Blow for Blow

This post is long overdue.

RW and I lived in the same city my entire childhood. So we shared some of the common events of life. Much of the family had to settle for a handful of gathering times through the year--Christmas, Summer, and maybe an extra weekend visit.

One thing that Papaw and I connected on every year was college football. To be more specific, he bled crimson, I bleed orange and blue.

It has been noted that RW was competitive. I mention it as an underscore. He was fiercely competitive. I have a little of that in me too. I can remember testing my "horns" of competition on him when I was young. He put me in my place and didn't comfort me. I learned early that you can be tender with Papaw and you can compete with RW, but the two probably will never happen in the same moment.

So every fall, we would both start strutting and snorting. The animal instincts were taking over. And every year it would culminate at a climactic battle to claim the mountain top. The Iron Bowl. His colors verse mine. And from that day until the next year, both of us will know our place.

1985. This is probably my earliest memory of devastating defeat. I was young. So young that the memory is cloudy. I remember sitting on my knees directly in front of the TV. RW sat to my left on the couch in his basement. The tension was thick, at least for my 7 year old soul. I remember feeling like I couldn't take my eyes off him. We must have already been yelling and rubbing it in as each of our teams scored. I remember feeling that competitive distrust as I kept my horns between me and him.
Then at the last second, Alabama kicked a field goal, to win the game.
I remember a deep hurt and sadness. And my foe, who was also my hero, romped and stomped all over his basement. He slapped my back a hundred times. I'm sure I cried. I don't know how I could have not cried. He was merciless. It didn't matter that I had him pinned and on the throwes of defeat only moments before. He had wriggled out and defeated me. And he was loudly declaring victory. I remember various postures of defeat...slumped head and shoulders, knees on the floor and head on the couch hidden by my arms. He was no idiot. He saw my brokenness yet he still celebrated. He was a warrior. And I was a baby warrior.

That memory no longer brings me pain. Probably because I exacted my revenge several different years since then. It was a give and take, tit for tat, blow for blow competitive relationship. I cherish it.

This year I watched our Iron Bowl without the Old Bull around. Sure there are others to fight with, but none that have earned my fear and my respect like him. My team played like I felt, heartless. We were crushed 36-0. I wince at the thought of what beating I would have received AFTER the game. And the following year. RW would have instantly forgotten the 6 previous years of my reign. He would have brashly declared that the rightful king has reclaimed his throne. I love that man, but I hated losing to him. I'd like to think that he has drawn more of my blood than any other in my life. I'd also like to think that I bruised him more than most.