So there I was, shoveling snow and ice off the driveway at stately Brad Manor, and a neighbor walks by with his dog. He says, “Why aren’t you in Phoenix?”
And I, suffering the effects of hypothermia, say, “What’s in Phoenix?”
And he says, “The national championship game.”
I felt slightly silly. (Mostly, though, I just felt cold.) But now, having been briefed by my neighbor, I’m ready to go. We’re going live here, and I’m picking Auburn, and I don’t think the game will be as high-scoring as advertised — few games ever are; remember the Saints beating the Falcons 17-14 two Mondays ago? — and my genius daughter (who takes, obviously, after her mother) has supplied the only reason necessary to root against Auburn.
“Their uniforms,” she said, “look like Army ants.”
And they do. And they’re funded by Nike. And Nike owns the world. As many reservations as I have regarding the Auburn Newtons/Louders, they’re small potatoes — obligatory Auburn agricultural joke — when viewed alongside