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A Ghostly Dawg Visitor Talks WLOCP

I escaped very early last Dawgless Saturday morning, before the wife could present me with the Honey Do list, heading up the road to a lonely fishing hole I’d heard tell about long ago from someone I can’t remember. Left behind the damn laptop and iPhone, packed a tackle box, second hand rod, couple ham sandwiches, and (most of) a bottle of WT 101.

As the road got windier and turned into washboards, I came across a bait and tackle shop and decided to go in for some live bait and a 6 pack to supplement my bourbon. Spying my frayed straw hat with its distinctive red "G," the gray headed African-American gentlemen behind the counter (sporting his own crisp new black cap with Uga’s jowled image) remarked in a raspy, chaw rich voice "Dawg man?" "Sure am," says I "from the time I was but a tadpole." "That so?" says he, with twinkly eyes, "Well, me, too, me, too." Then looking me up and down, and thinking it over a few secs, says "Tell you what, fish ain’t hardly bitin’. Got some special nightcrawlers here might help you out." With that, he produced a dented old Maxwell House can oozing with some fat worms that, I’m telling you, seemed to glow just a bit. I rubbed my eyes, took another look and all seemed normal. "Just a buck, huh?" I said. "Sure, since you gone buy that beer, chips, hot sauce and them ol stogies, I reckon it’s fair." His rheumy eyes penetrating me over his gap-toothed grin, I took the worms, PBR, etc and headed out.

Found a nice lonely place by a slow moving, deepish waterway, unpacked and cast the line. After a few hours of bad luck—one tiny little brim that wasn’t worth the buck I’d paid for the crawlers—I had dog eared the Georgia and Florida pages in my Phil Steele and Athlon’s magazines, the buzz of a White Owl had worn off and the buzz of the PBR, bourbon and insects had made me drowsy. With my back against an old hickory tree, line still dangling uselessly, sun lowering in the treelined hills opposite, I soon was fast asleep, visions of silver britched glory dancing in my head.

When I came to, it was early evening, tree frogs starting to make some racket, a few distant ducks quacking. Catching a glimpse of movement to my right, I saw the hazy outline of a tall man in a baseball cap, plaid shirt and jeans, smoke from one of my White Owls drifting from his mouth. His big basket was overflowing with good sized fish, but I was so startled at what appeared to be little wings and haloes over their wet bodies that I rubbed my eyes repeatedly.

The tall man must have known I was awake, because he said in a rumbling, oddly familiar voice "Hope you don’t mind," taking the White Owl from his mouth and cocking his head slightly in my direction. "Don’t get to do this much any more."

"Uh, no, help yourself" I said, trying to get a better look at his face, which was oddly indistinct. But that voice… I knew that voice… but it couldn’t be…

"So I see that you’re a Georgia Bulldog man" he said, as he expertly cast the line and the sinker fell into the water with a perfectly subtle little "plunk." "That’ll be some game down by the St. John’s next weekend, now, won’t it?"

"Yep," said I, still straining my eyes to get a better look at his slightly fuzzy image. "I’d like to be optimistic, but I’m really worried."

He turned to look at me. Damn, I knew that face from somewhere! "Worried? Let me tell ya, I’m always worried about that Cocktail Bowl! I mean, you can just throw the record out the window when the Dogs suit up for the Gators. And this one will be really, really big, that's for sure." He turned back to reel in another large but ghostly fish, but kept talking, his voice rising.

"Now, when Vince was on the sidelines, it was one thing. The Dogs could hardly do no wrong. But, man alive, we sure got some scares even then, didn’t we? I mean, that Lindsay Scott game was a darn near thing. Never mind ’75 and Washington having to run out of his shoes, or ’76 and the great big lead they had at the half. And people always forgot what a dogfight we had there in ’81. I tell ya, that game just scared me to death!"

He paused, took the White Owl out of his mouth and swallowed some of my beer. "Ahhh, that’s good" he muttered. I poured some of WT in a paper cup and handed it to him. "Thank you" he said in that gravelly voice, "haven’t had this in a long time either. Not allowed, you know." He took a good swig, put it down by the beer and reinserted the cigar.

"This year’s really tough," I said, slowly concluding I must be dreaming but deciding to go along with it. "We haven’t exactly been rolling the last few weeks."

"Humpf" he snorted, "yeah, it’s never easy, is it? Just the other day, I was reminding Erk we were supposed to walk in and just flatten ‘em back in ‘02 and ‘14. And what happened? It was brutal, just brutal, we couldn’t do anything."

Humpf" he snorted, "yeah, it’s never easy, is it? Just the other day, I was reminding Erk we were supposed to walk in and just flatten ‘em back in ‘02 and ‘14. And what happened? It was brutal, just brutal, we couldn’t do anything."

I was about to ask him who "Erk" was, but then he went on. "’Erk,’ I said, ‘we both know records don’t mean anything down there. And’ I said ‘you gotta remember how good the Gators are THIS YEAR. I mean, they lost all those players, but it still took absolutely everything LSU had to scrape out a win. Never mind what they did to Auburn. They can throw the ball, too. I mean, that kid threw for a hundred million yards on Carolina, so what do you think they’ll try to do to us?"

"Well," said I, "it’s our offense I’m worried about. No passing game. All those runs up the middle!" After a long drag off the White Owl and another sip of the WT 101, he commented "Yeah, the offense just vanished over those last coupla games, didn’t it? I mean, vanished!"

After a few seconds, he puts down the rod and picks up his basket. "Course," he says with a rumbling chuckle, "Vince used to do a lotta that, too. And ol’ Erk just laughed at me and said ‘those Gators and that quarterback ain’t seen no defense like this one,’ and ‘don’t forget, teams that don’t score can’t win.’"

He walked over to me, picked up the last couple of cigars and tucked them into the pocket of my plaid shirt. "Don’t lose these now," he said "you just might need them next Saturday." And, despite his hazy features, I thought I could see a broad grin on a lined face. And, I swear, I think he winked!

Then I woke yet again with a start. It was dusk. Looking around, there was no tall man, no ghostly fish. Laughing at my alcohol and tobacco fueled imagination, I stood up to gather the gear, shaking my head. As I reached down to pick up the PBRs (I could have sworn I had more of those), a couple of cigars fell out of my shirt pocket. "What the hell..." I blurted. Momentarily too startled to move, I finally tucked the cigars back in my pocket, took one last look around and got out of there.

And, oh yeah, on the drive home, there was no bait and tackle shop.

I was about to ask him who "Erk" was, but then he went on. "'Erk,' I said, 'we both know records don't mean anything down there, now don't we? And' I said 'you gotta remember how good the Gators are THIS YEAR. I mean, they lost all those players, but it still took everything LSU had to scrape out a win. Never mind what they did to Auburn! And they can throw the ball, too. I mean, that kid threw for a hundred million yards on Carolina, so what do ya think they'll try to to to us?'" "

"Well," said I, "it's our offense I'm worried about. No passing game. All those runs up the middle over and over!" After a long rage off the While Owl and another sip of the WT 101, he commented "Yeah, the offense just vanished over those last coupla games, didn’t it? I mean, vanished!"

After a few seconds, he put down the rod and picks up his basket. "Course," he says with a rumbling chuckle, "Vince used to do a lotta that, too. And ol’ Erk just laughed at me and said ‘those Gators and that quarterback ain’t seen no defense like this one,’ and ‘don’t forget, teams that don’t score can’t win.’"

He walked over to me, picked up the last couple of cigars, took one out and tucked the last one into the pocket of my plaid shirt. "Don’t lose that now," he said "you just might need it next Saturday." And, despite his hazy features, I thought I could see a broad grin on a lined face. And, I swear, I think he winked!

Then I woke yet again with a start. It was dusk. Looking around, there was no tall man, no ghostly fish. Laughing at my alcohol and tobacco fueled imagination, I stood up to gather the gear, shaking my head. As I reached down to pick up the PBRs (I could have sworn I had more of those), a cigar fell out of my shirt pocket. "What the hell..." I blurted. Momentarily too startled to move, I finally tucked the cigar back in my pocket, took one last look around and got out of there.

And, oh yeah, on the drive home, there was no bait and tackle shop.

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