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.
