By Buford T. Ledbetter

I want to start by saying I am happy. I want that on the record. Thirty points is a fine number. It is a number you can take home to your mother. But I have been sitting in Section F since before some of these players’ parents were born, and I know the difference between a win and a statement, and friends, Saturday was a win.

Let’s go to the tape. Third quarter, we are up three scores and we kick a field goal. A field goal. I stood up so fast I re-injured the ankle I hurt rushing the field in 1999, and the man next to me, a dentist from Seneca named Gary, asked if I needed a medic. I told Gary what I needed was a touchdown. Gary has not spoken to me since.

“Destiny blinked. I saw it. Gary saw it too, he just won’t admit it.”

By my count, which I keep on the back of a church bulletin, there were at least ten points left on that field. Four on the field goal that should have been a touchdown. Three on a punt I will not discuss. And three more that I can’t point to exactly, but which I felt in my spirit around the end of the second quarter, when the band played the fight song a little slow.

I’ve begun a letter to the athletic department. It is currently twelve pages, single-spaced, and includes a hand-drawn map of the parking lot showing where I believe momentum was lost. I don’t expect a reply. I’ve never gotten one. But a man has to put these things in writing, so that history knows he was right.

So yes. Thirty points. Wonderful. I’ll be there next week, same seat, same ankle, expecting forty.