Hiding the Crazy

(This article was originally published December 17, 2022, in the Southern Spice section of Times-Georgian.)

“Well, Mom, you did a really good job of hiding the crazy for the last seven years,” my daughter Izzy proclaimed to me and David one recent fall evening which just happened to be the day of the ultimate state match-up: the Georgia/Georgia Tech game.

Unfortunately for my husband, three generations of rabid University of Georgia football fans were under the same roof for this classic rivalry: my mom, my daughter, and me. The situation was even more unfortunate for my daughter’s boyfriend, the lone Georgia Tech fan of the bunch.

I had managed to successfully conceal “the crazy” throughout the entire duration of my relationship with David, but only because I had deprived myself of the college football experience for lo these many years. It couldn’t be helped. I couldn’t risk it.

“Don’t you want to watch the Georgia game?” David would solicitously ask multiple times during the season.

“Nah,” I’d respond. “I’m just really not interested in college football that much anymore.”

I had promised my husband I’d never lie to him. Maybe he’ll forgive me just this once.

Every fall, memories of football seasons past would come rushing back. I’d think way back to the first time “the crazy” reared its ugly head. I was a sophomore in Athens at a Georgia/Auburn game. I was 19 years old, hot-headed, and unwavering in support for the Dawgs. The game was going downhill in a hurry, and the Auburn fans had started ripping branches off “the hedges” and taunting the Georgia fans with them. My mouth got the best of me and before I knew it, one of Athens’ finest had positioned himself beside me and said something along the lines of, “If you don’t tone it down, you’ll be taking a trip over to Lexington Road.”

Not one of my finest moments. “The crazy” had begun in earnest.

Then there was the time we were playing Auburn (Is there a pattern here?), and the football gods were not looking favorably upon us. My sweet Izzy was probably five years old and we were watching the game on TV. On Auburn’s final score, frustration overwhelmed me and I - well, I threw my house slipper at the television. To be fair, it was a super soft one; it didn’t even have a hard sole. Izzy’s never forgotten it, and neither have I. Once again, “the crazy” had surfaced.

But it turns out that I wasn’t quite as good as pressing it all down as I had led my husband and daughter to believe. A few weeks before this year’s Georgia/Georgia Tech game, David showed me just a few minutes of the Georgia/Tennessee match up. Stetson Bennett was in the pocket way too long, and Tennessee was bringing the pressure. He was stressing me out so much! The carefully crafted exterior I had worked so hard to maintain was starting to show cracks, and before I could stop myself, the words tumbled out: “Damn, son, throw the ball! You had time to write a book back there!”

Horrified at my self-betrayal, I looked at my husband. Wide-eyed he looked at me, his beloved bride, as if he had never seen me before.

And on November 26, 2022, the gig was officially up; all had been revealed. We were three generations of football fanaticism incarnate, each one of us a faded copy of the one before. My own zeal was only eclipsed by my mother’s. My daughter, a die-hard fan in her own right, possessed the most level-headed view of us all. Thank God. Maybe “the crazy” had been watered down a bit, just a bit, through the ages. The Georgia/Georgia Tech game went our way (thank goodness!). My poor husband and my daughter’s boyfriend may be scarred for life. The extremism and zealotry displayed that day were enough to frighten anyone away. I still can’t tell if my daughter’s declaration was complaint or praise. Maybe she just saw enough of herself in me to make it a little of both.

Life with Liesel

“You Have a Tick Where?”