I'm no luddite.
Technology is a grand thing. All you fearful of Big Brother implants and supercomputer slave-drivers might as well stop reading here because from my p.o.v., H.A.L. was just a misunderstood workin' stiff trying to get the job done right and if that means a few protein-swilling carbon bags have to take a one-way trip through the airlock. . . Well, that's progress, compadre.
All in all, we're still in the black in this deal and reaping new profits all the time. Case in point: data mining. Search through the Crimson Tide's practice reports for this week -- pick a card, any card -- for the word hope. The average is over two per article (more hits when a coach provides a quote, your mileage may vary).
In descending order, hope is a dangerous commodity for generals, prisoners, and football coaches. For the first, it's as good as a bullet in an open field. For the second, it's mail forwarded to the wrong address. And for the last set, our set, it's worthwhile only in hindsight if it doesn't get you fired. Give me a good plan and I can forego hope every day of the week. Hell, there are whole continents living without it right now, seems silly to waste what little we have before the games have even started.
Still, with a team this young, hope is so pervasive it almost becomes physical, a reverse transmogrification less a miracle than a demand.
Roll Tide.
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