Emerald “Dez” Nuts

The bubble nearly got us on Saturday, but as the second half approached and the boot was turned, the game went down smoothly. Despite the fact that we were down 10-7 at the half, I never got too nervous about pulling this one out. My confidence level with this program is just sky-high right now, and I can't help but feel that we're on the verge of something special in Athens for the next couple of years. Kudos to the defense, who stepped up big on Saturday and limited the Cat's to only 29-rushing yards on 29-attempts and put Woodson on his ass 5-times (I'm glad CWM has rediscovered the blitz). And how 'bout true freshman Rennie Curran, that little mad-man is a tackling machine; it feels so great to see a UGA linebacker actually making tackles (he lead the team with 12 on Saturday). The Dawgs "D" held the highly potent Kentucky offense to just 3-points in the second half, and in my mind it was one of their best performances of the year.



Tech week is here; we’re playing for a potential BCS berth and they’re playing for a potential Emerald “Dez” Nuts Bowl Birth; all is right with the world…

I'm sure we'll have plenty of "Good Old Fashion Hate" around here all week long. To start things off, as is tradition here at DOTWU, I present:


Four Notes on a Trumpet: The Tech Experience

by Saxondawg

Gameday on North Avenue

You wake up in the top bunk, snug within your Star Trek bedsheets, with that feeling in the pit of your stomach. That pounding feeling, that giddy, nauseous rush that can mean only one thing. You rush to the potty and take care of business. The feeling goes away. But something about tinkling--the colors, the sounds--makes you remember: Yellow Jacket football today!

You put on your best yellow sweater and yellow knee-socks, though you call them "gold," natch. Then, moving to the dresser, you specially polish your thick glasses, adding one final flourish--fresh tape wrapped around the bridge. Speaking of bridges, your braces are also polished to a fine sheen, new zits are popped, and you're lookin' GOOD! You're lookin' JACKET.

Heart pounding, you race up the steps from your parents' basement. Mumsy and Pops are reading mail from the old home country in New Jersey where they hope to retire someday. You slip out the door quietly and pedal your 3-speed through the crisp autumn air, gameday flags a-flying from the handlebars. And there it is, just ahead--the MARTA station. It won't be long now!

You climb onto a southbound train, your eyes scan the car, and--yes! There, sitting next to the chatty tranvestite--a man wearing YELLOW! You make your way over and wave your pom poms at him and giggle, and he says, "$#%^ off, %$$^&!" And now you feel it more strongly than ever--the essence of being a Tech fan. You giggle again more shrilly, dance away, then slide around safely under the seats until the stop at North Avenue, tee-heeing for all you're worth as you elude the grasp of your tormentor and his switchblade. It's sort of like Frodo hiding from the Black Riders, right here on MARTA!

You disembark at North Avenue, snatching quarters from a few homeless men, and take a deep breath of downtown Atlanta air--Tech air! Now you see swarms of other Jackets--two of them, three of them. It's no wonder the stadium had to be expanded. You pause on the bridge over the Downtown Connector to indulge in a Tech tradition: spitting on cars passing underneath. It's a massive traffic jam of red vehicles heading north, and you nail an RV with a big loogie from your morning Yoo Hoo Soda. Tee hee! Saliva, the GT calling card!

Then you're on campus, a block from the stadium. You take in the grand pageantry that is game day. It's the gray, smoggy sky; the deep blue of the police siren; the giggling of the frat boys enjoying an impromptu tickle pile on the sidewalk. It's the sound of gunfire. It's the beautiful women with their thick makeup, standing on the street corners and bantering with the passing cars. It's the voice of Kim King, talking and talking and talking in his one-note melodic range; Wes Durham screaming about a one-yard gain. It's the giant rubber bee, George O'Leary's old bedroom toy, patched all over, making funny farting sounds as the air oozes out yet again. It's Flag Boy, the aspiration of all Tech males. Tee hee!

Above all, it's four notes on a trumpet. You hear them now, playing the hallowed music, the sacred music, the Hymn of the Bee. There it is now, and you lift your voice to join in, warm tears fogging your thick glasses. The whole stadium sings solemnly:

"When you say Bud..."

Those four notes on a trumpet, your call to Jackethood, setting your yellow heart aflutter. Deep down you know this is the year--the year you beat Duke AGAIN--you OWN Duke. The year you road-trip to a BRAND SPANKIN'-NEW STARTUP BOWL for the holidays. The year your first pubic hairs break the surface. This sacred moment cannot last. Someday, by the Great Pointed Ears of Leonard Nimoy, you will be in New Jersey. In Michigan. In North Dakota. Someday you will buy your parents a house with a bigger basemment for you to live in. But in your heart, you'll always be a Tech Guy--a proud drop in the endless river of yellow!



Go Dawgs!

- E