This will hurt. (Some of you, anyway.)
In fact, I’m a little choked up. I can barely get the words out of my fingers. I’m so afraid this will be the end.
The end of us. But I respect our relationship enough to be honest, even when it’s risky.
I … well… I sort of…
… watched the Arkansas-Alabama game last Saturday.
I’m sure you expect an explanation. Just give me a moment to loosen the noose around my neck.
As per my quandary of a previous post, I elected not to watch the game at all. I didn’t want to chance it. Instead, I spent most of Saturday in the garage working on a little building project. I used power tools. Pneumatic ones. It was a real She-Ra Princess of Power moment.
But it was hot. I was flecked with sawdust. Pestered by mosquitos. All I wanted was a drink. Like any other tragic collision of circumstance, it must have been preordained.
Kind of like the iceberg that sank the Titanic.
I was on my way to the kitchen. My eyes locked onto the TV and found the scoreboard before I could stop them: 20-17, Arkansas. Just 5:55 left to play.
My heart leapt before I could stop it. I turned away, skidded for the kitchen, muttering: “I didn’t see anything, I didn’t see anything…”
The euphoria lasted the 90 seconds it took for the announcer to call: “Interception!”
In case you missed the game, allow me. The Razorbacks led the #1 team in the country for nearly the entire game. Until I happened to look at the screen.
My work in this field is unprecedented.
I’m sorry. (Again.)
Fellow Razorbacks: If you’re going to kill me, I ask only that you make proper burial arrangements on my behalf.