I’m coming to you from a train – en route to Philly from Boston. I spent the week running around Back Bay and Beacon Hill. I love a city where you don’t need cabs or a car to get around. The weather wasn’t agreeable when I landed, but when the nor’easter passed, it was a week of leisurely walks beneath the elms on Commonwealth Avenue.
I’ve got the Dawgs on my laptop as I pass by sailboats and clapboard houses. The trees are just starting to turn and the sky is eggshell blue. I think I’m in Rhode Island.
I stayed at the Union Club where, get this, my room didn’t have air conditioning. I called the front desk asking how to turn it on and was told to open the window. Not that it was hot, but when you’re used to Waffle House-like temps (i.e. frigid death), it took some getting used to.
Anyway, the conductor just said we’re pulling into New Haven, Connecticut, where the marshes look like St. Simons Island. I’d imagine the waterfowl hunting is world-class, though I wonder if the ducks have funny accents too.
Coincidentally, my 9th great-grandfather was one of the founders of New Haven in 1639. And, as you know, our first game in Sanford was against Yale.
Our Dawgs look sharp. Though Vandy is in the same league as the boys from New Haven, watching us manhandle the most vulnerable of our SEC brethren never gets old. That can’t be said for Alabama.
Here’s to hoping for a bare-knuckle fight in Tuscaloosa.
