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Rob Suggs, aka Saxondawg, is a best selling author with over 50 books to his credit. He is the soul of the DawgVent, where he can often be found pontificating and generally making life more pleasant for his fellow Dawg fans. I have asked Rob to give us a weekly column and if time allows, he will do so. - Radi Nabulsi
'Twas the night before football, and all that. Whatever. Rewrite the thing yourself, subbing football stuff for visions of sugarplums and all that rot. Knock yourself out.
See, last season didn't leave me with any poetry in my soul, you dig me? We couldn't score on Georgia friggin' Southern. UGA-Missouri was an epic battle of the big toes of scrawny kickers. Ragweed sprouted in the end zone. The zero on the home side of the scoreboard got stuck there.
No offense, but it was that kind of season: um, no offense. So I tried to enter 2016 with realistic expectations. A first down here or there would be nice.
So Ma in her kerchief And I in my UGA cap, had just settled down by the TV--oh, snap. I said I wasn't going to do that. Anyway, we turned on the game and Georgia elected to receive. Say WHAT? We actually wanted our offense on the field? Fire Kirby!
Then, on the first play, we ripped off a really nice run, and then another one. With a lumbering tailback so lively and quick, we knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
Oops. Sorry. It's just that already this little voice in my ear, a little tiny Herschel, or at least one of his personalities, whispering, "We're back to Sinkwich! No more Stink-wich!" Then, of course, Lambert took a couple of sacks. Yep. Okay, it was nice while it lasted. But the defense held, we got the ball back, and Lambert hit a really nice pass. And as I drew in my head, and was turning around, o'er the goalline St. Nicholas came with a bound.
"A touchdown!" I exclaimed. "I remember these! You get six points, right?" And Tiny Herschel replied, "Yep. But guess what? Sometimes you even get two or three or four of these touchdowns in one game."
I said, "In your dreams, Tiny Herschel."
But he said, "Look at my man Nick. Did you already forget number 27?" So I did look. He was dressed all in red, from his head to his shoes, and his clothes were all tarnish'd with linebacker ooze.
I'll admit it. As another touchdown transpired before my very eyes, I was starting to feel the poetry. "Look, honey!" I said. "Herrien B Carryin'!"
"Is that a rapper name or what?" she asked. But by then, before I could go on the Internet to see if Herrien was by some chance from Darien, Chubb was back in the game. However, things had gotten tense. We had a tiny lead in the fourth quarter, and we weren't too good at holding onto these leads. I thought of Tennessee last season. However, Chubb spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, and he shut up Fedora, that UNC jerk.
He broke a long, nasty touchdown run! We were going to beat a ranked team, instead of being a rank team. I leapt to my feet and began exclaiming sonnets and rhyming couplets as I watched Chubb trot off the field, having inflicted 222 nasty yards on those who aspired to tackle him. I called upon the spirits of Keats, Wordsworth, and a certain young gal from Nantucket.
But poetry failed me. "Never sub for Chubb!" I shouted, and my wife groaned. The cat gave me a dirty look. So I gave up on verse and commenced speaking in tongues.
But I heard him exclaim, as he jogged out of sight, "Happy Chubbmas to all, and to all a good night!"
Rob Suggs, aka Saxondawg, is a best selling author with over 50 books to his credit. He is the soul of the DawgVent, where he can often be found pontificating and generally making life more pleasant for his fellow Dawg fans. I have asked Rob to give us a weekly column and if time allows, he will do so. - Radi Nabulsi
'Twas the night before football, and all that. Whatever. Rewrite the thing yourself, subbing football stuff for visions of sugarplums and all that rot. Knock yourself out.
See, last season didn't leave me with any poetry in my soul, you dig me? We couldn't score on Georgia friggin' Southern. UGA-Missouri was an epic battle of the big toes of scrawny kickers. Ragweed sprouted in the end zone. The zero on the home side of the scoreboard got stuck there.
No offense, but it was that kind of season: um, no offense. So I tried to enter 2016 with realistic expectations. A first down here or there would be nice.
So Ma in her kerchief And I in my UGA cap, had just settled down by the TV--oh, snap. I said I wasn't going to do that. Anyway, we turned on the game and Georgia elected to receive. Say WHAT? We actually wanted our offense on the field? Fire Kirby!
Then, on the first play, we ripped off a really nice run, and then another one. With a lumbering tailback so lively and quick, we knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
Oops. Sorry. It's just that already this little voice in my ear, a little tiny Herschel, or at least one of his personalities, whispering, "We're back to Sinkwich! No more Stink-wich!" Then, of course, Lambert took a couple of sacks. Yep. Okay, it was nice while it lasted. But the defense held, we got the ball back, and Lambert hit a really nice pass. And as I drew in my head, and was turning around, o'er the goalline St. Nicholas came with a bound.
"A touchdown!" I exclaimed. "I remember these! You get six points, right?" And Tiny Herschel replied, "Yep. But guess what? Sometimes you even get two or three or four of these touchdowns in one game."
I said, "In your dreams, Tiny Herschel."
But he said, "Look at my man Nick. Did you already forget number 27?" So I did look. He was dressed all in red, from his head to his shoes, and his clothes were all tarnish'd with linebacker ooze.
I'll admit it. As another touchdown transpired before my very eyes, I was starting to feel the poetry. "Look, honey!" I said. "Herrien B Carryin'!"
"Is that a rapper name or what?" she asked. But by then, before I could go on the Internet to see if Herrien was by some chance from Darien, Chubb was back in the game. However, things had gotten tense. We had a tiny lead in the fourth quarter, and we weren't too good at holding onto these leads. I thought of Tennessee last season. However, Chubb spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, and he shut up Fedora, that UNC jerk.
He broke a long, nasty touchdown run! We were going to beat a ranked team, instead of being a rank team. I leapt to my feet and began exclaiming sonnets and rhyming couplets as I watched Chubb trot off the field, having inflicted 222 nasty yards on those who aspired to tackle him. I called upon the spirits of Keats, Wordsworth, and a certain young gal from Nantucket.
But poetry failed me. "Never sub for Chubb!" I shouted, and my wife groaned. The cat gave me a dirty look. So I gave up on verse and commenced speaking in tongues.
But I heard him exclaim, as he jogged out of sight, "Happy Chubbmas to all, and to all a good night!"
