Dear Raleigh:
Who
knew Esther Rupp was still alive, or that on the eve of a black coach winning
Kentucky's seventh national championship, she might pass on. Perhaps this is all about myth and legend,
and not so much to be taken for real.
Only a Homer or a Virgil would have considered such an element necessary
to the story. Only in a Bible, Koran or
Upanishad, might such an event seem plausible.
But while we're making believe, maybe somebody should attach a few blue
and white balloons to Esther's tombstone.
As
for me, if I make it into the second-half, I could live forever, but someday a
first-half lull will do me in, this I know as surely as I know my name. And on that fateful occasion, although I
prefer cremation (smoking like Jeff Sheppard on a mission from heaven), I
request at least the decency of a closed-casket funeral, and if this wish be
not granted, I swear by all that is holy, I will raise up in the lap of that
downy box and exhale, "Go Big Blue".
These
latest cats marched into the fire and snatched them, one by one, from the
burning, with prodigious steps and regal expressions they brought out limp
bodies, laid them on the ground and breathed into them the sweetness of
life. Triage was housed on a ninety-five
foot long hardwood rectangle.
Tourniquets were fashioned from old denim uniforms, and ceiling banners,
decorated with numbers like 48, 49, 51, 78, 96 and 98 and words like NCAA Champions,
were laid down as comfortable pallets.
And the patients mended, all were whole and an unbeliever could not be
found among those who viewed this glorious sight.
I
myself have been born again. I vow to
eat only that which is good for me, drink that which clears my mind, and
exercise with vigor for the rest of my days.
For as surely as I let myself go to pot, soon after Gabriel's lofty horn
vibrates the air, and this spirit of mine is wafted on the wings of mercy, the
Cats will sweep through the SEC tournament, march all the way to the Alamo and
bring home another trophy, and there I will be, stuck inside a lifeless
shell. In the end I know, mortality will
prevail. So my greatest desire is to die
on April 14th, and by so doing, not miss March Mayhem and at the same time,
confuse the government as they seek to share in my good fortunes from the year
just prior.
When
history is writ, the last horn has sounded, and the final offensive voice on
sports call-in radio has been given the ole heave ho, somewhere on the horizon
I will lift up mine eyes and view four horsemen. These regal figures will pass by as if
through the clouds, and as they draw nigh, the scales will fall from my eyes
and their identity will be revealed to me.
On a white stallion will glide the nasal, but impressively Germanic
Baron and on his head will rest four crowns.
His time will seem to go on forever, but alas this great figure will
drift beyond earth's firmament.
Before
the brilliant light of the first horseman has faded, I will view with the
multitude of singing saints, the second steed and its rider. This subject will wear dated spectacles and
proclaim that the guards of heaven must lay down their arms and yield to the
giants from whose hands fiery orbs will be flung through halos of orange. But this too shall pass.
Then
behold, Satan shall ride across the sky on the back of an ass, dragging his own
posterior behind him, as if for comic relief, except that no one is
laughing. Back into the pit of hell
called Oklahoma he shall sink, never to return, save for the occasional
first-round contest.
After
this disconcerting interruption, the shrill voice of trumpet will announce the
next rider of a brilliant white steed.
Such a fair-haired knight has seldom been seen. Indeed, he will be the most gallant of them
all, proclaiming words of wisdom, making boat loads of commercials, and
speaking with a forked tongue these words, "I shall reign forever and
ever." For a time the rejoicing
will be great, for despite his busy schedule, he will find time to rescue us
from the lip of hell and lay us down at the portals of heaven. Then lo, even as a vapor vanishes, so too
shall he leave us in despair.
But
just as the night seems too dark for day's return, when our eyes sting from so many
tears, a man cloaked in black, will quietly arise from the south. With vision clear, passion deep and syntax
African, he will axe us if we can learn to trust him, forsaking all other gods. Our sadness and fear will not easily be cast
aside, but when he gives us a front-row seat for his march to the promised
land, our voices will rise in unison to praise him, even as we pass with him to
the other side, on the day of our glorious rapture. Then from Eddyville to LaGrange, Clinch
Mountain to Buttermilk Pike, and all across the Commonwealth and far beyond,
the cry shall be heard as the clock winds down in San Antone, TUBBY, TUBBY,
TUBBY, TUBBY!!!!
