Tubby Tubby Tubby

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!!!!