![]() We gave up hope, which we had because the idea of a game requires some notion of stupid, irrational, and effervescent hope. Saban was going to eat it for his Saturday dinner, like he always does, alone in the film room and frowning happily. The most dominant offensive line in college football had you in its hands, a fragile egg ready to be crushed and added to Nick Saban's boundless omelet of vanquished souls. Alabama didn't even have a turnover you did. ![]() You only passed the ball 16 times and didn't even tally 100 yards passing. We saw how Alabama snuffed out drive after drive, and slowed your blitzkrieg down to three spluttering bursts for touchdowns. Why aren't you dead? Everyone who saw this wants to know, because we saw it. There was dust and screaming, and we swear you were gone. We totally saw you flattened in the second quarter, when you gave up 21 points. You were outgained on offense by 102 yards and appeared to be in danger of being overrun at, what, 11 different points in the game? We swear we saw them overrun you 11 different times. You were hit with a 99-yard touchdown pass by AJ McCarron that should have killed you, a head shot that had the medics reaching for the body bags, not the bandages. You were dead, and dead-making things happened to you. Possibly from a "Saban." You're gonna need shots. They're b igger than a dog's, smaller than a shark's. we're not even going to talk about what kind of animal left those teeth marks on your ass. And yet here you are, unperforated and unbleeding except for that. ![]() machete? Broadsword? Those bullet holes are right in the middle of your chest, where you would shoot a man to end his life. ![]() There are five bullet holes in your jersey and singe marks on your pants. ![]()
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