I was walking my dog late last night when I came upon a man. As many of you may know, it is difficult to judge the age of men of great substance and worth, so I cannot tell you how old he was. Certainly, he was seasoned. I was struck by his attire, and specifically the large, dented old plastic Razorback hat he wore. I stopped him. “Are you …”-- he beckoned me silent, “Yeah, yeah I reckon I am."
Intrigued, I asked, “Have you been following the football program and the recruiting this year?” A simple nod in the affirmative was all he gave me. Excited, I asked “Can you tell me what's going to happen with the Springdale kids?”
He nodded, then replied: “All I can tell you is that the “over the coals” chicken at the Springdale AQ is better than at the Fayetteville AQ, but it still ain't bad there neither.” Puzzled, I asked, “What does that have to do with recruiting?”
He smiled: “You try finding an AQ in Tuscaloosa, South Bend, Gainesville or Knoxville.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” I asked.
Apparently, my ignorance agitated him. “Sonny, I've traveled the world, you see, and one immutable truth I've learned is, don't ever underestimate the power of home cooking.”
"AQ?" I asked. “But what if these guys don't like the AQ?”
He looked at me severely: “It ain't just the AQ. Don't you get it? It's seeing the campus perched up on the rise as you come around the Bypass. It's screaming your lungs out at the pep rallies in the Greek Theater. It's walking around campus seeing all the names of those who've gone before you beneath your feet. It's the smell of Ozark Hall and the creak of the floors in Old Main. It's winters in the Ozarks, and summers on the Buffalo River. It's ice cold beer at Fuzzy's, and lethal Long Island Ice Teas at Café Santa Fe. It's rushing the field, tearing down the goal post and dragging it all the way to Dickson Street, uphill. It's a sea of red, screaming with a common passion. It's home. If those boys in Springdale or wherever don't get that, they ought to go try and find that feeling somewhere else. Good luck to them.”
Stunned, all I could think to say was: “You know, Fuzzy's closed down.”
He pointed to his chest, “In here, it didn't. Good night.”
As he walked off, I noticed his limp and called after him, “How'd you get that limp? War injury?”
“Nah, took a shortcut home one night from Georges on those damn railroad tracks and turned an ankle. Bad idea.”
PS maybe I was just dreaming...
Intrigued, I asked, “Have you been following the football program and the recruiting this year?” A simple nod in the affirmative was all he gave me. Excited, I asked “Can you tell me what's going to happen with the Springdale kids?”
He nodded, then replied: “All I can tell you is that the “over the coals” chicken at the Springdale AQ is better than at the Fayetteville AQ, but it still ain't bad there neither.” Puzzled, I asked, “What does that have to do with recruiting?”
He smiled: “You try finding an AQ in Tuscaloosa, South Bend, Gainesville or Knoxville.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” I asked.
Apparently, my ignorance agitated him. “Sonny, I've traveled the world, you see, and one immutable truth I've learned is, don't ever underestimate the power of home cooking.”
"AQ?" I asked. “But what if these guys don't like the AQ?”
He looked at me severely: “It ain't just the AQ. Don't you get it? It's seeing the campus perched up on the rise as you come around the Bypass. It's screaming your lungs out at the pep rallies in the Greek Theater. It's walking around campus seeing all the names of those who've gone before you beneath your feet. It's the smell of Ozark Hall and the creak of the floors in Old Main. It's winters in the Ozarks, and summers on the Buffalo River. It's ice cold beer at Fuzzy's, and lethal Long Island Ice Teas at Café Santa Fe. It's rushing the field, tearing down the goal post and dragging it all the way to Dickson Street, uphill. It's a sea of red, screaming with a common passion. It's home. If those boys in Springdale or wherever don't get that, they ought to go try and find that feeling somewhere else. Good luck to them.”
Stunned, all I could think to say was: “You know, Fuzzy's closed down.”
He pointed to his chest, “In here, it didn't. Good night.”
As he walked off, I noticed his limp and called after him, “How'd you get that limp? War injury?”
“Nah, took a shortcut home one night from Georges on those damn railroad tracks and turned an ankle. Bad idea.”
PS maybe I was just dreaming...
