And what is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days.--James Russell Lowell
Far be it for the Ol' Bloviator to call out the likes of James Russell Lowell, but he is purely bustin' to tell somebody about the absolutely perfect day he just had in September. Precision and truth are considerations that typically give the O.B. little pause, but in this case, he concedes that his perfect day, September 20, actually began about 9 p.m. on the 19th when it was abundantly clear that his Bulldogs, an irresistible but sometimes cruel mistress, had flat-out curb-stomped the hated South Carolina Gamecocks despite the machinations of their ever-clever Head Ball Coach. No coach in history has proven harder for Georgia to beat than Steve Spurrier, whom the O.B. dares to admit he actually admires and even likes a lot of the time. While our guy has managed to win a lot of games, he has also managed to make a good many of them feel like losses. Not so on Saturday evening, though, and to the O.B.'s great satisfaction, the extra spring in his step was still there when he woke up later than usual on Sunday after trying to make it through the entire Ole Miss-Bama tilt.
The O.B. prides himself on the fact that he no longer allows a faulty Bulldog on Saturday performance to mess up his Sundays (Well, at least after 10 a.m., in most cases). By the same token, however, he must concede that the salutary effect of a big win is much more enduring. At any rate, September 20 had a strong leg up on being a good day even before the O.B. began his post-victory Sunday ritual of reconfirming the triumph by checking out the write-ups in the papers as well as the always incisive comments of his colleagues on The Dawgvent. Then, it's on to ESPN's wrap-up shows to see if, for once, they will give the Dogs their due. (They didn't, of course, but came closer than usual.) This ritual was suspended briefly to feast on incredible French toast, lovingly prepared by the long-suffering football widow, Ms. O.B. Then came a leisurely, long-distance, damp-eyed "Face Time" session with the two most adorable grandkids in all of human history, wherein the topics ranged from how to tell a leopard from a tiger to why grandpa's faded red cap, stained with the sweat of many a gargantuan gridiron encounter, bore the strange inscription, "Hunker Down."
Now doubly full of himself, ol' gramps proceeded to ace the New York Times's "Spelling Bee" word puzzle. (The O.B. heartily recommends this as one of the most challenging and seductive such games he has encountered.) By then, though, it was well past noon, and by the typical Sunday schedule, the O.B. was long overdue to drag himself to his computer to do something "productive," such as attack a list of unwritten letters of recommendation, an unread dissertation, or maybe even his own long-in-the-works but too little-in-progress book. For once in a very great while, however, the O.B. suppressed the feelings that have made way too much of his adult life feel as though he is a kid trapped in a dream where he always has homework, and it's always over due. Instead, he Googled up some new ways to throw away money on his car, and having recently detailed said vehicle himself, proceeded to go outside and while away a good half-hour, trying to find the best angle for a photo that would show it off on some of the Internet car forums. By then, it was time to accompany the absolute work-out warrior, a.k.a., Ms. O.B., to the incredible Ramsey Center. Upon their return, it just seemed right, somehow, to fire up a victory stogie, on which he puffed quite contentedly, wholly unmindful of that damn herniated disk, as he watched a replay of the previous evening's slaughter.He had to settle for seeing only the first half of the game, however, for yet another ritual awaited, the weekly Sunday trip with his best bud to chow down on Athens's best pizza at (Sorry Ted's, We love you and you are a strong number two.) Brixx.
(The O.B. is fully aware that this judgment runs completely counter to the travesty perpetrated hereabouts by a certain, otherwise beloved, indie paper, which seems singularly disposed to tout even the most abject swill served up by any eatery describable as "local" over any offering from an establishment known to be "part of a chain.")
Stuffed and satisfied, the O.B. and Ms. O.B. returned home to an early Sunday-night-night, knowing that Monday has a mighty hard act to follow. None of this is to suggest that the O.B. doesn't have more than his share of great days sprinkled along his timeline, but rather that, at three-score-and-eight, he finally realizes that he could doubtless have enjoyed many more had he simply been willing to let them happen.