I'm a Guest Blogger.

I wrote a guest blog for http://www.jamiebg.blogspot.com/
I normally don't endorse political blogs.  And when I say political I mean blogs about baking and taking naps.

Blog is about my favorite thing.  Check it out.  Then come back to my blog.

Joseph

P.S.  Next up on the guest blogging docket.  Perez Hilton.  Hey, it could happen.

I hate Soccer.

That's it.  I hate it.  Here are some reasons.

1.  Their hair.

2.  Those stupid horns that keep going.

3.  1-0 barn burners.

4.  I hate that not enough guys get their cojones kicked.  You would think the dudes playing would get kicked in the junk more.  But alas, no.

 

5.  This guy.

6.  There are people who get offended that Soccer is not he #1 sport in America.  They get mad when you do not like soccer. 

There are more reasons but this is a family blog.

And we want to model their healthcare...

This is what it would look like if Ben Hamaker, Austin Cranford, and Randy Anderson were adults in the Czechoslovakia in the late 1970's and formed a polka band.

Ben is playing the...something.
Austin on lead vocals.
Randy is backup dancer/vocalist.

And they are not cursing.

This is the Banjo Band now.

See if you can guess which is Randy.

**If you don't know any of the people I am talking about just enjoy the video.

My Commencement Address.

I've never been asked to give one. I'll probably never be asked to give one. Unless of course I become a notable alumni by writing the Great American Novel. Then West Blocton would have to ask me back right?I have the opportunity to attend several graduations a year. They are invariably the same, year in and year out. It is almost as if there is a rule book for graduations. It also seems to me there is a separate book for valedictorian/salutatorian and commencement addresses. And they were written by the same person. Without fail they say the same things (We now start a new chapter in our lives...) quote the same poems (I stood in a wood...), and tell the same jokes (We never again have to do {insert teacher and project here}).

I told Kara that I should have given a speech at my graduation. She thought it was a horrible idea. But she also has a broken sense of humor. Here is what I might have said if I had been valedictorian.

"Fellow students, faculty, family, and friends; we are here to mark an end and a beginning. We have worked our whole lives for this one moment in time to finally leave the nest and make our profound marks on the world. Staring up at me from the seats in front are America's future. And to tell the truth it scares the crap out of me."

At this point I would make a grand show of picking up my speech, folding it, and throwing it behind me. I would then drive off the reservation, so to speak.

"Who am I kidding? We are not unique. We are not special. In ten years only a handful of us will be what we thought we would be when we grow up. And only a precious few of those will find any real joy in that. And there are hundreds of thousands of people just like us who think they are special. The very thought that one of you might become the President of the United States makes me want to have myself sterilized. In case you haven't noticed, to quote the great sage and wit Frank Constanza, "I got a lot of problems with you people!!"

Hey you! You're pretty now but eventually you are going to be as ugly as the rest of us.

And you! Picking on people and making them feel small and useless is not a marketable skill. I hope you work for me one day. If I could go back and change one thing it would be your face with a framing hammer.

And you! The car you are driving does not make you cool.

And you! Here's to hoping you have a trust fund to fall back on.

And you! Quit getting in the tanning bed. When you are 35 your skin will look 50. You are going to look like a bleach blond piece of beef jerky.

And you! Just because you are...."

At this point someone has killed the sound system and started the process of forcibly removing me from the stage.

You know what? Maybe Kara is right. I would have been a horrible (but memorable) commencement/valedictory speechifying person.

If you could have said one thing from the stage the night you graduated from high school what would it be?

Problems vs. Perspective

I work with people who have it made. I mean we probably all have it made. We have jobs and oour work environment is nurturing and warm as opposed to toxic and cold. I work at a great place.

I heard someone complaining about something very trivial the other day. Something about belt loops being in the wrong place and how that seriously messed up their whole day.

Which reminded me of a conversation I had with my father several years ago. We were talking about how the population of Hoover was up in arms trying to stop Wal-Mart from building a Supercenter on Hiway 150. They did not want all of the traffic or the people that Wal-Mart brings with it. Here is an approximate transcript (minus colorful profanity) of the conversation:

Bill: Those people really don't have all that much to worry about do they?

Me: Nope.

Bill: What they lack is perspective.

Me: OK. (*Most of the time it is easier to have a conversation with my dad when you say OK alot.)

Bill: Real problems would put their silly (colorful profanity) problems into proper perspective. What the good people of Hoover really need is a good epidemic of influenza. Follow that up with drought and certain crop failure. And just for poops and giggles the constant threat of scalping from the hostile Apaches that live over the hill in Bessemer. If they had these problems Wal-Mart would seem silly.

Me: Hehe.

So the next time I complain about something small please remind me that threat of scalping is a real problem. At least we don't have that to worry about right?

Politics, cliches, and guns.

Love them. I love commercials. I am a fan of cliche. There are certain things you have to say if you want to get elected in this state. Here is a non-comprehensive list.

1. "Insert Name Here" believes in conservative, family values.
Never once does this person say what these are. Are we wired up knowing these. If I don't know what these are am I a gay? Or a communist? Or both?
2. "Insert Name Here" is not involved in insider Montgomery politics.

Whew, that's a relief.

3. "Insert Name Here" is not a trial lawyer. What is so evil about trial lawyers? Other than the obvious. When the gay communists come to get your guns you are going to want a really good trial lawyer.

4. "Insert Name Here" believes in God.
Really? Which one? Jehovah? Buddha? Spaghetti Monster? Tom Cruise?

5. "Insert Name Here" is pro-family.

As if the other person is anti-family and wants to herd them into gas chambers.

Below is a video of Dale Peterson. Dale Peterson is running for something. I am so voting for this guy. It would be like R. Lee Ermey being AG Commissioner.  He makes Tim James look like a gay communist.

If you don't vote don't complain. If you don't vote for Dale Peterson you are a "Insert Name Here".

I couldn't resist.

Temple Beth-El in Birmingham is throwing a BBQ cook off.

There is so much awesomeness. 
1.  Irony.  Intentional or not.  You be the judge.
2.  Porky is wearing a yarmulke.
3.  Kosher BBQ.
4.  Them teaming up with Piggly Wiggly is like AA teaming up with Budweiser.

I think calling this a Jew-B-Que would have been a little much.

Award Winning Writing

The following is a peice I wrote my senior year in college. I was taking a class on Southern Autobiography. Dr. Macmillan wanted to submit it for consideration for the President's Award in writing. I won for upper classmen. I was not a very good English Major. English in most American universities is more about politics and less about story. I was an English Major because I love stories. I was a solid B- student because I did not see the importance of Feminist, Socialist, or any of the other "ist" schools of literary criticism. One of my other professors announced to the class that I had won the President's Award. Most of my earnest young classmates looked like someone had just broken spectacular and offensive wind. Any way, here is what I wrote back in the fall of 1996. I hope you enjoy.

Uranus and a Royal Blue Falcon

When I was young one of the things that I liked to do most was watch the planets at night with Bill. Bill is my father. I call him Bill because that is his name. I guess I called him this because that's what everyone else called him. My mother told me that she tried to get me to call him dad or daddy or papa or some other ridiculous name that I heard other boys call their fathers but I couldn't hear my self saying "Hey dad! Can I borrow the car?" or "How's it goin' pop?" or anything else that sounds remotely similar to these things. It has always been just plain Bill.

One Christmas Santa brought us a telescope. I remember that Christmas morning because I had on my one piece, button up the back, Incredible Hulk p.j.'s on. They had the sleeper soles on the bottom of the feet that made a swishing noise when I walked around on the linoleum floors of my grandmother's house. I know I had these on when I got the telescope that Christmas morning because of the picture that I found not too long ago. I'm sitting in Bill's lap watching him as he was looking through the eyepiece. It was early in the morning because my hair was really messed up and Bill had no shirt on. He was a large, large man with a bushy red beard and red hair all over his head and shoulders and back.

I have always been fascinated with things not of this world. I could draw by second grade a somewhat detailed map of our solar system. On all of my notebooks and all of my scratch paper there were these crude drawings of the solar system. First the sun, which I could never get quite round. Then Mercury, which was really only a little dot next to the sun. Venus and Earth were next and always looked pretty much the same except for the fact that I always drew a little stick man that was supposed to be me on Earth. The moon was orbiting nearby and had little crater marks on it. Mars was next and just a little smaller than the earth with no detail whatsoever. Jupiter came next and was drawn a lot bigger than any of the rest of the planets but just a little smaller than the sun. Of course it had the Great Red Spot. Next came Saturn with its slightly diagonal rings and then Uranus (Pronounced "your anus": A word which I would come to appreciate later on in fifth grade for its endless possibilities) with its vertical ring. I really had no interest in Neptune, but it was out there so I drew it on my model. Last came little Pluto. I always tried to make it as small as possible but still visible to the naked eye. The universe was the only thing that made my young mind marvel and want to know more.

In my wonder I only had the knowledge of my father to guide me. The universe and all of the things that were in it fascinated him and he passed this fascination on to me. This was not and is not just a passing curiosity for Bill. The man really does know what he is talking about. He would tell me things about the origins of the planets that were way over my head, but I was not lost or bored. I had seen pictures of the planets but had never seen them. The telescope opened a window through which I could look at the universe with my own eyes. Not in pictures, which had no perspective of time, but in the living, live Technicolor that was my own vision. When I would look at Mars through our telescope, I was seeing it in that moment. Bill would guide my wonder and salt my imagination with tales of black holes and exploding stars and temper all of that with enough information so as not to confuse me. I came away from these nights spent looking at the stars knowing that my father was the smartest man on this planet.

We would put the telescope on top of a car so Bill would not have to bend over to look into the eye piece. I would get up on one of the stools from the kitchen and lean over and look down into the eye piece and lean against Bill so I would not bump the car and inadvertently knock the telescope billions of miles off target. We always used Bill's royal blue 1965 Ford Falcon. The Falcon was his work car and it looked the part. It had dents and dings all over the body and no floorboard to speak of in the back seat. When I would ride in the back seat I would peer over the edge into the floor board so I could see the road moving beneath the car.

The Falcon was white before Bill thought that it might be a good idea to paint it royal blue. Why royal blue? Because someone gave him about 20 gallons of royal blue paint. And there's no point in letting 20 gallons of royal blue paint go to waste. This might not have been so bad except that he was also quite drunk at the time and thought that it would be an even better idea if he painted the car with a paint brush. By the time that he was half finished with the car he was either beginning to see the futility of it all or he was beginning to sober up. My guess is that it was a combination of both. The car was blue for the most part except for the places that the white was showing not so faintly through the blue because a paint brush was not designed to paint an automobile.

Is there something that you wish you could have from your childhood to enjoy as an adult when you would really be able to appreciate it? One of the things that I would have back is that old Falcon. The car had 240 some odd thousand miles on it when it finally gave up its ghost. That car hauled a camper across the desert from Alabama to Utah and back when I was in fourth grade and during that whole trip we rarely got over 50 mph. Even coasting downhill. 50 mph was warp speed as far as that old bird was concerned. This was a very long trip and I would pretend that I was the tail gunner of some type of experimental government weapon that they allowed my father to use and paint blue with a paint brush one day while he was drunk. But the time that I remember most about the car was when it was about to turn over 200,000 miles.

Bill loaded mother and me up and drove for a few miles until it turned over to 00000 for the second time. The moment it turned over we got out and my father poured each of us a glass of very cheap champagne. I was eight years old and it was quite a treat to get to drink with the big people. He said a toast and poured the rest of the bubbly over the very old, very tired engine. The christening drowned out two spark plugs and the trip home was marked by Bill stewing silently and my mother laughing AT him and not WITH him. This was my first taste of irony and it was delicious.

One night we were looking at the sky and Bill dropped one of the high powered lenses, breaking it. I really didn't think that it was such a big deal at the time and it really wasn't. It marked the end of our night viewing the moons of Jupiter and the rings of Saturn and the plant life on Uranus (I told you that word had endless possibilities for me). We still did a lot of stuff together because I was a daddy's boy and he was this boys hero. But the thing happened to me that happens to a lot of people that drives a wedge between them and their parents. Puberty.

Sometimes puberty comes slow on people and they have the opportunity to adjust to the chemical bomb that has gone off inside of them. Puberty didnt hit me like it hits a lot of people. It beat the crap out of me and there was no subtle adjusting that could be done.

I believe that the teenage years are spent trying to find an identity apart from the one that you have as your parents' child. For instance people that know Bill would sometimes call me "little Red." I did not mind this when I was a kid. In fact it was an honor. But as puberty began to wrap its cruel hand around my throat I was screaming inside, "MY NAME IS JOSEPH YOU MORON!!!" The friends that I chose had nothing to do with my parents and most of the time went against their wishes. I was smoking by fifth grade and drinking Thunderbird by the bottle and enjoying it by eighth grade. Once puberty hit I was no longer Bill's boy but a smart a$$ punk that no longer cared for or respected what my father said or thought. No longer did I hang on his every word and think that he was the smartest man in the world. At the time I couldn't imagine any one being as out of touch with the way that things were done in the real world than he was.

I did manage to graduate from high school and get accepted to the University of Alabama. Bill was the one that took me down to unload all of my stuff and leave me at the dorm. As I watched him drive away I wanted him to come back and help with my stuff and give me all those long and drawn out explanations about things I will never understand.

During the summer between my freshman year at Alabama and my next freshman year at Montevallo there was a lunar eclipse. Bill drug out the old telescope and set it on the hood of my Honda Civic, which had about as many miles on it but not as much character as the Falcon. We took turns looking at earth's shadow as it passed over the moon and I began to feel a sadness inside that I have only been able to understand as I was writing this. I don't think that Bill knew I was crying and I don't think I would have been able to tell him why had he realized it. I was feeling the same wonder and amazement that I felt as a kid when we would gaze up at the heavens and talk about how it was that God made everything click just right so that everything worked like it was supposed to. I stood there and watched as the earth passed between the sun and the moon and would only nod when he would say something because my trembling voice would have betrayed me.

Why was I sad? I don't think it was about the way that I treated him when I was younger. We both said and did some crummy things to each other that I think canceled out any bitterness that I may have felt later on. Looking back now after having had some time to reflect on the moment I believe that it was a pivotal moment in a life that is going to be full of pivotal moments. I said earlier that we spend a lot of time trying to get away from our parents and their control. I believe that a small part of us spend the rest of the time that we have wishing we could fall back into our parent's arms and everything would go away as it did when we were children. When a father's kiss could make your knee stop hurting. When the safest place in the world is sleeping with your head in you father's lap riding down the road even though he has been drinking. When puberty hit me those things failed to comfort me anymore. Nothing could make my knee stop hurting except for healing and time and the most dangerous place I could be was in the car asleep when Bill had been drinking. I realized that night that I could never go back to the simple days of my childhood and had only my irresistible need to grow up to blame. But for a few brief and wonderful moments that night I was a little boy listening in awestruck silence as my father explained the marvels of the universe. The sadness was the realization that I would never be able to go back.

Beautiful

I am a student minister. Sure I work at Bagby Elevator as a Parts Monkey. This is not the official title. It's something like Purchasing Agent. I like to think of myself as Assistant Purchasing Manager but it is more like Assistant to the Purchasing Manager. It is a great place to work. At least once a day there is a discussion about God and church and Jesus. This is cool. But the title I take most pride in is Student Minister.

More specifically Student Minister @ Westwood Baptist Church in Forestdale, AL. I have been on the job for three years now. This position is far different from the last time at SonRise Church in Woodstock, AL. Woodstock was a rural area and the students under my care there were rural. I would go mud riding in of the students Bronco. This was fun. They were rural kids with rural concerns. Most went to the same school and I was in a position at that time to be involved in the schools. This was an amazing time in my life.

The students at Westwood are scattered throughout 3 different high schools, 2 Christian schools and one large public one. They are divided by economics, interests, sexuality, church kids and kids that haven't really been involved in church. I sometimes feel the challenge is too much for me.

This past weekend we did a Winter Retreat @ Camp Worldsong in Cook Springs. Schedule wise it was typical me. As in not much of a schedule. We had worship and speaking. For me the success of this retreat hinged on Story Time which was after the sessions and the free time throughout. I am a fan of free time. Free time is where students grow closer or further apart. Story Time was about telling your story as it related to God. On Saturday night Story Time was magical. Many shared their stories while all of the students tried to encourage each other by telling what impact they had.

Student ministry is magical. It has all the ups and downs of pastoring minus all the masks adults tend to wear in church. There is a lot less pretense with a lot of drama added in. At this retreat I watched these students bond in ways that are near impossible for adults. We have built strong sturdy walls around our hearts that are supposed to keep them safe. In truth the only things these walls do is suffocate the magic. When all of the students were gathered in the main room watching "UP" I leaned over to Kara and asked her to look at the students on the other side of the room. "They're beautiful aren't they?"

And I meant it. They were oblivious of the fact that this time of their lives is marching on to its end methodically. They don't know that this can't last forever. I try to open my eyes to the beauty around all of these students. It makes me sad because I know I didn't appreciate those friends I had when I was a teenager. To loosely quote Stephen King from "The Body", "I have never had friends like I had when I was (a teenager). Jesus, does anyone?"

This retreat recharged some batteries I didn't realize were in danger of dying. But God moved unexpectedly Saturday night. Surprisingly even. I can only hope those people in that room can fan the small fire. I can only pray that I am up to the task of keeping that fire going without burning out.

But more importantly (for me at least) I really loved what I was doing. I loved what I was witnessing. Are we about to experience the next Great Awakening? Maybe. But probably not. I just know a flame ignited in my soul I was afraid was gong to die out.

They were beautiful.

Hospital.

I've spent some time in one during the last 2 weeks. One night after a slight complication during back surgery (apparently leaking spinal fluid is a big deal) and then some heart problems. As for the heart problems I still don't know what that was all about. It would just jump rhythm.

Overall I spent 4 nights in the hospital. Being alone gives you the opportunity to think things over. Being alone in the hospital gives you a chance to think about one's mortality. Here is the sum of what I thought while in the hospital.

....

That's it. Nothing. I vegged and feasted on hospital food and pain killers (Demerol, morphine, hydrocodone, Ambien). Perhaps the painkillers were the reason for the brain dead-ness. Here's hoping.

I did come to a realization. If I don't try to get into a shape other than round or pear I am going to die sooner than I really want to.

As for blogging. I haven't done it with any regularity as of late. I am promising nothing but I am going to try. There are a lot of people that have missed my little ramblings as late (OK maybe 2 people) and I would not want to deprive them my wit any longer. My next blog will be about a bizarre dream I had the other night. As a teaser I will give an image.

















That's me on the top row middle. #86. 1991. 165 lbs. Tackling machine.

Don't cheat on a viking.

If there is one lesson to be learned from the Tiger woods saga it's this:

Don't cheat on a viking.

From "A Walk to Remember" to "The Twilight Saga."

If you have spent any time around me you know that I absolutely despise "A Walk to Remember." I hate the message that it sends to girls. The message, simple stated, is this: My love can change a bad boy. There is a Greek word for this line of reasoning which translated means horse crap.

This is the reason why I hate "The Twilight Saga." I have not read one word of the books and have seen nothing but previews of any of the now 2 movies. I have stated in an earlier blog how I don't get what the appeal of Robert Pattinson is. My lovely wife (who has proven her good taste by hitching her wagon up to me, not to say I am a horse. My face is too round.) cannot watch the movies because she has impure thoughts about this fella. Really. I think it is his hair that bothers me so. Jamie Golden is enamored with his "bedroom" hair (her words,not mine). I wake up with "bedroom" hair every morning. Kara is not impressed.

But my hate of this "saga" has nothing to do with the grooming habits of any of the stars. I must say, for the record, that it also appears that Kristen Stewart is also not a fan of the daily bath. But I digress. My hate has nothing to do with any of these things. For me it is just "A Walk to Remember" all over again. Only worse.

The turd from AWTR is replaced with a different sort of turd from Twilight. Only worse. Instead of love changing a bad boy into a good boy in AWTR now love changes an unholy, undead, minion of darkness. Seriously. Vampires and werewolves are servants of Big Red. Could it be...Satan? I am so glad I do not have girls. Instead of here bringing home some little monster who is only misunderstood she might bring home some unhealthy, pale imitation of life who does not bath with any semblance of regularity.

Lesson of the day to a girl who might stumble upon this little rant. Your love cannot change a boy. And definitely it cannot change a vampire. He will still suck your blood from your body and leave you in the unfortunate state of undeath.

By the way girls, this is a Vampire.

The Antichrist?

You would be amazed at how many people think that Barry Obama (this is his high school name and I think it flows off the tongue rather nicely) is the Antichrist. Not an antichrist but THE Antichrist.

I am doing a brief study for the students @ Westwood on Revelations. I am not an expert on the subject. It might even be safe to say I am not an expert on anything. But Revelations is far outside of my comfort zone as a teacher. I think it comes down to the fact that I don't really care how things are going to go down in the end. It is clear on the most important point however. Jesus is going to come back and make everything that is currently crap un-crappy.

In doing this study I have tried to find literal artistic interpretations of some of the images given to John oh those many years ago. It is really quite simple. Type the Biblical reference into trusty Google hit enter then click images. Here are a few of the finds. (My favorite are from William Blake. Creepy. He seems to have started by painting everything black then adding color.)

I noticed something in my travels over the internets that was kind of funny to me. There are a lot of people that have devoted all of their energy to convince people that dear old Barry is the Antichrist. All he lacks is the number 666 tattooed on his forehead.

Back in 1992 I thought that Bill Clinton might be the Antichrist. But then common sense prevailed. There is absolutely no freaking way the leader of one world government and the object of worship for the world he rules comes from Arkansas. No. Freaking. Way. Only two good things have come from Arkansas: Bear Bryant and I-40. And Arkansas managed to make it the worst stretch of interstate in the US of A.

It is also ridiculous to think Obama might be the Antichrist. You may ask why? Because their is no way the Antichrist would be named Barry. It needs to be sinister sounding name like Vlad, Adolf, or Nancy Grace. Not Barry. Chill out folks. I happen to hold to "pan" theology. It will all pan out in the end without any help from people who spend more time in front of a computer than in the sun or dating.

I am a member of the PTA

How did this happen to me? I went to an open house tonight at Billy's school. I sat on hard bleachers while the 5th graders treated us to several selections on the recorder. My favorite was the blues ditty they tore up. Nothing screams BLUES!!! like the recorder. I picture Robert Johnson fresh off signing his soul over to the devil penning "Crossroads". He hears the recorder in his mind. If harps are the instruments of heaven then recorders are the instruments of hell.


When did I get old enough to be in the freaking PTA? Where did my life go? Listen carefully. I am not bemoaning the state of my life right now. Things are pretty sweet for me right now. It's just I never once dreamed when I was young that one of the things I would be at any point was in the PTA. I play bass in a rock band. I wear flip-flops to church on Sunday mornings. I am quite jiggy in several different areas. And yet I rode home from the school tonight with the realization that I am a PTA parent slowly descending on me.

Billy's teacher told us that he reads very good (she didn't say very good, I said very good and yes Ben and Jamie I know very good ain't good English). He behaves most of the time. I also noticed that he likes hugging girls. Good Billy. Chicks dig literacy.

Alas, I am getting old. One day I am going to show up at either Billy's or James Robert's house with a full diaper. I am going to walk right through the front door, go and lay down on their bed, raise my legs in the air and demand that I be changed this instant. I also plan on wearing plaid pants and striped shirts with a belt and suspenders. I think I will also wear a fedora.




And I took the first step towards this glorious end tonight. I am in the PTA. Or at least I think I am.

I haven't posted much.

Sorry. And this is a long one.

I met Dale 23 years ago when I was 13. His step son Joe was my best friend and I was over at their house a lot. Dale scared me when I first met him because he yelled a lot. But I guess I eventually grew on Dale. He was is an Alabama fan and I am an Alabama fan so we had that in common. I also really liked the music he grew up listening to (Beatles, Bad Company, Pink Floyd, etc).

Dale was an usher at Legion Field. When I was 17 he invited me to come and usher with him. Joe was not that much into football. The first two games I had to usher up in the section (which was really boring). Dale promoted me to the tunnel with him for the Tennessee game. This was the 1991 season. This was the first Tennessee game I had ever seen live. It was magic. There is something that stirs within me when I see the leaves starting to turn in the fall. All of the crimson and orange in the hills makes me think of this game (which is supposed to be on the 3rd Saturday in October). Danny Woodsen got hurt and a freshman named Jay Barker took over and never gave up that spot.

I ushered Legion Field games with Dale from 1991 to 1999. I saw the first SEC Championship game in 1992. It was cold and windy. I remember clearly (which is amazing considering the "anti-freeze" I had imbibed throughout the game) Antonio Langham returning an interception 21 yards for the winning touchdown. I remember screaming at him to come to poppa as he ran toward our end zone. The sections that we ushered were always the visiting section so we got to hang out with the fans of others schools. Tennessee fans were always cordial (believe it or not). Auburn fans were always good to us. Auburn students on the other hand are animals who should be locked up on game day. They were sit where ever they wanted and I spent most of the game ushering them from seats they commandeered from other people. One time this little old lady asked me to remove a student from her seat. The little punk started yelling at me about what a dump this was and how bad his seats were.

Little Punk: My seats are (expletive) horrible.
Me: I don't care.
Little Punk: This isn't (expletive) fair.
Me: See that little old lady over there? She has to stand up because you are in her seat.

He said some other stuff but I ended the conversation with a promise that I would have his little butt thrown out of the stadium if I had to deal with him again. I couldn't enjoy the game because those animals didn't think the rules of seating applied to them. Much to Kara's dismay and frustration I say every time we watch an Auburn game together and I see the students, "Get in your freaking seat." Kara is not pleased.

I have watched almost every Alabama game on TV (and in many cases live) since 1991 with Dale.

I found out July 10 of this year that Dale had a Stage 3 brain tumor. Inoperable and terminal. When I found out I tried to wrangle some Va Tech/Alabama tickets in the Georgia Dome. I found out a little later that he would not be able to make the trip even if I could have gotten tickets. Dale bought tickets to the 1999 SEC Championship in Atlanta. It was a great time. The guy sitting next to me had been drinking since early that morning. When he got to the game he traded beer for hot dogs and ate the entire time. Every time Alabama would score he would turn to me, scream Roll Tide, and spray partially chewed hot dog all over me. I felt as if I had know the guy my entire life.

I went to watch the Va Tech game over at Dale's that night. He wasn't loud at all. His hair is still growing back from the surgery to remove as much as they safely could. He was so sweet and tender to the people around him (which anyone who knows Dale would know is uncharacteristic). Later that night Lynn (Dale's wife) asked me to speak at Dale's memorial service. I am honored and humbled by this request.

Dale and I were talking during the game and he was puzzled by why he still cares so much about Alabama. The only answer he could come up with was it must be in his blood. I guess that is about right. It is in my blood too. I have worn the same jersey (#81) to most Alabama games (live or on TV). I have worn the same hat all that time. I'm afraid football will not be the same when Dale goes.

I expressed this to Kara as we were walking up the ramp into the upper deck this past weekend in Tuscaloosa. She said I have to pass this tradition down to my boys. Alabama Football is about more than football to me. It is about family. And family ain't always about blood. Dale is more a part of my family than some of my family.

If you pray, please pray for Dale, Lynn, Ryan, and Joe. Pray that Alabama can win another championship if only for the sake of a man that has followed them as long as he can remember.

Roll Tide. Calm down Dale.