(First published as a community column in The Huntsville Times on September 14, 2008)I was as neutral as Switzerland for my first 18 years in The Yellowhammer State. If you'd asked me who I pulled for, Alabama or Auburn, you'd have received a shrug of the shoulders, a roll of the eyes and a coolly nonchalant, "Whatever."
But that was before my oldest son enrolled at Tuscaloosa—bye bye, bipartisanship. I had to convert to The Crimson Way, and that came as a surprise to those who knew of my roots and how that 77-6 smackdown Bear Bryant's boys delivered to my hometown Virginia Tech Hokies back in 1973 had stayed stuck in my craw all those years.
But The Bear himself was apparently looking down from that Great Practice Tower In The Sky and wanting to make amends. Just days before the kickoff of the Tide's 2007 home opener against Western Carolina, the inaugural game of the Saban era, two tickets gently wafted into my lap like manna from heaven.
Off to the temple
So off I went to the temple itself, Bryant Denny Stadium, for my full immersion baptism beneath the Crimson Tide. But as I took my seat near the 50-yard line, I knew that I was still a neophyte. A Capstone catechumen lacking proper instruction. A wandering sheep in need of, well, a pastor.
Not to worry, because Amanda, her arms loaded down with concessions, shakers and a handheld "Alabama Fan" to sweep away the evening humidity, was making her way down the aisle.
Amanda was straight from central casting. She was fifty-something, five foot one inch and 100 pounds if she was an ounce. Her nails were painted a glossy crimson, and she wore a Bama tank top, grey sweat shorts and Roll Tide flip-flops. She was loud, salty and full of sass, in a Steel Magnolias, Ouiser Boudreaux sort of way (although I can assure you, she was no Cajun).
She'd been born for that night, and as Amanda called the assembly to order, she was, to put it simply, on fire. "Hey evra'body, it's time to party! Roll Tide, Roll!"
Amanda knew every play of the pregame film by heart and served as my personal narrator, latching on to my arm and squeezing tightly every time a good catch or hit was coming up—which is to say, constantly.
"Ooh, ooh, watch now, look at George go, oh, here comes Tyrone, check out this catch—YESSS! Look, here comes a good hit—BOOOOM!
But not even Amanda in her most technicolor houndstooth dreams could have imagined what would happen next. On the first play from scrimmage, freshman tailback Terry Grant took the pitch from John Parker Wilson, ran right, cut back left and then scampered against the grain for a 47-yard touchdown.
Crimson tsunami
You think your local First Baptist Church Choir is loud? Then just try keeping track of your part when a 92,000 member congregation erupts in a hallelujah chorus, drowning out a decade's worth of spleen and disappointment in a towering, all-consuming Crimson flood.
I looked over at Amanda. She was jumping up and down like a jackhammer on crystal meth, her mouth chattering away in some kind of strange, never-before-heard goal line glossolalia. I looked more closely, and I could have sworn I saw an aura flitting about her head. My God, I thought, the woman's been transfigured.
Amanda kept up her non-stop sermon and "GO, GO, GO, BAMAHHHs" well into the fourth quarter. Despite a little hoarseness setting in, she saved enough in the tank for the benediction, a loud "Rammer Jammer" as the final seconds ticked away on the 52-6 thrashing.
As the game ended, I shook her hand and thanked her for helping make it a night to remember. "I think Phyllis from Mulga had best watch her back," I said, referring to the so-called "Number One Alabama Fan" of Paul Finebaum radio fame.
Amanda beamed. Then she sighed, and in one of those authentically Southern moments, the kind deep-fried in an extra crispy coating of good old-fashioned irony, said: "Ya know, I'm so damn happy I don't know what to say."
©2008 Dr. Michael Brown/20/40-Something. All Rights Reserved.
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