by Loren Sanders
Nothing about me is complicated. Nine pieces of wood and a coat of white paint. For others like me, life is pretty simple. Some end up in grungy bars with a film of stale alcohol separating them from husky jorts hiding the lower half of a Tebow tramp stamp. Others in high school Physics classes watching their users try to figure out how to drop a five gallon water jug off of the roof while maintaining the integrity of an egg.
Some get stuck in the corner by the crayon cabinet and are only visited by the troublemakers who are supposed to be learning a lesson or thinking about what they’ve done. The lucky ones? The lucky ones end up in a college art classroom supporting the weight of artistic co-eds looking to connect with their inner Picasso.
Wherever they are, they’re usually trapped indoors, stuck underneath the weight of an unappreciative patron, with only the glow of fluorescent bulbs to keep them warm. They carry on in this inglorious existence indefinitely, awaiting the inevitable: a broken leg, a replacement with a cushion, or, worst of all, a bonfire short on kindling.
Not me. My run may have been short, but it sure was going to be magnificent. Forget having a front row seat, I was the front row seat. The front row seat for football in arguably the greatest conference in history.
Instead of suffering under some high school kid celebrating a 98 on his scantron test, I was supposed to support a head coach in the Southeastern Conference. Instead of having a janitor push me around once a week to clean underneath me, I was to have my own personal escort. Life was going to be good.
I just didn’t know it would be so hot.
The orange pants didn’t bother warning me. Apparently, they were used to it. Structurally, I was absolutely ready for the weight of Derek Dooley and his surgically repaired hip. But the weight of an entire program? I didn’t sign up for that.
I thought I was going to a prominent program with a storied history. Instead I ended up dodging remnants of Sal Sunseri’s dip spit.
I quickly realized the most I had to look forward to in the immediate future was being in the room when Dooley called his old lawyer buddies to discuss a wrongful termination suit… Something about being fired while disabled.
But hey, it wasn't all bad. For those three hours, I got to look across the field and dream of the day when the Ol’ Ball Coach would realize that he’s ol’ enough that it might not be a bad idea to have somewhere to rest after tossing another headset. Maybe I could be the other sideline one day. Maybe one day I could get a win in the SEC.
At least I could recognize the irony of being a hot stool under the man allegedly standing guard over such a steamy pile of crap.