'Power of Dixieland'
If you grew up outside of the South -- heck, if you grew up outside of Alabama -- it might be difficult for you to understand the significance of the season that officially begins for me tomorrow: college football season.

Here's a story that might help.

The close of Auburn's regular season means only one thing: It's time to play Alabama.

Within the borders of my home state, it's arguably the singlemost important event of every year. And before I went off to college, that meant I was parked in front of the television with various members of my family to agonize over four quarters of football that, for an Auburn person, determined whether you lived in peace for a year or had to hear taunts and jeers for 365 days.

I've always said the difference in the fans can be summed up easily: If Auburn wins the game, its fans breathe a collective sigh of relief and look forward to a year of tranquility; if Alabama wins, its fans begin salivating at the laundry list of Auburn fans in their heads who they can't wait to torment.

In 1986, I was a junior in high school and my brother was not only a student at Auburn but also a member of the basketball team. That meant he was in Birmingham for the game and my dad and mom and me were the only ones at home for the Iron Bowl, deep in an "Alabama fan territory," the northeastern part of the state.

It's important to point out that my mom makes comments throughout the game ("What was he thinking calling that play?" "There's no way he was still in bounds!" "Oooooo, STOP HIM!!"), whereas my dad sits quietly most of the time, watching with apprehension. I'm somewhere in between, sometimes going several minutes without a word and then rattling off like a crazed street person for an entire quarter.

That probably explains why there was almost always a fight.

Not in the game. Between my dad and my mom. It's our running family joke, that emotions are running so high that something Dad will say will cause Mom to momentarily snap. The game in 1986 was the most classic example.

When Alabama scored to take a 17-7 lead, my dad uttered his first words in probably more than a quarter of the game, with a tone of utter exasperation and despair: "Baby," he told my mom, "we're beat."

Despite the fact that my mom had been rattling off similar ominous predictions of doom for more than 30 minutes, she suddenly saw herself as the eternal optimist and condemned my dad for his declaration.

In short, she went over the edge.

Before I knew what was happening, my mom was marching straight out of the back door of our house, through the pine trees of our back yard and into the soybean field. Seconds later, she was over the horizon and gone.

My dad, with a look of incredulity, turned to me and sighed, "Well, I guess I'd better go after her." And out the back door he went.

Don't let me give you the impression I was the man of logic in this scenario. After a couple of minutes of being left to watch the game alone, I thought, "Dang it if they're going to make me suffer through this alone." So I rounded up a couple of extension cords, disconnected the cheap one-speaker radio we used to hear Jim Fyffe's play-by-play on The Auburn Network and relocated it to the plug in the bathroom nearest the back door.

Yep, I dragged the radio and those two brown extension cords as far into the back yard as I could and cranked the volume as high as it would go.

Don't ask me what difference I thought it made. It was Auburn-Alabama day. To anyone from the Heart of Dixie, that explanation alone would be enough to clarify behavior that might otherwise lead to court proceedings and possibly shock therapy.

The funny thing: When my parents came walking back in the back door -- together -- Auburn scored a touchdown near the start of the game's final quarter to cut Alabama's lead to 17-14. Suddenly, there was hope.

So, as you view this clip, imagine that skinny 16-year-old, that calm, laid-back father and that mom who had ironed every article of clothing in the house to burn nervous energy, assembling once again in the living room to watch the waning minutes of the annual rivalry that you could never convince me isn't the biggest and most intense in the nation.

Michigan-Ohio State? Texas-Oklahoma? Army-Navy? Gimme a break. Those folks don't see each other in the grocery store that night, in church the next morning and at work and school the following Monday. They're in separate states, for crying out loud.

Imagine our surprise, celebration and relief to see Auburn's Lawyer Tillman take hold of the ball on a reverse play and score the winning touchdown with less than a minute remaining in the game, giving the Tigers a 21-17 victory.

It's fun. It's agonizing. It's a part of our culture. Yeah, it's a sickness. It's college football, and we love it. Somebody barricade the back door.

War Eagle!