An Alabama Rebel

My family has lived with a dark secret for many years: my father is only an Alabama fan when the Crimson Tide is playing against the Ole Miss Rebels’ biggest rival.

Raised in Meridian, Mississippi, my father witnessed the birth of the Civil Rights movement. He grew up less than a block down from the East End Tea Room, an old beer joint featured in the Academy Award winning movie ‘Mississippi Burning’. He was poor, sometimes forgotten, and given free reign to roam the neighborhood by his indulgent grandmother. Somewhere between Meridian and Tuscaloosa, Ole Miss landed on his radar and he never looked back.

Radio reception for Oxford, Mississippi isn’t the clearest in Coker, Alabama so picking up a Saturday football game starring the Rebels took some creativity. If the Ole Miss game wasn’t televised, my father could be found sitting in his car at various locations in our yard. Grass and landscaping (or neighbor’s opinions) were given little regard when a bed of petunias promised crystal clear clarity of the announcer's play by play. I can only imagine what passers by must have thought when they drove past and my father’s bright, white Lincoln Towncar was perched precariously on the grassy hill in front of our home.

Supporting the Rebels every Saturday was serious business for dad and if accomplishing that feat meant making clandestine deals with his daughter, then so be it. Once my mother asked him to clean the bathrooms but her housekeeping schedule conflicted with CBS’ televised broadcast. My father approached me and offered the keys to the family car in exchange for completing his chores. My tender age of thirteen and inability to drive on public roads did not deter either of us from reaching an agreement. I’ll never forget the sight of my father propped upon the couch, his position unchanged, each time I drove slowly past the living room window. The pleasure derived from watching the Rebels take the field outweighed any irritation at the deep ruts left in the wake of my loops around the house.

When Chucky Mullins was paralyzed in a 1989 game against Vanderbilt, my dad kept vigil. After Tommy Tuberville abandoned the team for Auburn without even telling them goodbye, my dad and I watched Ole Miss exact their revenge on the Tigers the following season. That Saturday afternoon we were both Ole Miss fans and watching those players give Tuberville the goodbye that had been a long time coming was one of the greatest games I’ve ever witnessed and a memory of my giddy father I’ll cherish forever. He remains just as devoted today despite the politically correct coup to overthrow The Colonel mascot for the tragic black bear (do something about this people. That raggidy bear is a JOKE).

He still refuses to pull for the Tide despite having lived in Tuscaloosa longer than he ever lived in Mississippi. I can’t help but admire his faithful devotion to those Rebels and I challenge anyone to produce a fan more committed to his team than my father.

This Thursday night, he placed himself two inches inside of my personal bubble to inform me that Alabama’s winning streak will end this weekend when we stomp into Louisiana. While the subject of a delusional mad man's rantings should be ignored, my father's unshaken devotion to the Grove in Oxford, to the coaches who promise change and to the players who leave everything they've got on that field, is an example every college football fan should emulate.

Roll Tide.