We continue our joyous jaunt through the Georgia Bulldogs’ 2024 season with a high point from the season, the Red and Black’s 30-15 victory over the Texas Longhorns. To deliver the glorious news of the triumph west of the Mississippi we’re turning to the old man of the river himself, Mr. Samuel Clemens. You may know him however as Mark Twain. Enjoy.
Now, I have witnessed many curious spectacles in my wanderings across this great continent, but few have provided such exquisite torture followed by such sublime relief as watching those Georgia Bulldogs ply their trade these past six contests. Lord almighty, but they had perfected the art of driving their faithful followers to the very precipice of madness with all the consistency of a Mississippi riverboat schedule.
There they were, week after week, practicing the same melancholy rituals: letting receivers run free like escaped chickens, watching footballs sail overhead like they were placidly studying astronomy, tackling with all the enthusiasm of a man asked to split cordwood early on Sunday morning after a late Saturday night, and running plays that moved forward about as effectively as a steamboat trying to navigate upstream through four foot deep molasses. The penalties came regular as church bells, and the turnovers arrived with the punctuality of tax collectors.
The coaches would engage in their weekly pantomime: rinse the disappointment, scratch the noggin in theatrical bewilderment, shake that visor like it contained the secrets of the universe, holler at poor Glenn Schumann as if volume could cure what ailed them, then commence the whole sorry business again the following Saturday.
But on this particular evening in that far republic of Texas, our heroes of the gridiron decided to abandon their well-rehearsed tragedy and attempt something altogether foreign to their nature—they decided to play football as if they actually knew how.
Had the good people of Georgia grown weary of watching the boys stumble through first halves like tourists lost in a foreign city? Well then, how about scoring twenty-three consecutive points before halftime, just to see what all the fuss was about?
Had the faithful grown tired of watching the Red and Black trail behind like stragglers on a church picnic? Well then, how about never falling behind against the alleged finest team in all the land?
It wasn’t what you’d call perfect. No sir, perfection is a luxury reserved for Sunday sermons and politicians’ promises. But it possessed a beauty that had been as scarce in Georgia football this season as preachers at a poker game.
But as a brilliant man once said, it’s not the size of the dog in the fight, it’s the size of the fight in the dog.
And these Bulldogs whipped those Texas Longhorns by being more ornery, more collected, and more willing to engage in the fine art of brutal physical persuasion.
It was as if they had shed their old skins entirely. These same Bulldogs, who had been running the ball about as effectively as a one-legged cat in a sandbox (ranking a mighty thirteenth in their own conference), suddenly churned out 108 yards on the ground with all the determination of a mule train heading west through a hail storm. That Trevor Etienne fellow scored all three touchdowns on foot, accumulating 87 hard-earned yards on 19 attempts that would have made a frontier pioneer proud. Young Etienne came to Georgia for nights such as these, and Providence smiled upon his decision. I let slip a grin over it myself, truth be told.
The offensive line, bless their cotton-picking hearts, opened holes wide enough to drift a Mississippi paddlewheeler through sideways, despite missing one of their number. Sometimes a man discovers what he’s made of only when circumstances strip away his familiar comforts.
As for Carson Beck, that young man appeared to have grown bored with his previous hobby of throwing for four hundred yards and buckets full of touchdowns. So he decided to try a different avocation for variety’s sake—completing 23 of 41 tosses for a modest 175 yards, with 3 interceptions and nary a touchdown pass to show for his efforts. Beck continued his puzzling habit of making decisions that would confuse a Philadelphia lawyer, but when the moment demanded heroics, he stepped up like a riverboat gambler with aces up his sleeve.
The receivers, poor souls, continued to play as if they were attempting to catch greased pigs at a county fair. Some habits die harder than others, and this particular malady has proven more persistent than a door-to-door brush salesman.
Now, about that final interception—and here we must pause to discuss one of the most shameful displays of officiating chicanery I have witnessed since the days when politicians actually pretended to be embarrassed by their corruption. The referees initially made the correct call, flagging the Texas defender for interference. But when the local crowd began hurling debris like children denied a lollipop, instead of penalizing such behavior as prescribed by decent society and league rules, these zebra-shirted arbiters rewarded the tantrum by spending five minutes staring at moving pictures like Adrienne Kroell was sashaying across the screen and then reversing their decision.
You will likely recall that the SEC previously fined Tennessee a quarter million U.S. dollars for similar shenanigans, but apparently Texas operates under different rules—perhaps the same ones that govern their claims about state size and barbecue superiority. It was a display so crooked it would have made a corkscrew jealous.
But enough about the failings of grown men in striped shirts. The Georgia defense played like men possessed, holding Texas to zero successful third down conversions in the first half and limiting them to 38 total yards, just about enough to get from the front porch to the well house. For the entire evening, the Longhorns managed just over one yard per rushing attempt, collecting 29 yards on 27 tries, which is about as effective as trying to fill a bucket with a fork.
Jalon Walker doled out chaos like he could charge for it by the pound, making the Texas quarterbacks’ evening about as pleasant as a root canal performed by a blacksmith. When asked how he motivated his charges, Coach Smart replied with rare emotion that his players brought out the best in him, then added with refreshing honesty, “They tried to rob us with calls in this place. But these guys are so resilient.”
Truer words were never spoken.
It’s premature to declare this a transformative moment for the Classic City Canines, but it’s entirely appropriate to tip our hats to their performance in hostile territory. They played their finest football of the season when it mattered most, which is more than many teams manage in a lifetime.
There was some speculation in this space previously that this team lacked the constitution to win a national championship, and I suspect the jury may still be out on that. But tonight I witnessed a level of grit and composure I didn’t know they possessed—qualities perhaps forged in the very crucible of that Texas evening. They remain imperfect and inconsistent, like most mortals, but at their peak they appear capable of matching wits and weight with any collection of young men foolish enough to line up across from them.
After a week’s rest to tend their wounds and prepare for the Florida Gators, they’ll return to their labors. But tonight they delivered Coach Smart’s hundredth victory in memorable fashion. It was something entirely different from their seasonal melancholy, and it was beautiful to behold.
Until we meet again on these printed pages…
Go ‘Dawgs!!!