According to Burroughs and his scion, the worst part of being a junkie is the not being a junkie, the withdrawal pains that surely follow the tipping point where highs level into fixes and rides devolve into jags. Tomorrow begins the days defined by lack, the days when the team is not playing.
As I settle up accounts (in the polite parlance of capping, the word “debt” is rarely found) with Bird Dawg and the man he refers to as his driver (though, curiously, he always rides shotgun), I can feel fervor seeping away like the prior night’s rain on a cluttered rooftop, pooling dangerously near ad hoc dams of broken shingle and fallen limbs only to succumb to the constant drip toward the gutter.
In this manner, bemusement will fill whatever empty container keeps us poor Southern boys watching football until the spring thaw. We will watch the millionaires play on Sundays and the boys who will be millionaires play on Saturdays and appreciate the effort, but will not feel. Now our devotion turns to waiting, waiting, waiting…
Roll Tide.
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