(Big Ookee ain’t nothin’ but a Dawg fan. If you're one too, you’ve followed his previous adventures in this here column. You saw how he and his woman Bertha May got through the Nicholls State game. You stood in solidarity with them during what is remembered as the Vanderbilt Catastrophe of 2016. But in this installment, he faces his darkest destiny.)
Big Ookee started the day with his morning workout—touching his toes, which he accomplished two and one-third times—then got him a beer from the fridge while he caught his breath. Almost time for the Dawgs to play. Right now, nothing but haircuts-in-ties on ESPN. Big Ookee hates the haircuts-in-ties.
Usually the big guy would be having his pregame upchuck-belly about now. It’s mostly a Pepto Bismol thing. He rarely actually blows any chunks unless the Dawgs at least make the Dome. But some lesser game, like vs. Somewhere-in-Looziana Polytech or like today, a BOWL CLOSER TO FRIGGIN’ MISSOURI THAN FLORIDA, AGAINST A 6-FRIGGIN’-LOSS TEAM—nope, Big Ookee saves his upchuck-bellies for life’s more central moments.
Plus there was that whole Georgia Tech Thing. Big Ookie hadn’t even begun to deal with his damaged emotions over the Georgia Tech Thing. He wasn’t exactly seeing a shrink or nothing, but he’d shared some honest words with Delmont over to the Ace Hardware.
Delmont is a wise soul who will let a man express the pain in his heart when it needs to come out. Also there’s no better man when it comes to knowledge of aluminum siding than Delmont. Good man, that one.
Big Ookee’d had a bit of a rough stretch there. He was like a crumpled beer can without a compass, floating in a storm-tossed sea. Delmont and his woman brought over a buffalo wings casserole and told him that life was bigger than Georgia football—something Ookee had always suspected, but didn’t know for sure. The Missus shared some words about the Lord and prayed with him. Delmont shared a six-pack.
After they’d gone home, he put on his safety vest, turned off his phone, climbed in his truck, and went out to the woods, where he sat in his deer stand for a while, just watching the autumn wind rustle the branches, and thinking about his life. What was it all about?
Maybe Delmont and the Missus were right—life was more than some game for three-hundred-pound youngsters. The more he thought about it, the more he was ashamed of his past life, making the Dawgs into what Mrs. Delmont called a “false god.” He made a solemn vow to himself that things would be different from now on. He’d turn the Bulldog Man Cave into a real study. He’s read some important books and maybe even start listening to his wife. He’d do something or other in church missions, once he found out what that was.
Then he heard boots crackling on the pine straw, and two burly state troopers appeared under his tree. “Big Ookie? is that you?” asked the red-haired one.
“Yep. Is everything all right? Nothing bad happened, did it?”
“No, sir. Your wife sent us to fetch you home. She wants you to know Chubb and Sony, and some other fellas she don’t know, are coming back next year.”
“WHAT?” shouted Big Ookie, and he let out a Rebel whoop-dee-whoop that must have cleared a hundred acres of whitetails. He leaped out of the tree and landed on his feet, which hurt like all heck but he didn’t care. “You didn’t say that just to keep me from, you know, doin’ somethin’ drastic?”
“We wouldn’t lie to you about Chubb and Sony, sir. The car is this way.”
“It’s a dang Christmas miracle, that’s what it is.” And he grabbed the sidearm of the one with the moustache, and fired several celebratory shots into the air until the trooper wrestled it away from him.
After that, Big Ookee’s Christmas wasn’t half bad. He got through the family get-togethers without any fistfights for once. He took down all 37,000 Christmas lights on the front lawn without serious injury, and he watched every mother-lovin’ bowl ESPN put on. There were several colleges he was pretty sure were made up, playing in bowls with sponsors they had to be joking about. Like the Dollar General Store Bowl. That must have been a fun shopping spree for the team, fifteen dollars at the Dollar General Store.
He watched the Popeye’s Bahamas Bowl—do they eat Popeye’s chicken in the Bahamas? Even the Chico’s Bail Bonds New Jersey Bowl. He was pretty sure this one was played in the back lot of a tattoo parlor.
Also the AutoZone Liberty Bowl. Which Directional Michigan was in that one? Oops. That would be his Dawgs.
Well, a Memphis car parts bowl was nice for the kids, he guessed. Free spark plugs, big discount on a lube job, and maybe a trip to Graceland to see the toilet where Elvis died.
Big Ookee switched back to ESPN from the bass fishing channel and settled in to see his Dawgs take on TCU. He’d come back to earth from the initial euphoria about the running backs returning, but at least he wasn’t talking no craziness about giving up football. He and his Dawgs had never been more serious in their commitment to one another.
Long about the middle of the second quarter, he was once again in a bad place. He called Bertha Mae, who was at work, and said, “Honey, I just want you to know I’ve always tried to be a good husband. I’m no good about the toilet lid and stuff, but—”
“I take it the Dawgs are losing again, Lamb Chop.”
“Sixteen to friggin’ seven! Offense SUCKS. Life SUCKS. What’s it all about, honey? Why don’t God love the Dawgs the way we do?”
“Just watch something else, Lamb Chop, and when I get home I’ll cook up some of them pork belly chimichangas the way you like them—OOKEE? Honey? Are you all right?”
“Am I all right? Is that a question? Sony just went thirty-three for a touchdown!”
“Well, you screamed in my ear, Snickerdoodle, and I think I’m a little deaf in it now, but as long as you’re okay.”
“Can this wait, woman? You know I don’t talk on the phone during football or sex.”
He hung up and punched a hole in the wall—a happy punch, not the angry kind, so it was all good. Life was good. Big Ookie thanked the Man Upstairs and grabbed him another beer.
Big Ookee started the day with his morning workout—touching his toes, which he accomplished two and one-third times—then got him a beer from the fridge while he caught his breath. Almost time for the Dawgs to play. Right now, nothing but haircuts-in-ties on ESPN. Big Ookee hates the haircuts-in-ties.
Usually the big guy would be having his pregame upchuck-belly about now. It’s mostly a Pepto Bismol thing. He rarely actually blows any chunks unless the Dawgs at least make the Dome. But some lesser game, like vs. Somewhere-in-Looziana Polytech or like today, a BOWL CLOSER TO FRIGGIN’ MISSOURI THAN FLORIDA, AGAINST A 6-FRIGGIN’-LOSS TEAM—nope, Big Ookee saves his upchuck-bellies for life’s more central moments.
Plus there was that whole Georgia Tech Thing. Big Ookie hadn’t even begun to deal with his damaged emotions over the Georgia Tech Thing. He wasn’t exactly seeing a shrink or nothing, but he’d shared some honest words with Delmont over to the Ace Hardware.
Delmont is a wise soul who will let a man express the pain in his heart when it needs to come out. Also there’s no better man when it comes to knowledge of aluminum siding than Delmont. Good man, that one.
Big Ookee’d had a bit of a rough stretch there. He was like a crumpled beer can without a compass, floating in a storm-tossed sea. Delmont and his woman brought over a buffalo wings casserole and told him that life was bigger than Georgia football—something Ookee had always suspected, but didn’t know for sure. The Missus shared some words about the Lord and prayed with him. Delmont shared a six-pack.
After they’d gone home, he put on his safety vest, turned off his phone, climbed in his truck, and went out to the woods, where he sat in his deer stand for a while, just watching the autumn wind rustle the branches, and thinking about his life. What was it all about?
Maybe Delmont and the Missus were right—life was more than some game for three-hundred-pound youngsters. The more he thought about it, the more he was ashamed of his past life, making the Dawgs into what Mrs. Delmont called a “false god.” He made a solemn vow to himself that things would be different from now on. He’d turn the Bulldog Man Cave into a real study. He’s read some important books and maybe even start listening to his wife. He’d do something or other in church missions, once he found out what that was.
Then he heard boots crackling on the pine straw, and two burly state troopers appeared under his tree. “Big Ookie? is that you?” asked the red-haired one.
“Yep. Is everything all right? Nothing bad happened, did it?”
“No, sir. Your wife sent us to fetch you home. She wants you to know Chubb and Sony, and some other fellas she don’t know, are coming back next year.”
“WHAT?” shouted Big Ookie, and he let out a Rebel whoop-dee-whoop that must have cleared a hundred acres of whitetails. He leaped out of the tree and landed on his feet, which hurt like all heck but he didn’t care. “You didn’t say that just to keep me from, you know, doin’ somethin’ drastic?”
“We wouldn’t lie to you about Chubb and Sony, sir. The car is this way.”
“It’s a dang Christmas miracle, that’s what it is.” And he grabbed the sidearm of the one with the moustache, and fired several celebratory shots into the air until the trooper wrestled it away from him.
After that, Big Ookee’s Christmas wasn’t half bad. He got through the family get-togethers without any fistfights for once. He took down all 37,000 Christmas lights on the front lawn without serious injury, and he watched every mother-lovin’ bowl ESPN put on. There were several colleges he was pretty sure were made up, playing in bowls with sponsors they had to be joking about. Like the Dollar General Store Bowl. That must have been a fun shopping spree for the team, fifteen dollars at the Dollar General Store.
He watched the Popeye’s Bahamas Bowl—do they eat Popeye’s chicken in the Bahamas? Even the Chico’s Bail Bonds New Jersey Bowl. He was pretty sure this one was played in the back lot of a tattoo parlor.
Also the AutoZone Liberty Bowl. Which Directional Michigan was in that one? Oops. That would be his Dawgs.
Well, a Memphis car parts bowl was nice for the kids, he guessed. Free spark plugs, big discount on a lube job, and maybe a trip to Graceland to see the toilet where Elvis died.
Big Ookee switched back to ESPN from the bass fishing channel and settled in to see his Dawgs take on TCU. He’d come back to earth from the initial euphoria about the running backs returning, but at least he wasn’t talking no craziness about giving up football. He and his Dawgs had never been more serious in their commitment to one another.
Long about the middle of the second quarter, he was once again in a bad place. He called Bertha Mae, who was at work, and said, “Honey, I just want you to know I’ve always tried to be a good husband. I’m no good about the toilet lid and stuff, but—”
“I take it the Dawgs are losing again, Lamb Chop.”
“Sixteen to friggin’ seven! Offense SUCKS. Life SUCKS. What’s it all about, honey? Why don’t God love the Dawgs the way we do?”
“Just watch something else, Lamb Chop, and when I get home I’ll cook up some of them pork belly chimichangas the way you like them—OOKEE? Honey? Are you all right?”
“Am I all right? Is that a question? Sony just went thirty-three for a touchdown!”
“Well, you screamed in my ear, Snickerdoodle, and I think I’m a little deaf in it now, but as long as you’re okay.”
“Can this wait, woman? You know I don’t talk on the phone during football or sex.”
He hung up and punched a hole in the wall—a happy punch, not the angry kind, so it was all good. Life was good. Big Ookie thanked the Man Upstairs and grabbed him another beer.
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