The Goat Pen

c'mon, you have to bring out your best sand for this game. UGhA might be able to stay within 20.

Saban will “process” the Dawgs like Smithfield processes hogs in Tar Heel, NC.

Professor Tiger wrote:Saban will “process” the Dawgs like Smithfield processes hogs in Tar Heel, NC.

I drive by that place going to and coming from the beach. It's massive, and it keeps growing, much like Bama.

When you pack for the beach, I bet you have to pack a LOT of auto air fresheners for the drive.

The Dawgs, and anybody else in college, have less chance of surviving Bama than those hogs surviving that Smithfield plant.

UGA players will have to deal with a lot of no-calls like this:

I like the comments...

Why do people complain? The Auburn player wasn’t upset. Sometimes you can’t help when you trip and fall down.

It was a blustery, frozen night as I entered the dank, austere surroundings of the Liberty Bowl on the late December night of 1982. Slow barges lumbered down the Mighty River. Blues bands played a somber dirge - as if they were heralding in a fresh lamb to the slaughter.

The Mighty Fighting Illini were big. They were strong. They were mean. The wounded and much-beleaguered Crimson Tide team formed a thin red line as they shielded themselves from the cold and valiantly headed onto the tundra that night.

The rifle-armed All-American, Tony Eason, set his angular jaw against the gale-like, frozen winds on that dark Memphis night. Like a gridiron Baryshnikov, Eason’s 6’4” frame danced nimbly through the pregame warm-ups as he focused his mind on the task at hand: Embarrassing – no humiliating – the great, but terminally ill Paul Bryant and his rag-tag band of undersized and injured players...

Head Coach of the Mighty Fighting Illini, Mike White, knew a pro career lay ahead of him. He chuckled slightly as he perused the gameplan and thought to himself, “This is Bryant’s last game. I’ll make him wish he’d quit sooner.”

The ailing Bryant grimaced as he slowly emerged from the tunnel. Heart disease was killing him and he knew his doctors had warned him about coaching this game, especially considering the extremely harsh weather. He struggled to keep from letting his family – the players – see him in such mind-searing pain as he covertly placed a nitroglycerin tablet under his tongue. He never wanted this game to be about him. He simply wanted the players to hold their heads high and compete honorably for the University, their families, and most importantly, themselves. “Make your mamas proud," he growled as the last of the players and trainers ran from the tunnel.

Somehow, Alabama had managed to keep it close through most of the game; however, Eason was driving his team for what should have been the winning score. But Alabama's defense came through ... one last time for Bryant. Afterward, the young Illinois coach said that he had never seen a team hit as hard as Alabama that day. Bama was outgunned and out-manned, but they played with incredible heart and won the game for Bear on desire and grit alone.

That fateful Liberty Bowl was played on December 29, 1982. Less than one month later Bryant would die of heart disease. Coincidentally, less than one month after that, his beloved wife of 59 years, Mary Harmon Bryant, would die, too.

From the time Bryant first prowled the sidelines at the University of Alabama in 1958, until the day he died in 1983, no other team in the Nation won as many games, had as high of a winning percentage, or as many championships. And no one was really even close.

Alabama’s newest threat: “Don’t make us use our back up QB”...

Roll Tide.

AA, that’s always my favorite.

This morning a damp wind rushed in through my partially opened bedroom window and ruffled the crumpled cotton sheets. The early morning sun struggled to break through ominous gray clouds in a weak attempt to top the dark hills that roughly frame my land. The neighbors’ dogs yelped and howled at the distant claps of thunder over the cacophonous soundtrack of an old riding lawnmower. The squeaky hinge of a storm-loosened shutter screamed for oil. This harsh and obnoxious clatter finally forced an unwilling Morpheus to relinquish his control of my dream-like, semiconscious state.

I am now awake, but I certainly don’t want to be.

Against my will - and much like a junkie driven by an irrepressible jones - the smell of freshly brewed coffee pulls me from my bed and I lumber to the kitchen to pour myself a cup of hot comfort. Groggily, I drink, rub my aching brow, and yawn. Time is in limbo. With the kitchen window closed the sounds that so rudely pulled me from my deep slumber are now inaudible. It is quiet - almost reverent. All is calm until the memory of yesterday wrestles my thoughts from me.

Did it really happen? Could it be true? I have to know for sure.

The cup is now empty but my dealer, Mr. Coffee, is beckoning me to return for another dose. Summoning my dubious willpower, I ignore its siren song and open my front door and proceed to trip through the cool morning dew of my yard to retrieve the chronicle of the previous day’s events: the Tuesday morning paper.

Upon return, and with the second cup of coffee in hand, I quickly discard the unnecessary and wholly irrelevant front-page and classifieds. Sales papers and obituaries are cast asunder and festooned around my living room. With malice, the travel and business sections are quickly dispatched as I secure the object of my frantic search: The sports page. My mind is racing: Did I dream it? Was it a figment of my imagination? Was my drunken state responsible for conjuring some joyous memory of yore and superimposing it on my present-day reality? Did the University of Alabama really win the SEC championship? Was fitting tribute once again placed at the recently defiled Altar of Bryant?

The Truth is confirmed: Alabama did post a glorious and valiant victory in the battle with the evil canine marauders and their amoral leader. The taste of my coffee sweetens with the thought. I quickly read and re-read the article as if the box score would transmogrify in front of my sleepy eyes and betray my now contented mind. To my nervous relief the words hold true to their original message and the cosmic change on my surroundings is instantly palpable.

Like the promise of a rainbow after a storm, the day begins to take on a warm luster. The Earth is now a better, happier place. The foreboding heavens follow suit as the storm clouds hurriedly retreat from view and give way to a vibrant and intense sunlight that shines more vividly than anytime in recent memory. The visual rapture of that brightness overflows onto the surrounding hills and bathes the entire area with a divine brilliance that provides a shimmering, iridescent halo to all that it touches.

This breathtaking and spiritually reborn vista is joined in perfect accompaniment by the clean, sweet scent of my once dying - now thriving - magnolia trees. The recently blighted, brown-leafed trees now proudly flaunt healthy hues of rich forest green. Birds return to their nests and squirrels zigzag across the plush lawn. Children laugh and play and run and sing the happy songs of youth and innocence again. Like dominoes, one positive turn leads to another as happiness spreads from house to house; from neighborhood to neighborhood; from city to city; and, ultimately, the entire Earth returns to its correct axis and orbit.

I am now comforted and my psyche healed. I am whole. And like the Israelites, after wandering in the wilderness for years, I will take this miraculous manna from heaven and nourish myself until completely sated. The villainous usurper is banished and contentment and joy - rapturous joy - are scepter and orb symbols of the returned and rightful King.

Above, heaven and gods blush with obvious envy at their worldly superiors. Truly, this game was the salve and nectar that my battered soul craved.

GBJs wrote:AA, that’s always my favorite.

How you been, GBJ’s?

"The rifle-armed All-American, Tony Eason, set his angular jaw against the gale-like, frozen winds on that dark Memphis night. "

"Glanton rode on all contrary to the tide of refugees like some storied hero toward what beast of war or plague or famine with what set to his re­lentless jaw."

As said earlier this year, the team closest to Bammer in talent is their 2nd string lineup.

And 42 years later, Doug Dickey's "4th and dumb" returns.

Great game. Congrats to Bama. Georgia made it WAAAAAY closer than I thought it would be. Talent wise, Georgia is Bama’s equal. The only difference was Smart’s bone-headed decision to run a fake punt on 4th and 11 from midfield in a tie game late in the fourth quarter.

The Dawg fans around here are apoplectic at losing to Bama by a hair two years in a row.

Hey AA, BG and Puddin say hi. They thought you were dead like psa

Haha. Tell them to visit.

What about Scribe? Is he still alive?

Yep

Please invite them. Or to my primary forum.