keith Richards, Jimmy Page and the stylings of Jeff Beck and Pete Townsend. But eventually the old men have to sit down and let the new voices be heard like Prince, Slash and the Vaughn Brothers. Some would include Eddie Van Halen in the list, maybe…….?

Decidedly my list leans to the blues, southern origins and male. To even things up a bit I’ll include Susan Tedeschi, Bonnie Raitt and Atlanta’s own Kaki King. Each of them has dedicated the hours necessary to mastering their instrument, and their calluses prove it.

There are no wrong answers. Who is your number one?

December 5, 2020

Good morning, y’all. Well, I can hardly contain my excitement, the big day is finally here. It’s just hours until our fearless lads take the field of combat against the semi-nerds of Vanderbilt University in beautiful downtown Nashville. GO DAWGS!!!!

Speaking of good dogs, it’s time to introduce a very important member of the Lite family, our dog Butts. If you believe urban legends, and the stories my Daddy told, then Butts is directly related to the family of dogs that are bred to be the mascot of the University of Georgia, UGA.

For those of you that have been living in a cave, or Alabama, let me tell you about the lineage of the fine beasts bred to be the standard for the University of Georgia. The candidates for mascot are purebred English bulldogs bred by the Seiler family down in Savannah, Georgia. The candidates are culled for the appropriate qualities of a mascot and only the finest examples of bulldogs are allowed to take the field to represent the University.

As you can imagine, the “seconds” still command a very high price, I hear as much as $5,000 per dog. Obviously, an animal of this quality is as out of my reach as the Kentucky Derby winner, which begs the question, how did I come by a potential cousin of UGA himself?

The story goes that Daddy was down in Savannah servicing his “Gentlemen’s” vending machines when he happened into a card game, as was his habit. Lightning strikes every now and again and this time it struck Daddy. He was cleaning up every hand. Well, they get down to the last game and this old boy is out of cash, but he does have something of value. A genuine Seiler bulldog pup. Daddy’s aces and eights prove to be the dead man’s hand for the other fellow and Daddy had himself a celebrity. Daddy named the pup Halsey after a famous admiral.

Daddy treated Halsey to a life that was the envy of all of us. Daddy truly loved that dog, and it was a weird emotional thing to watch Daddy lavish such care and devotion on an animal. A famous animal mind you, but not a person, much less kinfolk. Anyway, they were a pair. When Daddy would get in his cups he’d called Halsey, Ballsy. If you’ve ever walked behind a bulldog you’d know why. Daddy took to breeding Halsey with suitable companions and we’d split the litters with the females owners. Halsey is long gone, like Daddy, but his progeny live on. My dog Butts is a great-great-grandson of Halsey.

Now people ask, “why’d you name your dog Butts?”, and I say it’s after one of Georgia’s most famous coaches. I endure the look of curiosity for a while, then I reply, “Wally Butts”, which helps some of them. Truth is, you can’t go to a tailgate, or a dog park, or anywhere in Georgia where there may be a congregation of canines and holler, “Dooley” and not be overrun by dogs. “Sanford”, after the stadium, is also becoming a popular name. You’ll never hear anyone hollering “Butts”. I don’t get it, where’s the love?

Wally Butts was Georgia’s most successful coach if you go by national championships, which I think we do. Butts has two, Dooley one and current coach Smart has 0. Coach Butts won the SEC title five times, current coach Kirby Smart has won once. Catch my drift? That’s why you don’t hear any dogs named “Smart”.

Coach Butts’ good name was tarnished back in 1962 in the Saturday Evening Post in an article that was contributed to by Atlanta sportswriter Furman Bisher. The article blasted Coach Butts for allegedly conspiring with Bear Bryant to fix a game. I remember thinking at the time that if Coach Butts had handed Coach Bryant the Georgia playbook it would not have changed the outcome of the game. We were that bad and they were that good. A libel suit was filed and the damaged parties were compensated, but still, a sad footnote to an illustrious career. I guess that’s why you don’t hear more dogs being named Butts.

Well, I got to get a few hours of sleep before starting my game day ritual. Me and Butts will be over here on the sofa if you need us.

January 3, 1984

In the 48th edition of the Cotton Bowl, our beloved Bulldogs were pitted against the bovines of Texas in a game that matched the consistent high-quality play of the SEC against but another flash-in-the-pan SWC team. The long, little dogies were ranked #2 and we were ranked #7 after an inconsistent season. The heifers were seven and a half point favorites.

I could go on and on about the impact of having Herschel “untimely ripped” from the womb of UGA, but that would make me sound bitter and give rise to my wife Mulva’s argument that he should have stayed in school and gotten his degree. My argument that $5 million over three years was going to be worth more than his criminal justice degree fell on deaf ears. We’ll just have to see how it turns out. I can say that Mulva has developed a white-hot hatred for one Donald J. Trump. She is displaying a surprising amount of vitriol for an otherwise pious woman. I’m sure she’ll mellow out as time goes on.

Anyway, I was out of my beloved’s sights, having been called into action for an emergency situation at The Fill Up and Go truck stop in Bossier City, Louisiana. It was a great opportunity to try out my newly acquired Smokey and the Bandit Trans Am on a straight road. Amazingly, fate had placed me within striking distance of the Cotton Bowl.

The emergency involved stolen property. As mentioned before, Daddy was a gambler. While on a streak, he had “acquired” a vending business that serviced the machines in men’s rooms all over the South. You know the ones I’m talking about, the ones that sell combs, salves, creams, and, uh, protection. Protection is a big business, particularly in Louisiana. Daddy had scored his share of the protection game from some poor fool that didn’t know when to hold ’em and when to fold ’em.

The fellow that serviced the machines for Daddy never looked quite right to me. He was a cock-eyed fellow named Ludlow B. Ledbetter. It turns out “Low” figured he could just rip the machines off the walls and carry them to another location and start his own business. After correcting Low’s malfeasance, I found myself on New Year’s Day with my task completed and a mere 180 miles from the Big D. I could drive back home in time for Monday night prayer meeting at the Full Gospel Original Church of God, or I could follow my passion.

I arrived at the Texas state fair, the site of the Cotton Bowl, and marveled at the sight of the largest phallic symbol I have ever seen, Big Tex. I spent an inordinate amount of time floating in a sea of orange, trying to negotiate for a ticket below the price of a car payment. Failing, I checked into the Dew Drop Inn and pondered my options in their well-appointed lounge. I awoke the next morning to grasp that I had fifteen minutes to kickoff. I quickly returned to the scene of the crime to join a motley gathering around a TV that could have been Philco’s first model.

In spite of all the hype and hoopla, the game birthed the phrase, “two mules fighting over a turnip.” God knows I love a defensive struggle, but with Erk gone on to Ga. Southern, I feared for the worst. The locals had me bleeding through the ears from the sound of their constant bleating “OHHHHHH” at every missed opportunity. The dulcet tones of Lindsey Nelson was my only respite. Long story short, Kevin Butler kept us in the game; it was 3 to 3 at the half.

Texas scored two more field goals in the second half, and I was getting that sinking feeling. With 4:30 left in the game, we were down 9 to 3 and were forced to punt once again. It was then that the first of two miracles occurred. Miracle number one: UT fumbled the punt, and we recovered. Miracle number two: QB John Lastinger stretched out his legs on a 17-yard touchdown scamper, and Kevin Butler sealed the deal. The Junkyard Dawgs hunkered down one more time and dashed Texas’s hopes of being considered for the #1 spot.

With discretion being the better part of valor and the sounds of “give me 3 steps” echoing in my brain, I left the frothing mad cows at the bar and turned the “Bandit” east. The grin on my face lasted for a good week. We were ranked #4 at season’s end, which was pretty darn good for being without Herschel. As a bonus, for the rest of my life whenever someone asks me what time it is, I will say, “In Texas, it’s still 10 to 9!”