No. 196 - Poor Man’s Game Notes X: UGA vs. Georgia Tech, 11/28/25

I’m coming to you from a gas station in Tennessee. Out in the parking lot is a 1980 Jeep CJ-5 that I just bought. It’s handsome, it smells like a cigar because I just finished smoking one, and until my acquisition, it had been in the same family since the day it rolled off the dealership lot. The automobile gods are on my side—but that wasn’t always the case.

My first car was my mother’s candy-apple red van—known as the Cherry Bomb. It wasn’t ideal, but you could cram a dozen buddies into it, and in a miraculous twist of fate, it handled like a CJ when I took it four-wheeling. My mother damn near lost her mind when she saw it covered in mud. I told her I accidentally hit a puddle.

My next ride was an old Volkswagen I bought from B. Floyd’s dad. A Pebble Beach Concours contender it was not. In fact, I had a folded-up pizza box jammed into the passenger-side window to keep it up—but I was a broke college kid and didn’t care. And at 45 miles to the gallon, it got the gang to Tuscaloosa and back for a few bucks.

But there was a nerd from Tech who made a snide comment about the pizza box. I can still picture his wiry little frame and dorky Tech hat with a fishhook on the bill. In addition to his 26-inch waist, he had a “I’m afraid to grab a largemouth by the lips” vibe. You know the type—they ran rampant at Tech in the 90s.

Anyway, I let Poindexter’s comment slide, which wasn’t easy. I’ve never suffered from George Costanza’s lack of comeback timing. I’m usually game for a good back-and-forth—especially with dimwitted Techies—but not this time.

I did a quick Classic City equation in my mind: weighing the pros and cons of engaging with a rat-cap dweeb. I had to consider that he was still dreaming of making it to first base with a woman, and that his future as a season-ticket holder would be plagued with disillusionment. So why take the bait from a wannabe fisherman? I just winked at him and said, “Alright, partner.”

This is representative of my relationship with Tech—a blend of vague amusement and total indifference, somewhere between a stick figure with the mouth of a largemouth and the passing of the dominance baton from Richt to Kirby.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m done with my coffee—it’s time for another cigar in my new toy.

Give ’em hell, Kirby!