The world was young and our coach was young, a fresh-faced gridiron King David, and all of us were just teenagers huffing the fumes of The Perfect Season that wouldn’t end, no matter how many points we were down, no matter how many interceptions we needed in the fourth quarter. And so I’m at my Dad’s and the game is on and there’s probably a pizza and things aren’t really looking all that good, but I mean, you know. And then there’s an interception and another interception. Defense, Auburn, defense. And Dad’s doing pushups. He just won’t stop doing pushups. Because you felt so guilty about not doing something in return. God’s doing all the work. Auburn’s riding God piggyback through the flames of probation. And all I really, truly remember is the holy unavoidable cussword of Bryan Robinson lifting his No. 1 in the air and then Dad ripping off his shirt—and dude is hairy—and throwing the screen door open and running out onto the deck like everyone else was running out on their decks and bellowing a “Waaaarrrr Eeeaglllllle” that was broken up by him repeatedly pounding on his chest, and I mean pounding, not like Tarzan—like an ape. For like five minutes. THIS is a sentence. THIS is Auburn.
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