(Wherein I compare Bama to cancer, but in the nicest way possible.)
My typically excited anticipation for this year’s Alabama game is numbed by this week’s events. Yet my desire to be in Death Valley for it has been stronger than ever, bordering on fanatical. I finally figured out why:
After Cory received a horrible diagnosis, he took everything the cancer and chemo had, then waved some fingers for a little more. Just a month before he passed away, he stood tall at his wedding and danced the night away.
When doctors said there was nothing more to do, he shook hands and said thanks for the hard work, drank a Dr Pepper, got himself back home, and took everyone out for breakfast the day before he passed away.
He smiled until he couldn’t smile, and his heart kept beating even after his body stopped breathing. Cancer took his body, but never once did he let it take his humor, warmth, or love. He never let it win.
The stakes this weekend are obviously less severe. But the lesson is the same: The big, bad thing is coming, and there’s not much we can do to stop it. But we are not afraid of it.
“It never rains in Tiger Stadium.”
“Welcome to Death Valley.”
Delusional optimism is our disease, and bourbon is our medicine. We happily greet any calamity, no matter how dire.
On Saturday, 100,000 mortal souls will become part of something bigger than our individual selves. Every chair will be full, even though one seat will be empty.
The defiance in the stadium will last for 60 minutes. And it’s much more socially acceptable to cathartically scream your anger, relief, frustration, and hopefully jubilation there.
The defiance he taught me — the same defiance our dad taught him — will be a lesson I keep for a lifetime.