I thought it was perfect. But when I opened the next present I found tickets to the Alabama vs. Penn State Sugar Bowl that would be played four days later in the brand-new New Orleans Superdome. Not the famous one with the Barry Krauss goal line stand, but it was a 13-6 thriller, and Richard Todd – No. 14 – was MVP.
It was heaven, Roll Tide. And thank you, Bear.
It’s hard to believe I haven’t seen an Alabama game live since 2003. It’s all because Nick Saban drove me away. Let me explain.
My children were young then, and hardly into football. They didn’t know the thrill of “The Kick” or the heartbreak of “Punt Bama Punt.” They didn’t know the joy of watching George Teague and Co. dismember mighty Miami and Gino Torretta to restore, temporarily, at least, the divine order of college football.
All they knew of football was dad, yelling at the television for what seemed like no logical reason. It was unlike him. It was disconcerting.
They didn’t yell at the screen at all. So I realized that as an Alabama kid, an Alabama fan, an Alabama grad, I had failed them. I resolved to take them to a game.
I got tickets, which wasn’t hard, because Alabama only won four games that year. I guess that’s unfathomable to anybody born this century.
But there were still 83,000 fans in the stadium when we arrived in Tuscaloosa that evening to play the LSU Tigers, led by Nick Saban and en route to a shared national championship.
Nick Saban. Lord, how I hated him that night.
Our tickets were in the end zone, and we were surrounded by Cajuns yelling words my youngest did not yet know. A pair of women in purple and gold threw punches in the row below us, and by the third quarter Saban’s team was up 24-0 on Alabama, at home.
I’d never seen that. I’d never felt the hopelessness other fan bases must experience on the regular. So I did something I never thought I’d do, something my father would be ashamed of.
I herded my children out of that tiger’s den, out the gate and into the car, with most of the second half left to play.
And I got exactly what I deserved. When we reached the shady spot I’d paid to park our ‘90s minivan – a battered Chevy Lumina to make things worse – I realized we were blocked in on all sides. By LSU fans.
So we sat in the car, and waited for the game to end, forced to endure the 27-3 shellacking by radio. LSU fans stayed inside until the end, singing St. Nick’s praises on hallowed Alabama ground.
It was midnight before we got home. Tired. Sad. Angry at traffic and bad decisions and Mike Shula. The kids were mystified.
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