'Bama Fan Wakes From 3-Month Coma

Labor Day weekend I almost killed a man.

If only he had given it one more shake.

I was on the 11th tee at the local snobatorium when my good buddy, Bama Bing, stepped from behind a big old oak tree at the exact instant I hit my trademark “Bidgood Bob Scalded Dog Bullet Hook,” a shot referred to by some as a “Thurman Munson,” which is golfspeak for a “dead yank.”

Anyway, the Bullet Hook caught Bing between the eyes. He survived, thank God, but nobody in our foursome (not even the beer cart girl) volunteered for mouth-to-mouth, so he slipped into a coma.

I was at his side this morning when he woke up.

“What happened?” Bing asked, “I remember going behind that big oak because I had to, well, you know. What day is it?”

“December 8,” I replied. 

“Damn. What’s happened? Where is everybody? Why are you the only one here?”

I don’t do post-coma recaps every day. But I did the best I could. 

“Well, for starters, all your friends have been indicted,” I said, deciding the direct approach was best. “They can’t come to the hospital because their ankle bracelets interfere with the prepaid cell phones the doctors use to call their mistresses.” 

"Indicted?” he asked, then, “What about me? Was I indicted?”

“Not yet, but there are subpoenas all over town,” I replied. “I set your office on fire while you were unconscious, just to be safe.”

“Thanks,” said Bing, relieved. “Say, who won the Governor’s race? Byrne or James?”

“Bentley,” I replied.

“The hell you say.”

Who'd a thunk it?

“True. It was a helluva campaign. First Ron Sparks shaved off his porn ‘stache and smoked Artur Davis, then Byrne and James went at each other so hard that Bentley made it to the runoff and won, then Sparks got blown out along with just about every Democrat in the whole state.”

“No way.”

“Way. The Republicans rule now. The other day I saw an eighteen-wheeler backed up to the State Capitol unloading Grey Poupon.”

Bing scratched his head in wonderment. “So let me get this straight,” he said, “All my friends have been indicted, some doctor nobody ever heard of got elected Governor and the Republicans rule the state?”

“It gets worse,” I said. “Leslie Nielsen died the other day.”

“Leslie Nielsen? Surely that’s not true.”

“It is. And don’t call me Shirley.”

1926 - 2010

Bing contemplated all this, then perked up. “Hey. Who’s ‘Bama playing in the BCS?”

Uh-oh. I suddenly didn’t like where this was going. “Well, actually, the Tide won’t be playing in the Championship this year, Bing.”

“Got nosed out in the polls, huh? I knew it would happen someday. Who outpolled us? Texas? Those blue-field pussies? Who did we beat in the SEC Championship? Florida? Georgia? How bad did we beat Auburn? Spill it.”

At this point I didn’t really know what to do, so I told Bing to relax a minute, that I was going to hit the men’s room and I’d finish catching him up after. I eased down to the nurse’s station and told them Bing was awake but they needed to get the crash cart ready, stat. 

Maybe it was all just a dream.

“I’ve got some bad news for you,” I said on my return to Bing’s room with three nurses and a crash cart behind me. “We didn’t beat Auburn. They got us, 28-27.”

“No…”

“Hang in there, buddy. I don’t know how to tell you this, so I’m just going to lay it all out there for you and get it over with…”

A nurse took me by the arm. “Bob, do you think this is a good idea? Maybe we should wait for the doctor? Maybe give him a sedative first, before you tell him?”

“No,” I said. “Better he hears it from me, before the Aubs find out he’s awake and come in here throwing toilet paper all over the ICU.”

Bing had a puzzled look as I took him by the shoulder. “Be strong, friend,” I said, “This won’t be easy for either of us. 

“We finished fourth in the West.”

Bing blinked in disbelief. Then his eyes welled with tears, “But we were unbeatable. They said the Detroit Lions couldn’t carry our jock straps. The last two movies I went to both had Nick Saban in them.”

My friend began to heave with sobs, then the gizmos and whatchamacallits went off, beeping and flashing.

“Stop, you’re killing him,” cried the head nurse. “I’m calling a code!”

“He’s got to know the truth,” I said, pushing her aside.

“His heart can’t handle the truth,” she said, “this is too much for him to take.”

Mustering all of my courage, I said the words. “Bing, it’s Auburn. They’re 13-0 and ranked number one. They’re playing Oregon for the National Championship and they’re going to freight-train those poor Ducks.”

Bing gasped for breath. “How?” he said.

Your worst nightmare.

“It’s that new quarterback of theirs, the one they bought. Do you remember? Apparently he has superhuman powers and he’s a lock for the Heisman Trophy.”

“But, Bob… surely Oregon can… somehow they can stop…” his voice trailed off as he clutched at my sleeve.

“No, my friend, Auburn's offense is like the contents of your stomach at the Chi-O tequila swap our sophomore year. It can’t be stopped.”

He held my gaze for several seconds, and then a curious thing happened. Bing’s grand mal Crimson Tide grief seizure appeared to ebb and a look of calm emerged on his face. The beeping of the gizmos and whatchamacallits slowed, then stopped. The nurses relaxed.

“It’s okay,” Bing said. “It’s okay. I’m alive. I’m going to make it. College football doesn’t matter in the big picture… what’s important is family and friends, the people I love, the people who love me. Call my wife and tell her I’m back!”

As the nurses filed out, taking the crash cart with them, I thought of my lifelong friendship with Bing, and also pondered my three-month "friendship" with Bing's hot-as-a-blowed-coal wife.

“Not so fast with that crash cart,” I said.

Hang in there, Bama Bing. There is always next season.