No. 172 - Poor Man’s Game Notes I: UGA vs. Marshall, 8/30/25
Lost in the grandeur of Deer Valley, I’d forgotten I’d woken up that morning at 489 feet above sea level in Austin. Even at just 6,500 feet, my Southern lungs were longing for sea level—namely, St. Simons Island.
I spent a few days in Park City before a camping trip in Grand Teton National Park. Days were spent zipping through Wyoming, Idaho, and Montana; evenings were spent lakeside, watching the sun set behind the Tetons. Life was good, and with college football season only days away, it was about to get better.
I returned to Hartsfield looking like a twenty-something Spreadhead circa the mid-’90s: unwashed hair in need of a barber, a cowboy hat from a Wyoming gas station, and a week’s worth of facial hair.
After a few days in Atlanta catching up with family (I’d been on the road a month), I got a haircut, went to Bible study at The Cabin, and headed south on the 75/16/95 corridor to St. Simons.
My day on the island unfolded as follows:
5:00 a.m.—Woke up, combed my hair with my hand, splashed on cologne, and hit the road.
5:15 a.m.—Allman Brothers playlist on.
7:00 a.m.—Black coffee while listening to East Bound and Down.
8:30 a.m.—Lit a breakfast cigar.
10:30 a.m.—Enjoyed a plug of Red Man.
11:00 a.m.—Crossed the causeway from Brunswick to St. Simons, hooked a right on Retreat Avenue.
11:15 a.m.—Arrived at The Lodge at Sea Island, hit a few balls on the Speedway.
11:30 a.m.— Lunch in the men’s locker room, a fabulous spread of fried chicken, mac & cheese, and banana pudding, with Mr. Ryan Scates, the Chief Muckety-Muck of this publication.
12:30 p.m.—Heard how Ryan’s youngest took a golf club to his Porsche (picture a six-year-old Walter Sobchak smashing the Corvette in The Big Lebowski). Junior may have punched his ticket to boarding school.
1:30 p.m.—After-lunch cigar while watching the Tour Championship in a broken-in leather chair that had my ass maybe six inches from the plaid carpet.
3:30 p.m.—Afternoon siesta at the venerable Queen Court Inn.
5:30 p.m.—Vanilla shake and cheeseburger at Frosty’s.
6:30 p.m.—Fly-fishing for redfish with Mr. Jay Thaw. We didn’t catch anything, but we managed to lose the following overboard:
His watch
My driver’s license
His hat
We were sober—hand to God.
As you know, our fearless leader is an expert of sorts on Georgia football—after all, he is the founder, editor, and publisher of this soon-to-be Pulitzer winner—so when I asked him about the upcoming season, he simply threw up his hands and said, “I have no idea!”
I agree. As a wet-behind-the-ears stockbroker fresh out of our beloved university, I was told something I’ll never forget: only two things control Wall Street: fear and greed.
Looking at college football today, no truer words could be said. Let’s just hope for twelve games of smash-mouth football. Give ’em hell Kirby!
Go Dawgs!
An Evening Fly Fishing for Redfish on St. Simons Island, GA
