No. 182 - Poor Man’s Game Notes IV: UGA vs. Kentucky, 10/4/25

If you’re lucky, the universe will hand you a lifelong friend who’s your complete opposite. For me, that person is B. Floyd.

B. Floyd is a blue-collar Kentuckian. He gave college a shot, realized it wasn’t a fit, and started changing oil. It wasn’t long before he got a union job as a plumber, and he’s been at it ever since.

My friend is opposite me in every way. He’s a cigarette-smoking bass fisherman, I’m a cigar-chomping fly fisherman. He drives an F-250, I drive a 530. But it works. Like electricity: I don’t need to know how, only that the light comes on.

Our adventures usually start with a phone call and a simple question: “Whatcha doing Saturday?” I’ll say, “Whatcha got in mind?” and before I know it, I’m roped in. And I can GUARAN-DAMN-TEE you this: B. Floyd is hiding something.

He ain’t a liar, but he’s always got something up his sleeve. This time, it was Bardstown, KY, the Bourbon Capital of the World, to buy a truck named Fatal Attraction from his cousin Jethro, a master BS’er if there ever was one.

When we finally tracked Jethro down, he was shirtless, drunk, and rattling off three stories at once about why he didn’t have the title. Jethro swore he’d “handle it” if we gave him twenty-four hours. So we toured My Old Kentucky Home and stopped at Maker’s Mark, where B. Floyd dipped a bottle in red wax.

In an effort to demonstrate good faith and fair dealing, Jethro took us to a buddy’s trailer that night. As we pulled into the trailer park, complete with rusty singlewides and too many cars on cinderblocks to count, I became hyper-aware I wasn’t in Athens anymore.

Gone were preppy boys from Atlanta; and in their place stood hardened sons of the Confederacy, with thick beards, muddy boots, and tattoos. Some were acquired while incarcerated.

I’ve always believed Kentucky to be one of the friendliest states, and Bardstown, even with me dressed like I’d come straight from the racquet club, was no different. The gents and I talked college football between pulls from old moonshine jugs. Kentucky, including its football team, is hard to root against.

The next morning, Jethro actually showed up with the title. And there it was: a Chevy coughing up black smoke with a Fatal Attraction bumper sticker. We limped over the Tennessee mountains at ten miles an hour, arms waving cars to pass us. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think the damn thing was on fire.

Sure enough, Fatal broke down on the Georgia/Tennessee line. We spent the better part of the evening at a gas station table with three bucks to our name and half a pack of cigarettes. That damned old truck ended up running for a few years before B. Floyd had to junk it.

Twenty-five years later, our trip to Bardstown occasionally comes up in conversation, usually around the Kentucky game, with my buddy, true to form, only remembering the good times.

“You remember ol’ Fatal… that sumbitch was one helluva truck.”

“Yeah, it was a son of a bitch, alright.”