Prophets, collect your winnings. Alabama is a big time program sooner than expected: Even our third string players can outrun the cops.
As for tomorrow, the prophets in the desert have the Tide over the (other) Aggies by a sizeable margin, too big to mention in polite company. This hubris speaks more to their lack than our surplus, I think, and also to our people’s impracticality. For example, I get drunk on pints instead of fifths this time of year because my blood is already thinned with optimism.
With all our fabulous frosh healthy and the Brodie with a chip on his surgically repaired shoulder, even I’m not taking the points. It’s flat-out victory, friends.
That drug optimism is street legal and pushers hang out on every corner in these parts. A few houses down, the Mayor of Nashville was emptying the trunk of his municipal Saturn and offered his take on (even) Vanderbilt’s chances against Grampy Lou tomorrow while my dog pissed in his yard. Somewhere along the Raritan, brothers trade expletives and empty bottles while planning a victory party they may or may not be awake for. And near the Salt Flats, dangerous young men dream of proving the prophets wrong.
Above all else, football can serve as a great alarm clock.