That, plus I like black and white, old school pictures. We’ve had a blast going through Mom’s pictures since she died and found some real gems. It’s always good to be remember your roots.

Of course, any eye-savvy folks out there can immediately spot the irony: Old Timey Eyeguy is not really “fusing.” He’s doing what’s called “monocular indirect ophthalmoscopy” (MIO) as opposed to “binocular indirect ophthalmoscopy” (BIO) which is what we modern eye docs typically do. That’s the preferred method because if you use those eye drops that blow your pupils wide open for several days and make your life miserable (it’s really only a few hours, just seems like days) you get a nice 3D image with BIO. Like they always say, “two eyes are better than one.”

Two eyes are better than one because when they work together you get your money’s worth after plopping down $15 for James Cameron’s Avatar at the movie theater with the leather seats and the wine bar. I feel sorry for the poor saps with one functioning eye who handed over their hard-earned cash and eagerly put on their 3D glasses for what was billed as “alternate reality, complete immersion experience” only to discover that Pandora is flatter than one of those 14th century maps of planet Earth.

The problem for us eye doctors is that it’s not always possible to do BIO. There are some situations where only MIO will do. Like this Saturday when I do that eye screening at the health fair. I won’t have the luxury of dilating pupils, and I’d like to do at least a little something to let the patient know what is going in their retina beyond donning a turban and trying to channel Carnac the Magnificent.

But I have a confession. I tried to do MIO like Old Timey Eyeguy yesterday and I couldn’t. I took my direct ophthalmoscope (DO) and my 20 diopter condensing lens (the kind you used to fry ants with when you were a kid) and kindly ordered my tech to sit for me as a practice patient.

I caught a few fleeting glimpses of the optic nerve now and then, but it was hard to get everything lined up and focus on that spot in the picture where all the little light rays cross in midair. Without a dilated pupil, it was a little like sticking a straw through the keyhole of a door and trying to find out what is going in the next room. After my tech started squirming in the chair and I started to pick up the scent of his freshly-fried retina, I finally gave up. Obviously, I’m a little rusty.

Now I know what you’re thinking: Why don’t you just use your DO alone? Well, DUH. To do that through an undilated pupil you’ve got to get within millimeters of the patient’s face. There are a thousand and one reasons why this is not a good idea. The thousand being all the different viruses floating around out there this time of year, not the least of which is the Razorback Flu, and the one being personal hygiene or the lack thereof. And, no, I’m not talking about mine.

Gentle Fusioneers, here’s a hot tip for you: As you get older, don’t forget to take a bath. You will feel as though you don’t have to bathe as often, but believe me, you do. Just because your spouse or your buddies down at the Senior Center don’t care about your BO (probably because they haven’t bathed in 3 days either and you all cancel each other out) doesn’t mean that other people don’t.

Like your eye doctor who is trying to screen your eyes through an undilated pupil and can’t use BIO, can’t remember how to do MIO, and doesn’t want to do DO because of your BO.

OME, OMY, I can’t find the eye. That’s an embarrassing admission for an Eyeguy like me.

But there may be light at the end of the tunnel. We could pass the collection plate and buy me one of these bad boys (”Fast, easy entry into undilated pupils! Greater working distance increases comfort for both practitioner and patient!”).

FedEx delivers overnight, people. I’ll have a PayPal button up ASAP.

As for Pat Robertson and Rush Limbaugh, those purveyors of post-quake logorrhera, and the political dude from South Carolina who when speaking about people on public assistance used the analogy of denying animals food so they couldn’t “breed” but now “regrets” saying that even though it brought him much attention and fired up his “evangelical” base–I would wish them all straight to hell in a handbasket.

Or maybe a parachute.

Now before someone gets on here, as sometimes happens on this blog, and yells “ALL ABOARD THE TRAIN TO CRAZYTOWN!, allow me to explain. Mark, you see, has already been to hell and back. In fact, he returned from there to Searcy, Arkansas this past Monday, changed for life but still in one piece.  He surprised all of us last week by suddenly announcing that he was going to Haiti (which I think we could all agree is as close to hell on earth as one could possibly get at the moment) as a representative of Harding to scope out possible ways that the University community to assist that tragedy-torn country and her people as quickly as possible.

Philip Holsinger, Harding alum, photojournalist and missionary who has spent considerable time in Haiti prevailed upon Mark to go, and with that “condition” of his, of course Mark said “Send me!” Andrew Baker, head of the Church and Family Institute at Harding, was a key figure in arranging the trip,  and other “higher ups” approved it. Now it’s no secret that a few of those Harding “higher ups” don’t care a great deal for Mark’s personal politics. I know this may come as surprise to those of you who may have been off mining lunar rocks, but that kind of thing happens in many circles these days.

But the powers that be nonetheless figured correctly that Mark was the perfect person to represent the University on the trip. They were willing to put past differences behind them and sign off on this anyway because it was the right thing to do. We need a little more of that kind of “bipartisan” spirit these days.

Kudos, Harding. That’s the kind of pure, unadulterated religion that might shake a little contribution money out of me this year.

Once there, Mark and Philip experienced enough heart-rending pain and tragedy to last ten thousand lifetimes. They traveled around and made numerous contacts while surveying the damage. What they noticed immediately was that with many homes and building destroyed, countless Haitians are living in makeshift “tent cities,” fashioning shelters out of whatever bits and pieces of tarp, cloth, sticks and rope that can find. Since they’re likely to be outdoors for some time to come, meager accommodations like that will be unsuitable for the long haul, especially when the rains come.

After camping beneath the stars themselves, Mark and Philip knew what needed to be done;  Tents and Tarps, a Harding University student body-sponsored drive to send 4500 tents and tarps to Haiti by February 1st, one for each undergraduate member of the student body, was born. To date, Harding students have raised over $17,500 which much more on the way. If you live near Searcy and have a tent to contribute, you can contact the Institute for Church & Family at 501-279-4660.

If you’re like me and you don’t own a tent and your idea of camping is “roughing it” at a Motel 6, then you can now donate online at the Tents and Tarps website. A contribution of $50 will house one Haitian family.

This fledgling effort is an ambitious project, and it’s going to take a lot of coordination with contacts who have an intimate knowledge of the culture and lay of the land to meet its goal. But, as it turns out, Providence may already be at work. Since it’s Mark’s story and he tells it better than I ever could, I’ll let him fill you in:

“Philip and I missed our connection to Dallas in San Juan on Sunday and had to fly to Philadelphia for the night, where we ended up sleeping on the floor of the airport.  Compared to some of the other places I slept last week, that wasn’t too bad.

On our way through security, we met Pat, a woman from Belgium who works for a travel agency in Delaware.

When she told me where she lived, my jaw hit the ground — I don’t run into people from Delaware very often, particularly in the San Juan airport.  As it turns out, Pat lives about a mile from my parent’s house (near the WaWa on Rt. 13).

We then learned that Pat had spent the night at the Good Samaritan Clinic at Jimani on the DR border on Friday and that we probably slept about 25 feet from each other on the roof of the clinic. She also accused me of being the one who was doing all of the snoring that prevented people from hearing the aftershocks.

Pat had gone to Haiti to check on some friends after the earthquake and to deliver medical supplies and she did all of this on her own.  She speaks both French and Creole and has a lot of contacts in Haiti that can help us get the tents delivered.

This morning, she gave Philip a free ticket to Haiti and it looks like they’ll be working together in Port-au-Prince to get Harding’s tents and tarps delivered.

The only thing that brought us together was missing a flight in San Juan.

I experienced too many other “coincidences” like this one to believe that the hand of God was not moving Philip and me in a direction that is eventually going to cause good things to happen in Haiti.”

Eureka! Amid millions of pieces of rubble, a small shiny nugget of Grace to serve as a foundation for rebuilding a country. That incident alone may not solve the problem of theodicy and “why bad things happen to good people” once and for all, but it seems to me to be a compelling sign that God actually does give a rip.

Back to Robertson, Limbaugh and the political dude from South Carolina and my wish that they would go straight to hell. Of course, I’m not proposing that we get all medieval and send them off to a place of everlasting, conscious torment. I don’t care much for torture, and I think there are some compelling reasons to believe that a place like that might not even exist. Besides, none of us are the sum total of our worst moments.

I’m talking about the kind of hell that could burn off the dross, refine, and actually do some good. Like getting them out from behind the cameras and microphones, putting them in some work clothes and dropping them into Haiti, and once there, giving them a tiny shovel and telling them, “Welcome to the real world. Now get to work.”

The odds are very good that once they have looked into the eyes of the suffering and seen the Imago Dei, that they would be less inclined to treat them like inanimate objects on which to score theological and political points. They might also come to realize that there are various levels of hell in their own neighborhood, or at the very least just across town.

You know, come to think of it, I bet there are some fine members of the 82nd Airborne Division who might be able to assist in the transfer.

Go Bisons!

We knew that the Crimson Tide was among several teams that would be receiving the new gear, which featured a particular avatar representing the “spirit” of each team, but Bama’s was missing from Nike’s preview website.

But when Heisman Trophy-winning tailback Mark Ingram scored his first touchdown in the BCS Title Game against Texas, he flashed the new gloves toward the camera for all the world to see.

Frankly, Scarlett,  they took my breath away.

The background consisted of a subtle, houndstooth-like plaid, symbolic of legendary Alabama football coach Paul “Bear” Bryant. But it was the bold, crimson script “A” emblazoned over the houndstooth that stood out the most. It’s the preferred brand symbol of a more progressive, “new Alabama,” a distinct wordmark that increasingly adorns everything from license plates, to lanyards, to university shuttle buses, to the top of the school’s official stationery.

To me, the message was clear: Honor your roots and remember those on whose shoulders you stand. But at the same time, keep your eyes up and looking forward. Don’t become so mired in the past that you can’t move ahead toward bigger and better things.

Alabama Head Coach Nick Saban had said as much when he came to Tuscaloosa. Right off  the bat, he made two important promises. First, that he would honor the winning legacy of Bear Bryant and hold on to those things that were good about the past. But at the same time, he vowed to build something new and different, a foundation more fitting for the 21st century.

And there, on the cusp of a new era of Crimson Tide football stood Mark Ingram, holding both those promises in the palm of each hand.

Focusing too acutely on the past sometimes leads us to hate and, like the Hatfields and McCoys, brood over past wrongs whose roots we may have long since forgotten or never even known in the first place. I think that was the case with some of my friends who pull for Tennessee and Auburn. They just couldn’t get past the past, flashing me the “Gator Chomp” prior to the SEC Championship and the “Hook ‘em Horns” gesture in the weeks leading up to the national title game.

There were notable exceptions, though. Like the nurse at our clinic, a loyal Auburn fan, who yelled “Roll Tide” to me the day of the title game. Others could only offer up a “Go SEC!,” but I appreciated it nonetheless. I won’t forget that when their time comes.

I don’t profess to know all the history behind the rivalries between our schools, and maybe I’m too new a citizen of the Bama Nation to really appreciate it. I do love history and tradition and generally feel we would do well to reflect upon and learn from them. But I consider myself primarily a son of the New South, one who can appreciate and welcome a win–any win–that reflects well on our region and puts us in a positive light.

We need all the help we can get; there are still far too many who, when they think of the South, see nothing but lynchings, police dogs and fire hoses. All that, plus the 2010 Alabama gubernatorial race (may God have mercy on us all).

I hear this a lot from politicians, pundits and preachers these days: We must return to the “The Good Old Days.”

But I think it is good to remember, as we peer through the distorting lens of nostalgia, that while the “Good Old Days” might have been good for some, they were not that way for everyone. Ozzie and Harriet may have gotten along fine on TV, but real families struggled then just like they struggle now, albeit more under the radar. People may have been more likely to get up and go to church, but many would prefer not to return to the days when a white man in the South could plausibly be a KKK Imperial Wizard on Saturday night and a Baptist elder come Sunday morning.

As for me, while I love the way the dapper Don Draper dresses, I think we’re better off with less smoking, drinking and sexism in the workplace. I also happen to prefer modern day antibiotics.

I follow the cues of another Preacher who said: “Do not say, ‘Why were the old days better than these?’ For it is not wise to ask such questions.”

I’m not sure where all this hankering for the past comes from, but I have some ideas. It might be a hedge, a defense mechanism of sorts, which gives us anchor and solace in the midst of turbulent times. Maybe we just realize we’re going to die, and in the face of such existential angst, we simply long for the assurance that the values that we have believed in and the deeds we have done are true and everlasting and have made a difference.

Still, taken to extremes (which a person of God should avoid), it strikes me most of all as the antithesis of holy contentment.

That same Preacher said this regarding balance: “It is good to grasp the one and not let go of the other.”

I think in a way Mark Ingram was doing that. Perhaps I should follow his lead.  I have a National Championship cap and t-shirt, but maybe I should order a pair of those gloves, too. They might help me get a better grip on my ophthalmoscope as I attempt to sort the wheat from the chaff and get on with my life.

Roll Tide, Roll.

Well, mostly anyway.

When it comes to football, we were a motley crew, united only in our love for Duke basketball. Clemson, LSU, Georgia, Alabama, Penn State and Rutgers were just a few of the schools represented in our little knot of frozen fandom near the front of the line.

Kid Clemson, the guy in the Tiger hoodie in front of me, was a veritable walking encyclopedia of sports statistics. He was rattling off the dimensions of C.J. Spiller’s most recent feats and lamenting the future of Clemson football without him. When he found out Number Three and I were from Alabama, he hung his head a little and said, “The day that Alabama beat us last year was the worst day of my life.”

I told him that game surprised me a little too, but if that was the worst day he would ever have in his life, then he would likely die a happy man, old and full of contentment. He was probably about nineteen, and I’m not sure he understood the truth of what I was saying, but maybe he will someday.

Talk quickly turned to tonight’s National Championship game with Texas, and nearly everyone there agreed that if Alabama plays anywhere near their potential, they would likely walk away with The Crystal Trophy. Not everyone there liked the Crimson Tide, but Number Three and I were accorded instant respect–even from the LSU guy.

“I think Alabama has the best team this year, but I really don’t like Saban very much at all,” he said.

“That ‘betrayal’ just cuts too deep, eh?” I smiled and prodded. “Even though he brought you home The Crystal?”

“Yeah, I guess,” he said, “but he still has a lot of friends down in Baton Rouge. Truth be told, they’d have him back in an instant if he showed the slightest bit of interest.”

Kid Georgia was wearing a Duke hoodie and trying to explain how he could be a Bulldog fan in football season and root for the Blue Devils in basketball. “Look, I like who I like, okay? It doesn’t have to make sense to anybody but me.”

Amen, I thought, ’nuff said.

A buddy of his turned to me and said, “Hey, he was telling us all about Alabama history on the way up here, how they got their name and mascot and everything.”

“Oh really,” I smiled, “what did he say?”

“You tell him,” he said, turning to Kid Georgia.

“Well,” Kid Georgia replied confidently, “it all had to do with a Birmingham trunk company whose symbol was a red elephant. They supplied the player’s suitcases when they went to the Rose Bowl for the first time back in the 1920s.”

“Not bad, but that’s not the whole story,” I replied. I then went on to tell them about an Atlanta sportswriter (Everett Strupper) who described the 1930 Rose Bowl winner and National Championship Bama team after watching them play Ole Miss that season:

“At the end of the quarter, the earth started to tremble, there was a distant rumble that continued to grow. Some excited fan in the stands bellowed, ‘Hold your horses, the elephants are coming,’ and out stamped this Alabama varsity.”

The association took, although surprisingly the elephant didn’t become the official mascot until 1979 after the Alabama Student Government Association prevailed upon the administration and “Big Al” was born.

I then pointed to the fedora-crowned bust of Wallace Wade which stood less than 100 yards from us over by the football field. “See that statue? That’s Wallace Wade. He was head football coach at Alabama the first time they went to the Rose Bowl in 1926 and won their first National Championship over the Washington Huskies. Up until that time, Southern teams had always been deemed unworthy of an appearance at such a prestigious game, but Wade’s team was too good to be denied that year.”

They were all listening now. Like true Southerners, they loved a good story.

“Sportswriters all over the country lamented that a team from the South had been granted admission. Entertainer Will Rogers called us ‘The Tusca-losers.’ The Huskies took us lightly, but on the train ride out to California Coach Wade had his boys doing wind sprints and running plays at every stop. It was a hard fought contest, but Alabama won 20-19.

The entire South cheered their vindication, and on the way back, they were besieged by celebrating fans at every stop. Remember when Saban was hired and the airport was packed when he arrived in Tuscaloosa for the first time? It was like that at the train depot when the team returned. There were so many people there to welcome them, it took an hour for the team to travel from the station to downtown, a distance of less than a mile. It was the beginning of many great things for Alabama football.”

But I wasn’t finished. “See that building?” I asked, pointing to Cameron Indoor Stadium. “After two more trips to the Rose Bowl and two more National Championships, Coach Wade moved to Duke in 1931 where he had a fine record and went to two more Rose Bowls. Legend has it that in 1935 he had a meeting with that guy.” I pointed to the bust of former Duke Athletic Director Eddie Cameron which was right next to us.

“Together, they reportedly sketched a rough draft of Cameron Indoor Stadium on a matchbook cover. When Cameron was completed in 1940, it became the largest gym in the country south of the Palestra at the University of Pennsylvania. No one ever found that matchbook cover, but it was a good story, so I guess it just stuck. So you see, there are a lot of connections between this place and the University of Alabama.”

Those Sons of the South did indeed see. The Zen of the moment was not lost on them. Kid Clemson was too dumbstruck to say anything and Kid Georgia looked at me like I had just stepped off a flying saucer, took one step back, and whispered, “Whoa.”

A lot of things have changed in the South since those early days, mostly for the better. But one thing that hasn’t changed is our deep love of and fascination with college football. Just like 1926, our boys carry the hopes and aspirations of an entire region on their shoulders. Our eyes are upon them, and win or lose, we will love them and greet them when they return and thank them for a wonderful, wild and thrilling ride.

We want to win. We expect it. It is the order of things, history come full circle.

But the most important thing is that we are back. We are, as they say, “in the conversation.” And we will be, I believe, for many years to come.

Once more, all eyes are are on Alabama, and it feels so right.

Roll Tide, Roll.

I barely had time to snap a photo or two of the Duke University campus when it completely flatlined. Can you believe that? Sure you can! It’s an iPhone! My itty-bitty blue United States map was lit up and everything, and then it just up and disappeared like the lost continent of Atlantis.

Guess I can’t blame that one on AT&T since it was a hardware issue. Oh, what the heck, maybe I will anyway. Wait till Verizon gets a hold of this one.

But the ramifications of this unfortunate turn of events are obvious: I would be unable to live-blog, Facebook and Twitter while Number Three Son and I witnessed our first basketball game at historic Cameron Indoor Stadium as Duke took on Clemson in their ACC opener. Tragedy of tragedies, the world would be deprived of my random brain farts (aka “Tweets”) which would mark this storied occasion. Oh, the humanity!

But never fear Fusioneers, Facebook friends and Tweeps, for I am reconstructing here on Ocular Fusion my Twitter timeline which would have appeared had my expensive, much-ballyhooed, piece o’ junk phone actually worked like it was supposed to.

I can hear future historians breathing a sigh of relief even now:

• There are Tiger Woods billboards all over Asheville, NC. I don’t think think they’ve heard yet.
• Headed into enemy turf (Chapel Hill) to have brunch with old friends. Wondering if they will serve me since I’m wearing my Duke gear.
• There it is, Darth Williams’ Death Star. They call it The Dean Dome, but DW is trying to get the name changed to ROY’S HOUSE.
• It may be a Chapel Hill establishment, but Crook’s Corner serves up some divine shrimp and grits, ambrosia even.
• Loved brunching with Dan and Rebecca. We were all together in Mrs. Witcher’s 1st grade classroom back at Burnt Chimney Elementary School in 1968. Man, that was a fast 40 years!
• Franklin Street in Chapel Hill may have its charms, but it can’t hold a candle to The Strip in Tuscaloosa. Roll Tide!
• Wow, parking at Duke was too easy. Just hand the nice lady your $5 and you drive right into your Field of Dreams.
• Number Three Son is awestruck by Duke Chapel. “Let’s go inside!” he exclaims. Can’t remember him ever being that excited to go to church.
• I will admit that I often have a hard time praying. But when I walk into Duke Chapel, the words just pour out. Architecture matters.
• Is that Coach K sitting beside Jesus on one of those stained glass windows?! Nah, I guess it must be St. John, but the resemblance is uncanny, right down to the toupee (just kidding, Coach K).
• Number Three Son wants to know why every building on the Duke campus looks like a castle. I explain Gothic architecture and his neurons sputter and fire and make some new connections.
• Standing at the door of the medical school looking west down the quad, the same place I stood in 1979 when I first saw the campus. It still takes my breath away.
• The bookstore in the student center is doing a brisk business selling Duke gear on Game Day. And yes, I’m doing my part.
• Just bought another dark blue, block letter DUKE t-shirt, same style I bought in 1979. That makes about 6 I’ve owned.
• Ah, a gift for Eyegal–signed artist’s print of Duke Chapel. Perfect.
• They sell little pennants of all the other ACC teams in the Duke bookstore. Except one. Guess which.
• Number Three offered to put the Duke shot glass back if I bought him a scarf (it’s freezing). I told him he could have both. Good Dad!
• Number Three spots Cameron for the first time: “Is that it? It’s not much bigger than Huntsville High’s gym!”
• It’s Christmas break, and there aren’t that many undergrad Crazies in line to get in. But the ones that are here are “keeping warm” with a few cases of Bud Light and Corona.
• Duke’s football Stadium is named after former Bama coach Wallace Wade. There’s his bust. Nice fedora. Now I know where The Bear got the idea.
• I wonder if anyone will ever put up a bust of me anywhere? Probably not.
• We’re standing in line now to get in the general admission door. It’s 5:00PM and the doors won’t open until 6:45. The sun is dropping and it’s getting cold.
• I start to complain about how cold I’m getting, but then I remember that real Crazies camp for days sometimes to get a good seat and I just suck it up.
• I think I just heard a toe snap and fall off. I can deal with that, but there are some body parts that I can’t do without.
• Mike Gminski and Tim Brando just walked by. They stopped and chatted with us Crazie-wannabes a bit and wished us a Happy New Year.
• Hanging out with some Clemson fans in line. Nice folks and very sports savvy. Had to straighten them out a bit on some Alabama lore though.
• They thought our elephant mascot had something to do with a guy selling suitcases (”trunks”). Sheesh.
• One Clemson fan just told me that the day Bama beat them last year was the worst day of his life.
• The ushers are teasing us by cracking the doors then shutting them quickly. Cruel!
• Ah, finally! OMG, where did I put the tickets?!?
• Oh, here they are.
• Now standing with the Crazies and warming up. Man, there’s not much room to stand up here. Hope I’m up to this.
• We are literally packed in here like sardines. Hope I don’t have to go to the bathroom. Focus, focus…
• Hey, there are three Clemson fans standing in front of me! Who let the riff-raff in here?!?
• There are a lot of us Crazie-wannabes here tonight. The grad students are here in force, though, and doing a good job of leading us.
• Okay, I see how this works now. Being a Crazy-wannabe is like a Church of Christer going to the Episcopal church. You just watch closely and then do what they do.
• Time for tipoff. I think my heart is going to burst.
• Ah, nothing like that first bucket! Go Duke!
• Our offense is off to a slow start tonight, but our D is all over them.
• These guys are incredibly fast and physical. TV just doesn’t do them justice.
• OH YEAH! Singler just packed Booker’s shot and is giving him grief about it. Booker just smiled, patted Singler on the rump and said, “Yeah, yeah, you da man…”
• Okay, we have a good lead at halftime, but I want to see more offense. Just thankful to get a chance to sit down.
• The Crazies are saluting “Raging Towel Guy” up in the reserved seats. He responds by standing, twirling his towel and returning their love.
• Clemson opens 2nd half with 12-0 run and some seriously stepped-up D. This could get more interesting.
• Finally, the treys are starting to rain down! Getting very loud now. Clemson looking rattled.
• Scheyer and Smith are a great backcourt. Maybe the best college tandem going today.
• I am now one with the Crazies, doing everything they do in perfect synchrony. I am no longer a wannabe.
• I can’t really jump up and down because of my back, so I do lots and lots of toe-raises. Man, my calves are going to be balled up in knots come tomorrow.
• Pulling away now. Clemson throws in the towel and sends in the reserves.
• And that’s a winner! 74-53 Duke.
• Just did some dumpster-diving for souvenir cups and extra programs. It’s not that I’m cheap, it’s just that I was so packed in I couldn’t get them at half-time.
• Wow, these Duke chairs along the end line are really nice. I wonder if they would mind if I took one home as a souvenir?
• I think I’ll just sit here a while and soak it all in. I don’t want to go yet, but Number Three is starting to get a little antsy.
• Was it worth it? Yes. Oh yes.
• Putting away my Duke gear and switching back to Bama in 3, 2, 1… Roll Tide, Roll.