We’re closing in on the halfway point of this prosaic parade back through the Georgia Bulldogs’ 2024 campaign, and so far we’re stuck pretty close to our literary roots. Faulkner, O’Connor, Hemingway, and Grizzard all wrote some or all of their best work south of the Mason Dixon.
But now we’re branching out, not only geographically but also style-wise. You may recall after the Dawgs’ loss to Alabama we were left wondering whether the center could hold, whether the Red and Black would go spinning off in a widening gyre, entropy taking hold as they slouched into oblivion. And no one has ever captured that sort of existential fear of the brave future quite like Irish poet W.B. Yeats, who I’m fairly certain has never expressed any thoughts on a Georgia/Auburn football game. Until now.
A Turning, A Turning Delayed
In Sanford’s hallowed amphitheatre, where autumn’s fire burns bright, The Red and Black did not achieve their finest hour’s flight.
Yet still they carved upon the field a victory fair, Thirty-one to thirteen’s count hung shim’ring in October air.
The Auburn Tigers, noble beasts from Alabama’s plain, Fell beneath the Bulldogs’ might, their cheating efforts vain.
What rough beast of conquest stirred to life at day’s first horn? The Dawgs drove forth like ancient kings to greet the victorious morn.
No more the trailing shadow that had haunted SEC days, For nine long contests they had walked in sorrow’s winding maze. But when the first quarter’s bell tolled seven against three, The Bulldogs led as Byzantium once ruled the deep, dark sea.
Carson Beck, young artificer of the spiral’s flight, Threw twenty-three of twenty-nine with competent delight. Two hundred forty yards he wove like golden thread through air, And twice the end zone greeted his celestial prayer.
The fumbles that had plagued him in Alabama’s cruel domain were banished now like winter’s ghost before the spring’s sweet rain.
Though not each throw was crystalline perfection’s noble art, ‘Twas yet a step toward that place where craft and vision part.
Trevor Etienne, a runner bold who cuts through mortal clay, Gathered one hundred twenty-four yards in his fierce array—
Eighty-eight upon the ground like thunder’s cry and hue, Thirty-six through ether caught, and touchdowns numbered two.
The Dawgs’ defense, those watchful hounds of war’s primeval song, hunted Peyton Thorne from first to last, their hunger fierce and strong.
Three sacks they claimed, five tackles too behind the line of scrimmage, While limiting Hunter’s charge to yards that barely made an image.
Yet in this victory’s golden glow, what shadows still remain? The pass rush, swift but undisciplined, like youth’s impetuous strain.
Awareness fails when quarterbacks slip free from certain doom— ‘Tis not enough to breach the gate; one must deliver doom.
The secondary’s shifting sands, where Everette holds his sway, Shows promise bright yet inconsistent, like dawn’s uncertain ray.
When cornerbacks appear too oft upon the screen’s bright face, ‘Tis sign the foe believes he’ll yield in each contested space.
What rough beast slouches toward Austin, waiting to be born? The Texas Longhorns, ranked so high, who’ve never felt our scorn.
The Dawgs who played this autumn day may not suffice to win, But time may yet transform the pack to something more within.
In this strange era of twelve teams who’ll dance December’s dance, Each game becomes a stepping stone toward that final chance.
The season turns, the season turns, in widening gyre it goes, Until at last the center holds, and championship’s rose grows.
At least we did not fall today to Vanderbilt’s strange curse— (For in these times, such simple feats deserve a grateful verse.)
The Red and Black march onward still, though imperfect their art, And in Sanford Stadium’s sacred ground, they’ve made a worthy start.
Go Dawgs! Go Dawgs! Let echo ring through time’s eternal hall, Where second chances wait for those who rise after they fall.