I had a great recap ready to rock n' roll about 9:00 last night, I just needed to edit it and click "post." One thing lead to another, I got delayed, and it was past 10:00 when I logged back on. I saw the Facebook posts. UGASports was in meltdown mode. I saw the AJC.com breaking news banner across the top of their site. Texts flowed into my phone like the airplane bottle of Jack Daniel's pouring into my Coke during the game on Saturday. Our living legend, our Voice, our #1 fan in the booth....Larry Munson, had died.
It took me a second to digest this information. Although Larry hadn't broadcast his gravelly voice in awhile, it still lived on through internet videos, DVD's, books and the memories of thousands of Dawg fans nationwide. Plus, since he was still alive, there was always the tiniest glimmer of hope that he would come back. That familiar voice would open a game with "Get the picture..." and all would be right with the world. Although it was preposterous to hope for such a thing, I hoped nonetheless. That's the meaning of "irreplaceable."
Larry Munson is Georgia football. I remember in the 90's, watching the Dawgs on Saturdays after my morning basketball games, getting through the pregame chatter that CBS or ABC put together. As soon as the Dawgs would get ready to kickoff, my Dad would instantly mute the TV and turn on the radio. There was the Voice, barking into his microphone, scaring us all to death with hyperbolic descriptions of the other team's size and speed. Larry would have you believing that we had no shot, that if we came within three touchdowns, we'd be lucky and we might as well get back on the bus. Then, he'd come through with a "My God, a Freshman" type call that showed you the real Larry. His passion for the Dawgs was so deep that he would build up the other team so in case we lost, it wouldn't hurt so bad. Luckily, our fears and his would be unfounded, and the Dawgs would usually pull through.
So, thank you, Larry. Thank you for making every game special. Thank you for "bending girders" and "Sugar falling from the sky." Thank you for magnifying the great career of "that kid out of Johnson County" with your unforgettable calls. Thank you for breaking steel chairs, destroying property, and lighting cigars on the banks of the St. John's. Thank you for getting us through the 90's, I'll never forget Carswell's mobbing in Athens and Quincy leading us to a 29-28 comeback in Baton Rouge in '98. Thank you for making my time at UGA that much better. Thank you for "Hobnail Boots," Fred Gibson's "whatchamacallit" and simply, "Massaquoi." Thank you for the chill down my spine when the Battle Hymn is played and your voice booms, espousing the virtues of what it means to be a Dawg. We Georgians, from Rabun Gap to Bainbridge, from Rome to Augusta, from Dalton to Kingsland, the children of the red clay and the sandy south Georgia soil, are forever in your debt. Go Rest High, old friend, you will not be forgotten.
Sorry, it's emotional. Anyhow, on to the "game," if you want to call it that.
The SEC East title was on the line Saturday. You wouldn't have figured it with the sparse attendance and an offensive cupboard that was more bare than a printout of Kim Kardashian's brain activity from 2009 - present. I know it was the beginning of fall break and Kentucky is quite pitiful, but dang. The energy bus pulled out of Athens on Friday and got a flat tire on the way to Daytona, apparently. It was Senior Day and I felt sorry for the guys who gutted out four years in our program, playing the ridiculous schedules, practicing in the cold and the heat and enduring the time crunch all student-athletes face, only to be greeted with a half-hearted golf clap from 65,000. The only inspiring thing about the entire process was that I realized we are not losing very many people to graduation next year. Luckily, the crowd grew at kickoff, but I was still pissed at the indifference.
The game kicked off and Kentucky drove right down our throats, eliciting a few "WTH?" looks from the crowd. Kentucky is 1-5 (at the time) in league play. Vandy just beat them like they stole their TI-83 calculators. This should not be happening. The "D," lead by Shawn "Predator, Junior" Williams and Jarvis "Predator" Jones," then decided to clamp down. Williams was nailing people all day. I think their left tackle saw Jarvis's picture on the Jumbotron during the pregame and decided that Jarvis was indeed the "Predator" or at least 35 years old, so he just struck the tent and surrendered. Kentucky settled for a field goal. It would literally be the last positive offensive play for them. Abry Jones manhandled their line all day, as did "Motel 6" Jenkins, who put their center and guard on a sandwich and ate them at halftime. No, really, I saw him. Richt asked him if wanted something to drink and he said, "you know I want some Kool-Aid!" (+1 for Friday reference)
Then...we go on "offense." (and I mean "offense" like something smelly or bad that is disagreeable to one's visual, olfactory or auditory senses) Crowell runs the ball twice and is injured. Our guard, Chris Burnette rolled onto his ankle. OK, cool. Carlton Thomas will carry us. Oh, wait. Carlton is out too, for "personal reasons" according to the Sports Information Director. So, out trots our walk-on running back, Brandon Harton. Kentucky drops back in a coverage defense for the rest of the game. Brandon gained over 100 yards on this day, but you wouldn't have known it unless you peeped the box score. He did bust a few long runs in the 4th to get important first downs and get us in position to score, but poor Brandon took so many licks and took so many losses, you can just rename him "Dow Jones" Harton. Quite honestly, the line stunk the place up. Brandon had very few holes up until about ten minutes to go in the fourth. Murray was completely inept. Overthrows, underthrows, audibles that got Brandon Harton nearly killed...it was a spectacle, in the same sense as a trainwreck or a school bus fire. Mitchell, King and Conley begged for a good throw, but Murray looked like a hungover frat boy playing Ultimate Frisbee on Sunday morning.
The re-awakening of Blair Walsh was nice to see. After going through a year long funk, the little man from Boca Raton finally came through when we needed him. Seriously, watching him this year was like watching Greg Norman choke the Masters away to Nick Faldo in 1996. If you will remember, Greg had a SIX SHOT lead that he blew, hole by painstaking hole, as the gallery watched in horror. I thought Verne Lundquist was going to drown himself in Rae's Creek. When the 18th hole mercifully ended and Faldo knew he won the Green Jacket, he did not even celebrate. He just hugged Norman. I just wanted to hug Blair Walsh....like Joaquin Phoenix hugged Richard Harris in the Gladiator. Fortunately, he did not cost us a game, but he did make the collective rear-ends of 92,000 people pucker up tighter than a snare drum every time he trotted onto the field. Today, he was the hero. Unpuckered, I rejoiced for him and drank deeply from my surgically enhanced Coca-Cola as he kicked field goal after field goal. He better get his mind right though. Greg Norman has a clothing line and a cheap wine enterprise that affords him $600,000 yachts and such. Being a kicker prone to shank and slice ain't going to blow the skirt up of any NFL scouts. Maybe he should get a clothing line of his own....Jorts by Blair Walsh. He can stencil his name in red and black across the right rear pocket, I bet they'd sell like mad at Wal-Mart. Then he could buy that 12 foot Johnboat, complete with a Minnkota trolling motor, that he's always wanted and putter around Lake Allatoona. Take that, Greg Norman.
Rumors begin to circulate. Where is Carlton Thomas? Is his momma sick? Did his girlfriend have a baby? Did Frostproof, Florida actually have a frost? No. The information was hidden. It was the Ark of the Covenant on Saturday. I guess if the SID released his whereabouts, Mark Richt's face would have melted off and I would have been tied to a post with Harrison Ford, with him screaming "keep your eyes shut....or hand me that airplane bottle of Jack." (+1 for Raiders of the Lost Ark reference) Only after the game did we learn that Carlton had tried to sneak a human of the female persuasion into his hotel room the night before the game. He obviously got caught, which allowed us to learn two things: 1) Carlton Thomas is heterosexual; 2) women, indeed, do weaken legs...or your constitution. (+1 for Rocky reference) C'mon, Carlton. It's one night, the illustrious beauties meandering on the banks of Lake Lanier can wait until Sunday. And now...you can buy alcohol on Sunday, so when you have that "sea donkey" moment, you can just get a "sixer" and forget about it. (+4 for Booty Call and Dazed and Confused reference in the same sentence).
The score at halftime was 10-9 Kentucky. They score on a turnover by us, where the referees basically gift wrap a touchdown for them with two horrendous calls. I watched the halftime show, grinding my teeth, imagining the crowing coming from Columbia, South Carolina.
"Yay...we are going to the SEC Championship again, maybe we'll come within 35 this time!"
(taking a giant pull from my surgically enhanced Coca-Cola) As Vinny texts me, "I'm about to kill myself," I contemplate my reaction if we blew this one. Headbutt Laura? No, definitely not. Kill the fat guy next to me who bitches about something every three seconds? Maybe, if he keeps whining about Brandon Harton, I could. Power clean the first person in blue and toss them into the foul creek the runs by the stadium? Yes. Then, I thought better of it. I like Kentucky people, they are class for the most part, and their basketball team is my adopted tournament squad, since UGA goes about as often as Republican governor gets elected in Georgia. We trot out for the second half and I feel like we will take control. We get the ball and sputter again. Harton loses his helmet for the 87th time. I get another text from Vinny, referring to our offense in a manner that cannot be transcribed here. We eventually go up 12-10, but I'm just about at the end of my rope. My Coca-Cola is gone and I just polished off two hot dogs with the ferocity of two Cassvillians arguing over whether Ken Schrader's #25 Budweiser car or Bill Elliott's #94 McDonald's car looked better.
The drought gets broken finally. Murray finds Marlon Brown in the back of the end zone to make it 19-10. The defense is absolutely killing Kentucky. Shawn Williams lays out their tight end and dances around him, barking and likely foaming at the mouth. I love me some Shawn Williams. He reminds me of those nasty Miami safeties from the early 2000's, who would rip your head off and then take over South Beach on Saturday night with Nevin Shapiro (allegedly) (not that I care though, I love the U and always will). Jarvis gets 2.5 sacks and blocks a pass with such force that the ball turned back into a pig, oinked loudly and ran out of the tunnel by the south end zone. We hold on for a 19-10 victory and the SEC East banner resides in Athens. I watch the players celebrate and I realize that this team, while straining my very soul for the last 60 minutes, still has my heart. I love these guys. After the 0-2 start, the "Fire Richt Yesterday" bantering, the close calls to Tennessee and Ole Miss, the suspensions, and the overall stress of the season, we are 9-2 and going to Atlanta. I imagine the Columbia, South Carolina crowd again. The inferiority complex shining through, crying in their umbrella drinks, as they lament another year of irrelevance. It warms the heart, it really does.
It's on to Atlanta, twice. Before we meet one of the vaunted triumvirate of our Western SEC brethren, we gotta play Tech. I cannot express my utter hatred for these people (disclaimer: all my friends that attended Tech are excluded, I've never had a problem with any of you). It goes beyond any other opponent. It's not even close. I hate going to their stadium, I hate driving on North Avenue, hell, I hate their g&%$^$n sign that sits on I-75, polluting the atmosphere with drivel about their next chemistry experiment. Every totally negative experience that I've ever had at a college football game happened against Tech. Even at LSU, they'll cuss you six ways from Sunday and then offer you a plate of jambalaya. Even with Florida, you can have a drink with a Gator and get along just fine. Not with Tech. It's pure hate and I'll be there, regardless of my disdain for their stadium, to pull the Dawgs through. Somebody asked me today, "do you think the Dawgs can make it ten in a row on Saturday?"
To quote our beloved Voice, "Yeah, Yeah, Yeah!"
32-17 Dawgs and I'll probably go to jail. Oh well, worth it! Happy Thanksgiving!
Other Highlights:
1) Laura allowed the car to run out of gas on the way home Saturday. I was awakened with an "uh oh" and a sputtering sound, coasting to a stop in middle of the off ramp at Marietta. For some reason, she can audit banks and large corporations, but the whole "gas light/empty" thing....slightly more challenging. It was all good, though. Thanks be to Officer Trehern of the Marietta Police Department for saving me a three mile walk.
2) I paid for and attended a viewing of "Breaking Dawn." It may be the worst 1 hour and 45 minute waste of film I've witnessed since watching Tech's offensive game film from the 2002 beating in Athens. (51-7 and it could have been 70, but Richt fell asleep with the rest of the team.) Seriously, Kristen Stewart is awkwardly bad, like Tech's offensive line and receivers. Robert Pattinson, with his afflicted "I love you, Bella, but I'm so...torn...up...inside" blabbering, reminded me of Paul Johnson explaining just how Tech blew the 2009 game against us. You suck, that's how.
It took me a second to digest this information. Although Larry hadn't broadcast his gravelly voice in awhile, it still lived on through internet videos, DVD's, books and the memories of thousands of Dawg fans nationwide. Plus, since he was still alive, there was always the tiniest glimmer of hope that he would come back. That familiar voice would open a game with "Get the picture..." and all would be right with the world. Although it was preposterous to hope for such a thing, I hoped nonetheless. That's the meaning of "irreplaceable."
Larry Munson is Georgia football. I remember in the 90's, watching the Dawgs on Saturdays after my morning basketball games, getting through the pregame chatter that CBS or ABC put together. As soon as the Dawgs would get ready to kickoff, my Dad would instantly mute the TV and turn on the radio. There was the Voice, barking into his microphone, scaring us all to death with hyperbolic descriptions of the other team's size and speed. Larry would have you believing that we had no shot, that if we came within three touchdowns, we'd be lucky and we might as well get back on the bus. Then, he'd come through with a "My God, a Freshman" type call that showed you the real Larry. His passion for the Dawgs was so deep that he would build up the other team so in case we lost, it wouldn't hurt so bad. Luckily, our fears and his would be unfounded, and the Dawgs would usually pull through.
So, thank you, Larry. Thank you for making every game special. Thank you for "bending girders" and "Sugar falling from the sky." Thank you for magnifying the great career of "that kid out of Johnson County" with your unforgettable calls. Thank you for breaking steel chairs, destroying property, and lighting cigars on the banks of the St. John's. Thank you for getting us through the 90's, I'll never forget Carswell's mobbing in Athens and Quincy leading us to a 29-28 comeback in Baton Rouge in '98. Thank you for making my time at UGA that much better. Thank you for "Hobnail Boots," Fred Gibson's "whatchamacallit" and simply, "Massaquoi." Thank you for the chill down my spine when the Battle Hymn is played and your voice booms, espousing the virtues of what it means to be a Dawg. We Georgians, from Rabun Gap to Bainbridge, from Rome to Augusta, from Dalton to Kingsland, the children of the red clay and the sandy south Georgia soil, are forever in your debt. Go Rest High, old friend, you will not be forgotten.
Sorry, it's emotional. Anyhow, on to the "game," if you want to call it that.
The SEC East title was on the line Saturday. You wouldn't have figured it with the sparse attendance and an offensive cupboard that was more bare than a printout of Kim Kardashian's brain activity from 2009 - present. I know it was the beginning of fall break and Kentucky is quite pitiful, but dang. The energy bus pulled out of Athens on Friday and got a flat tire on the way to Daytona, apparently. It was Senior Day and I felt sorry for the guys who gutted out four years in our program, playing the ridiculous schedules, practicing in the cold and the heat and enduring the time crunch all student-athletes face, only to be greeted with a half-hearted golf clap from 65,000. The only inspiring thing about the entire process was that I realized we are not losing very many people to graduation next year. Luckily, the crowd grew at kickoff, but I was still pissed at the indifference.
The game kicked off and Kentucky drove right down our throats, eliciting a few "WTH?" looks from the crowd. Kentucky is 1-5 (at the time) in league play. Vandy just beat them like they stole their TI-83 calculators. This should not be happening. The "D," lead by Shawn "Predator, Junior" Williams and Jarvis "Predator" Jones," then decided to clamp down. Williams was nailing people all day. I think their left tackle saw Jarvis's picture on the Jumbotron during the pregame and decided that Jarvis was indeed the "Predator" or at least 35 years old, so he just struck the tent and surrendered. Kentucky settled for a field goal. It would literally be the last positive offensive play for them. Abry Jones manhandled their line all day, as did "Motel 6" Jenkins, who put their center and guard on a sandwich and ate them at halftime. No, really, I saw him. Richt asked him if wanted something to drink and he said, "you know I want some Kool-Aid!" (+1 for Friday reference)
Then...we go on "offense." (and I mean "offense" like something smelly or bad that is disagreeable to one's visual, olfactory or auditory senses) Crowell runs the ball twice and is injured. Our guard, Chris Burnette rolled onto his ankle. OK, cool. Carlton Thomas will carry us. Oh, wait. Carlton is out too, for "personal reasons" according to the Sports Information Director. So, out trots our walk-on running back, Brandon Harton. Kentucky drops back in a coverage defense for the rest of the game. Brandon gained over 100 yards on this day, but you wouldn't have known it unless you peeped the box score. He did bust a few long runs in the 4th to get important first downs and get us in position to score, but poor Brandon took so many licks and took so many losses, you can just rename him "Dow Jones" Harton. Quite honestly, the line stunk the place up. Brandon had very few holes up until about ten minutes to go in the fourth. Murray was completely inept. Overthrows, underthrows, audibles that got Brandon Harton nearly killed...it was a spectacle, in the same sense as a trainwreck or a school bus fire. Mitchell, King and Conley begged for a good throw, but Murray looked like a hungover frat boy playing Ultimate Frisbee on Sunday morning.
The re-awakening of Blair Walsh was nice to see. After going through a year long funk, the little man from Boca Raton finally came through when we needed him. Seriously, watching him this year was like watching Greg Norman choke the Masters away to Nick Faldo in 1996. If you will remember, Greg had a SIX SHOT lead that he blew, hole by painstaking hole, as the gallery watched in horror. I thought Verne Lundquist was going to drown himself in Rae's Creek. When the 18th hole mercifully ended and Faldo knew he won the Green Jacket, he did not even celebrate. He just hugged Norman. I just wanted to hug Blair Walsh....like Joaquin Phoenix hugged Richard Harris in the Gladiator. Fortunately, he did not cost us a game, but he did make the collective rear-ends of 92,000 people pucker up tighter than a snare drum every time he trotted onto the field. Today, he was the hero. Unpuckered, I rejoiced for him and drank deeply from my surgically enhanced Coca-Cola as he kicked field goal after field goal. He better get his mind right though. Greg Norman has a clothing line and a cheap wine enterprise that affords him $600,000 yachts and such. Being a kicker prone to shank and slice ain't going to blow the skirt up of any NFL scouts. Maybe he should get a clothing line of his own....Jorts by Blair Walsh. He can stencil his name in red and black across the right rear pocket, I bet they'd sell like mad at Wal-Mart. Then he could buy that 12 foot Johnboat, complete with a Minnkota trolling motor, that he's always wanted and putter around Lake Allatoona. Take that, Greg Norman.
Rumors begin to circulate. Where is Carlton Thomas? Is his momma sick? Did his girlfriend have a baby? Did Frostproof, Florida actually have a frost? No. The information was hidden. It was the Ark of the Covenant on Saturday. I guess if the SID released his whereabouts, Mark Richt's face would have melted off and I would have been tied to a post with Harrison Ford, with him screaming "keep your eyes shut....or hand me that airplane bottle of Jack." (+1 for Raiders of the Lost Ark reference) Only after the game did we learn that Carlton had tried to sneak a human of the female persuasion into his hotel room the night before the game. He obviously got caught, which allowed us to learn two things: 1) Carlton Thomas is heterosexual; 2) women, indeed, do weaken legs...or your constitution. (+1 for Rocky reference) C'mon, Carlton. It's one night, the illustrious beauties meandering on the banks of Lake Lanier can wait until Sunday. And now...you can buy alcohol on Sunday, so when you have that "sea donkey" moment, you can just get a "sixer" and forget about it. (+4 for Booty Call and Dazed and Confused reference in the same sentence).
The score at halftime was 10-9 Kentucky. They score on a turnover by us, where the referees basically gift wrap a touchdown for them with two horrendous calls. I watched the halftime show, grinding my teeth, imagining the crowing coming from Columbia, South Carolina.
"Yay...we are going to the SEC Championship again, maybe we'll come within 35 this time!"
(taking a giant pull from my surgically enhanced Coca-Cola) As Vinny texts me, "I'm about to kill myself," I contemplate my reaction if we blew this one. Headbutt Laura? No, definitely not. Kill the fat guy next to me who bitches about something every three seconds? Maybe, if he keeps whining about Brandon Harton, I could. Power clean the first person in blue and toss them into the foul creek the runs by the stadium? Yes. Then, I thought better of it. I like Kentucky people, they are class for the most part, and their basketball team is my adopted tournament squad, since UGA goes about as often as Republican governor gets elected in Georgia. We trot out for the second half and I feel like we will take control. We get the ball and sputter again. Harton loses his helmet for the 87th time. I get another text from Vinny, referring to our offense in a manner that cannot be transcribed here. We eventually go up 12-10, but I'm just about at the end of my rope. My Coca-Cola is gone and I just polished off two hot dogs with the ferocity of two Cassvillians arguing over whether Ken Schrader's #25 Budweiser car or Bill Elliott's #94 McDonald's car looked better.
The drought gets broken finally. Murray finds Marlon Brown in the back of the end zone to make it 19-10. The defense is absolutely killing Kentucky. Shawn Williams lays out their tight end and dances around him, barking and likely foaming at the mouth. I love me some Shawn Williams. He reminds me of those nasty Miami safeties from the early 2000's, who would rip your head off and then take over South Beach on Saturday night with Nevin Shapiro (allegedly) (not that I care though, I love the U and always will). Jarvis gets 2.5 sacks and blocks a pass with such force that the ball turned back into a pig, oinked loudly and ran out of the tunnel by the south end zone. We hold on for a 19-10 victory and the SEC East banner resides in Athens. I watch the players celebrate and I realize that this team, while straining my very soul for the last 60 minutes, still has my heart. I love these guys. After the 0-2 start, the "Fire Richt Yesterday" bantering, the close calls to Tennessee and Ole Miss, the suspensions, and the overall stress of the season, we are 9-2 and going to Atlanta. I imagine the Columbia, South Carolina crowd again. The inferiority complex shining through, crying in their umbrella drinks, as they lament another year of irrelevance. It warms the heart, it really does.
It's on to Atlanta, twice. Before we meet one of the vaunted triumvirate of our Western SEC brethren, we gotta play Tech. I cannot express my utter hatred for these people (disclaimer: all my friends that attended Tech are excluded, I've never had a problem with any of you). It goes beyond any other opponent. It's not even close. I hate going to their stadium, I hate driving on North Avenue, hell, I hate their g&%$^$n sign that sits on I-75, polluting the atmosphere with drivel about their next chemistry experiment. Every totally negative experience that I've ever had at a college football game happened against Tech. Even at LSU, they'll cuss you six ways from Sunday and then offer you a plate of jambalaya. Even with Florida, you can have a drink with a Gator and get along just fine. Not with Tech. It's pure hate and I'll be there, regardless of my disdain for their stadium, to pull the Dawgs through. Somebody asked me today, "do you think the Dawgs can make it ten in a row on Saturday?"
To quote our beloved Voice, "Yeah, Yeah, Yeah!"
32-17 Dawgs and I'll probably go to jail. Oh well, worth it! Happy Thanksgiving!
Other Highlights:
1) Laura allowed the car to run out of gas on the way home Saturday. I was awakened with an "uh oh" and a sputtering sound, coasting to a stop in middle of the off ramp at Marietta. For some reason, she can audit banks and large corporations, but the whole "gas light/empty" thing....slightly more challenging. It was all good, though. Thanks be to Officer Trehern of the Marietta Police Department for saving me a three mile walk.
2) I paid for and attended a viewing of "Breaking Dawn." It may be the worst 1 hour and 45 minute waste of film I've witnessed since watching Tech's offensive game film from the 2002 beating in Athens. (51-7 and it could have been 70, but Richt fell asleep with the rest of the team.) Seriously, Kristen Stewart is awkwardly bad, like Tech's offensive line and receivers. Robert Pattinson, with his afflicted "I love you, Bella, but I'm so...torn...up...inside" blabbering, reminded me of Paul Johnson explaining just how Tech blew the 2009 game against us. You suck, that's how.