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!”
I don’t care for Texas
I predict that you like Texas more now than you ever will.
Very nice… Thought I was reading Lewis Grizzard!
WOW, thanks! I just figured anticipation has all of us wrapped up tighter than a tube top on a lot lizard and a little levity might help. As the Bard once said, “There’s no such thing as being too Southern.”
Thanks, I really enjoyed that read
Thank you!
Good one, Bud!
I was there. We drove out with a college buddy who was from Dallas so we had a free place to stay. We went the night before to the Dawgs’ watering hole (somewhere) and ran into Munson. We asked his take on the game. He was moaning about old lady luck and how she had abandoned us. But he did say Terry Hoage “with those miserable knees” was going to try to play somehow. Ever since, whenever someone mentioned Hoage, we’d always add “with those miserable knees.”
The next day, we made our way to the stadium and before the game this Longhorn fan in front of us were trying to be polite, but instead just came off as condescending. He was telling us how well we’d done without Herschel and basically apologized for what Texas was about to do to us.
When they fumbled the punt and Gary recovered, he shut up. When Lastinger took it around the end to the flag, he put his head in his hands. When we closed out the game with another defensive stand, he was near tears. As we got up to leave, my friend looked at the Longhorn fan like he was going to unleash on him, and instead just gave him a dismissive “Nah…never mind” as we walked out chanting “10 to 9, kiss my behind!”
It was glorious. Perfect Dooley win where the team played it conservatively, kept it close and then took advantage of the late break. Let’s hope Kirby and the team are celebrating another big win in Texas tomorrow night.
Glad I stirred up the memory for you. When they are on their best behavior, the T-sippers are absolutely condescending SOBs. Looking forward to letting the air out of their tires once again.
Thanks. Even a blind hog will root an acorn every now and then.
Verily.
Although one minor point to clarify. I always thought Donald Trump stole Hershel away from my beloved Bulldogs and I detested him throughout the ‘80s for that hate crime. It wasn’t until much later that I found out he didn’t own the NJ Generals their first year. He didn’t buy the team until their second year after Herschel was already on the team. Turns out it was some ass clown oil man named J. Walter Duncan who did the deed.
I stand corrected. Herschel was in his 2nd year of the USFL. Donald came late to the party after being rejected by the NFL for ownership. I guess it was during this time he became obsessed with “his Generals.”
I’ll wait a while before telling the wife her hate is misdirected.
Correct. J Walter Duncan, oil tycoon, and self described country lawyer Jack Manton, combined to deliver Herschel to the USFL.Mulva should probably re-direct her outrage on this issue. I say this helpfully.
I remember at the time thinking “$8 million guaranteed? Who can blame him for taking THAT?” Duncan was worth north of 200 million, if I recall correctly. Trump didn’t get involved until year 3 of the USFL, I think. But for sure he had nothing to do with getting Herschel out of UGA. I’m grateful for the 3 fantastic seasons, and while it’s easy to wonder what his senior year could have been, maybe he could have wrecked a knee in the preseason, too. You can what if it to death. He was the greatest RB in CFB history, only Tony Dorsett compares in my opinion. Hated TD, partly because we never beat him, but give him his due. He took a terrible program from the dead bottom to a NC his senior year. Herschel was on a better team, but he got his NC as a freshman and should have gotten a Heisman, too.
TD was one of the most oddly shaped humans I’ve ever seen. His butt jutted out like his spine was a J and it was attached to enormous thighs. His tailor must have had a helluva time. I think listing him at 5’11” was generous, too. But you’re right, he was a great back.
Bleah bleah bleah grizzard bleah bleah blah.
One of my favorite writers, I wonder how he’d feel about #fuckthosemotherfuckers
There will never be another like him/us.
Georgia vs Georgia…good grief.