Couldn’t sleep last night. There was just too much going on inside my head.
A little voice inside said, “Come on, get a little excited, it’s not gonna kill ya. How ’bout you turn on the lights and we’ll watch the MSU highlights again?”
I said, “I’ve watched ’em 17 times. One more and my wife says she’ll make me go to the ballet. This time, I think she’s serious. Look, I need my sleep, all right?”
“Sleep is for hockey season. Right now is football time, baby! Tennessee Week is just once per year.”
A jagged, chainsaw voice cut in: “Yeah, I remember. Last year, year before. Vols. Old Lady Luck kicked us in our fannies. Our other side, too. Hail Mary pass. Those dames Hail Mary and Lady Luck, they ripped out our hearts.”
Yep, Larry’s in my head, too. Sleep is tough. I said to the first voice, the one that sounds like Scott Howard, “Now, look what you’ve done, Scott! You woke up Larry. Neither of us sleeps now.”
“Wouldn’t anyway,” said Scott. “You ever hear Larry snore? Sounds like death metal played in a Sanford toilet stall.”
“Get the picture. Tennessee, all decked out in gray and yella, they got the big linemen, with those big, churning thighs, driving you, driiiiving you,” said Larry. “The crowd crying out against the Dawgs! The clock ticking away! Old Lady Luck with her hobnail boots and her whip.”
“Great,” I said, pushing my ears into the pillows. “Now I’ll be dreaming that stuff.”
“I kinda like it,” said Scott. “But listen, buddy, you need to loosen up. Go a little crazy for your Bulldogs. We’re 4-0, Top Ten, baby! Flee the Flicker! Jump in the Big Red Kirby Kar!”
“Our blockers are beat up, limping with crutches, hanging on by a thread,” said Larry. “Just kids, these blockers. Too young to march off to Knoxville. Not ready to die.”
“Oh, get real. Tell all that to UMass. I got my classic calls ready. ‘CHUBBY TIME! CHUBBY TIME! CHUBBY CHECKER TIME, BABY!’”
I said, “Can you hold it down, Scott? My wife’s about two feet away.”
“Like I said, ‘CHUBBY TIME!’”
“Not funny. Wasn't funny last night or the night before, either.”
“Don’t give in, Sax,” said Larry. “Don't believe, I'm beggin' ya! You know how this all ends. Broken dreams. Shreveport.”
“Nonsense!” said Scott. “Time to man up. Fan up! This team, this coach, they’re different, baby! Besides, what’s the worst that can happen? You dream big, you shoot for the moon, and if you fall short, you get the stars.”
“In Shreveport. Where factory fumes block ’em out. Smelly place. Steer clear of the women. Stick with me, kid. I did years of Bulldog football. Basketball, too, even worse. I also did Vanderbilt. Think about that. Vanderbilt and Bulldog basketball. Went straight to Heaven when I checked out, no purgatory required.”
“No offense to Larry, Sax, but the guy would tell you why you’d hate winning the lottery.”
“Taxes! Leeching strangers. Look at the paperwork falling from the sky! No offense taken.”
I said, “Both you guys make good points. I want to believe, I really do. But what if we fail? Someone on the Internet will laugh at me! I couldn't take it. Reading the Vent would be like chewing broken glass. Even at church, I'd never hear the end of it from Deacon Cletus ‘Big Orange’ Cooter, personal injuries lawyer.”
“So what?” said Scott. “Be a man! Sack up. Are you that much of a snowflake, that timid a Casper Milquetoast? Is your heart too fragile for a Saturday ouchy every now and then? You gonna let Deacon Cletus take your offering plate money?”
“Well, no, I—”
“Strap on your hobnails,” said Larry. “Lace 'em tight, step on those deacons’ faces. I mean, really bite off their noses. Personal injury attorney, give 'em personal injuries.”
“Wait a minute, Larry—whose side are you on?”
“The Howard youngster, he’s got a point. Though I don’t care for his Chubby Time thing. Me, I’d say, kid, get your arse to Knoxville this weekend. Damage some property. Not that anybody can tell.”
“Sounds good. You in, Scott? Scott! Stop staring at my wife. Man, you guys are creepy sometimes.”
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For more Sax, click the pic:
