No. 3 - Bulldawg Illustrated III: UGA vs. Colorado, 10/2/10

The One That Got Away

Saturday started off on a good note. I headed out to the “Hooch” with my fly rod and cigar for an afternoon of fishing. I figured since we were playing Colorado, I should get in the spirit of the West. I turned on some old Widespread Panic and cast my fly. I had a few hours to kill before the Dawgs suited up, and what better way than to feed this addiction of fly fishing (two summers working in Yellowstone will do that to you).

With the exception of a few river hippies and their crazy dogs, the afternoon looked promising. The weather was gorgeous and optimism was at an all-time high—Clark Griswold style. I just knew a rainbow trout was destined to strike my fly… probably several.

But Mother Nature had a different plan, and her plan ensured every rainbow got through the day without a newly acquired hole in their lip. But that was OK. A bad day of fishing beats a good day of just about anything else. The hippies lent me a lighter for my cigar, and we talked about Georgia football before parting ways… all of us agreeing Georgia would leave Boulder victorious.

When I got home, I put on my game day attire and was still optimistic. And how could I not be? AJ was back, Colorado was a perennial loser, and there was NO way we were leaving the Rocky Mountains 1–4. But Georgia’s fate and Mother Nature must have made a pact. The only winners on Saturday were the river hippies—cold beer, sunshine, and some Grateful Dead tapes (circa mid-’80s, I was told) was all they needed, and they had it.

Like usual, my daughter watched the first half with me. Annabelle cracks me up for a million reasons, but the fact that she can run around the house all day with the attention span of a gnat and then, all of a sudden, cuddle up with me and watch college football without a peep is something I love and equally don’t yet understand.

She obviously knows how important these games are to her father. I also think she likes spending uninterrupted time with her daddy. I treat her like an adult during the game… explaining why a play didn’t work, why we need a first down… everything. And she just sits there, with her little legs set like mine, and occasionally includes commentary that only she understands… to which I respond, “Yes, ma’am.”

I had serious doubts about everything until AJ pulled a Superman and got our blood pumping again. Going into halftime with the lead felt great, but the Buffaloes had a hell of a third quarter. I’ll just cut to the chase and admit I don’t want to relive the fourth quarter… but boy, were we close.

So I’ll ask this again… where do we go from here? Personally, it’s becoming increasingly clear that my sartorial decisions have no impact on the outcome of the game. No more lucky ties, game day pants… nothing.

I think we showed some improvement over the first four games, but obviously not enough to take home a W.

My wife and I took Annabelle to the Braves game Sunday afternoon. Talk about an ideal ballgame—stadium was packed, fans were loud, and we honored our coach for his last regular season game. And luckily it was an exciting game, but most importantly, our players did what they came to do: win one for the skipper. Every coach deserves to leave on a high note, and the Braves did that for Bobby Cox.

I can only hope our Dawgs aren’t put in the same position with Richt when they take the field against the Yellow Jackets this November.

On the other hand, the statue on the corner of Lumpkin and Pinecrest is of a man who went 5–5–1 in ’69, 5–5 in ’70, 6–6 in ’74, 5–6 in ’77, and 6–5 in ’79. Oh yeah… almost forgot: from 1964 (Dooley’s first year) through 1974, Dooley had nine seasons with eight wins or less—compared to Richt’s two from ’01 to ’09. Unfortunately for Richt, the Bulldog Nation was a little more patient with Dooley than they’ll be with him… oddly similar to my daughter’s attention span.

Let’s give Richt a break. Even the best fly fishermen have an off day or two (or four).

EDITOR’S NOTE: This is the third in a periodic series of online journal entries from a suburban dad who, every weekend, longs to be in Athens—but more often than not ends up watching the game from home. He’s dressed in a red and black bow tie, bourbon in one hand, cigar in the other, seated beside his Auburn-grad wife and their daughter, who’s about to receive her first cheerleader uniform: half UGA, half AU, stitched right up the middle.