I was in Jackson, Mississippi with Number Three Son on Saturday attending The Crossroads of the South Invitational sponsored by The Jackson Futbol Club. Kudos to the club and the city for putting on one of the best tournaments we’ve ever attended.

Number Three’s U-15 United squad played very well, winning their bracket by defeating a Chicago Fire junior team 3-1. Despite carrying the field in both possession and shots on goal in the semifinal, we fell 1-0 off a free kick from 35 yards out (one of only 3 shots on goal our opponents had all afternoon) that slipped past our keeper’s fingers and just under the crossbar. As I often say, soccer is a cruel and fickle mistress.

But the real sports news was taking place in another part of town, right under our noses.

Now that’s trickeration.

All you Fusioneers who are waiting around with bated breath for the reincarnation resurrection of Ocular Fusion into whatever-the-heck-it’s-gonna-become are no doubt starving for something good to read in my absence.

Well, never fear, my friend Jason is here. Jason, former youth minister and now associate minister and right hand man to the Big Kahuna, would be the first to tell you that he’s not afraid to explore the feminine side of things, and of course, these days, there’s no shame in that. So it was no surprise, really, that he freely admits to reading this.

He got one thing wrong, though–she’s no lumberjack’s wife. She is a self-described “Pioneer Woman,” living her days on a working ranch and journeying through life with her might-as-well-laugh-than-cry-about-it attitude. In that way, her site reminds me a lot of a middle age optometrist’s blog that I know very well.

Of course there are a few minor differences, such as her living on a working ranch, raising four kids, being married to Marlboro Man instead of Eyegal, writing an online novel that will probably some day be on the NYT‘s Bestseller List, and serving up both scrumptious recipes and soothing slices of prairie life via her lucid prose and stunning photographs. Oh, and did I mention that she has thousands of women reading and commenting on her blog? Other than those small details, you can hardly tell the difference.

Eyegal is hooked on the thing. I catch her sneaking peeks at it early in the morning and late at night. I can only imagine what goes on when I’m not here. In fact, I’m pretty sure she reads it more than she ever read mine. But, I can’t really say as I blame her.

So there you go ladies–some good stuff to tide you over until I return (notice how I worked a Bama reference in there). Guys, feel free to read it too. Don’t worry–I won’t tell. Just ask Jason.

I hate to do it, but I’m going to have to ask for registration prior to any future comments. I’ve had some malicious spam that has slipped through my Super-Duper Askimet Spam Zapper the past two days, both times apparently resulting in some corruption of my WordPress files.

For you 35 or so regular commenters, it’s really no big deal. You just do a one-time registration (no one besides me will see your name or email), then you’ll receive a password. When you log back in you’ll have the option to change the password to one of your choice, and then all you have to do is ask your browser to remember the password when it prompts you. After that, it’s a piece of cake anytime you go to comment.

Of course, it works the same way for new commenters as well and you’re always welcome. I hate to add an extra obstacle, but please don’t let that stop you if you would like to say something.

You don’t have to register now, but you will the next time you want to leave a comment. I plan to fire up the old blog again in a few weeks, but I must admit that I’m enjoying the break.

See you soon.

Uh, hey Vols. Uh, hey Vols. Uh, hey Vols.

We just beat the, well, you know, crap out of you.

Rammer Jammer Yellow Hammer, give’em, well, you know, heck Alabama!

Roll Tide, Roll!

UPDATE 10/22: For those of you from other parts of the country and world who may be unsure of what I’m talking about, here’s the Full Monty version of the “Rammer Jammer” from field level. This is what it sounded like to Phil Fulmer.

Take a good listen, Tommy–you’re next.

There is a time for everything, a season for every activity under heaven:

…a time to be silent, and a time to speak.

Ecclesiastes 3, v.1 and v.7

Two years ago yesterday, I launched out onto the “bloggy cybersea.” Somehow I managed to survive the use of that horrible turn of phrase and go on to write 526 other posts in 64 categories which generated 4,195 comments. Some of those comments came from me, a good deal of them from pesky spammers hawking everything from cheap, cheesy porn to counterfeit Nike shoes (those have been fried for the most part by my Super-Duper Askimet Spam Zapper and don’t figure into the total count), but most came from the likes of you, my beloved Fusioneers, whom I have come to appreciate very much. I’m honored that people have actually found something they deem worth reading here and have hung around these past two years.

Yet, I feel a little like Forrest Gump this morning (so what else is new, you ask?). You remember, that scene where he has been running all the over the country, his entourage tagging along, and suddenly he stops in the middle of the road and says, “I think I’ll go home now.”

Well, that’s me. I think I’ll stop blogging now–at least for a while.

I’ve been thinking about taking a sabbatical for a long time, and it just seems right to kick it off on my second blogiversary. Blogging has, in the immortal words of Chico Escuela, “been berry, berry good to me.” I’ve been able to have a lot of fun, hone my skills as a writer and make a lot of new friends. I’ve also benefited from having my worldview enlarged and enhanced by the words of others. More than anything, I have realized that, as weird as I am at times, I am not alone.

But I have been feeling the weight of this thing for some time now, and I would like to go persona non bloggus for a while just to see what’s it’s like. Sometimes, I feel like I’ve created a monster in Ocular Fusion, one that demands daily feeding. As good as blogging can be, there are always the ever-present dangers of getting hooked on success, enamored with The Numbers (which, of course, must always go up, uP, UP!) and addicted to affirmation and praise. I suppose that I’ll suffer the ignominy of watching my Techonorati and StatCounter numbers drop if I take some time off, but as a good friend of mine said recently after taking a blogging sabbatical himself, “It is the kind of wound that liberates.”

And sometimes I just get plain weary of hearing my own voice. I want to spend some time catching up on my reading, resting and reflecting. Solitude and silence can be good for the soul. And part of being able to say something significant is taking the time to listen to what others have said and are saying.

But I don’t plan to stop writing. I enjoy it, and on a good day I feel that I do a half-way decent job of it. I am currently exploring some other writing opportunities and venues, and if something happens in that regard, you’ll be the first to know. And I do plan to return here and write some more, I just don’t know when that’ll be. But I think I’ll know it when I feel it.

Persona non bloggus–it has a nice ring. But I don’t plan to get too used to it, and neither should you.

Blessings and Peace to all whose eyes fall upon these words.

Sabanites of the Crimson Nation, unite! And fear not, for I am with you, my wad (of cash) and my (highly-paid) staff, they comfort you.

When I was delivered out of the hotter-than-you-know-where Babylon to the south and unto the high place which is Bamah (Ezekiel 20:29) on the wings of the Great White Bird, I did not promise thee a National Championship in the first year. Go ahead, check the tape more closely.

This is what I said: “It is what it is.”

That’s profound; four million per annum’s worth of profound. And it’s true. Just look around at the motley cast of characters chowing down at Bryant Hall each evening after practice. Remember, these are Shula’s boys. The Lord may have turned water into wine, but even He couldn’t have turned John Parker Wilson into DeMarcus Jamarcus Russell.

Yet, I know of your longings and of your suffering and anguish. I have heard you as you have cried out for relief since the day the Great Prophet Stallings retired to the ranch. I know how you wept following the losses to Central Florida, Northern Illinois, Hawaii and, lo, even Louisiana Tech. But, my children, Rome was not built in a day, and even the Israelites wandered in the desert for forty years.

But wait, don’t get me wrong, I promise you it won’t take that long! But we must let The Process work it’s transfiguring power. In fact, let us say The Crimson Creed together as a congregation: “It’s all about The Process, it’s all about The Process, it’s all about The Process.”

Yes, my crimson-clad brothers and sisters, let The Process work its way like leaven through the loaf. Soon and very soon, your longing eyes will behold the same kind of scary-good, LSUesque creatures that are currently kicking butt in Baton Rouge, only they will be wearing Crimson and wandering the grounds of The Capstone instead.

But lo, even now, word of our rise from the miry pit of mediocrity has spread among our rival tribes. No longer will they schedule us for their Homecoming games! No longer will they mark us in their “W” column during the dry and dusty days of July, yea, even before the season begins! No longer will they taunt us with the memory of the one (whose name we cannot even udder, pun intended) who so sorely shamed The Crimson Way! No longer will our enemies look upon us with scorn and contempt, poking fun at our reverence of history and tradition and our hopeless fixation with glory days gone by!

Why? Because the glory days are returning, my people. Like a thundercloud gathering in power on the western horizon, the rumbles are already rattling throughout the Land Of Cotton and beyond. Even now, The Obese One to the north has looked upon The Rising Tide and nearly peed in his pants. He knows in his gut (and it is ample indeed) that his days are numbered.

As for The One With The Perpetual Smirk, also known as Tom The Thumb, woe be unto him and all his overall-clad farmhands! Each morning as they trod out to The Barn to milk their heifers, they glance over their shoulders and gaze anxiously toward the northwest horizon, quaking in their manure-covered rubber boots. They have angered the gridiron gods with their bravado and blasphemy, and they know that The Day of Severe Reckoning is at hand.

But first things first, my fickle flock. Tomorrow, we will gaze into the teeth of the Houston Cougars and we will not flinch, nor will we faint. Our passes will be straight and true (or else). Our backs will safely sojourn through the Cougar defense which will be parted like the Red Sea by our Big Uglies. Our swift defensive backs will cover their much-vaunted receiving corps like a pesky plaque of locusts. We will reward the Homecoming faithful with a win, complete with a comfortable margin, and we will not even have to come back in the 4th quarter to do it. It will stand as a favorable omen, a sacramental sign of things yet to come.

Behold, I have seen these things, and they shall come to pass.

And in closing, let us not forget The One who has gone before us and on whose shoulders we stand. Even now he watches over us from on high with legions of houndstooth-clad angels at his side. His gravely voice stirs us still: “I ain’t never been nothing but a winner.”

Brothers and sisters, he might as well have been talking about me.

Verily I say unto you: Remember The Crimson Creed, my children. In it are words of wisdom which will lead us all back to our rightful place in The Promised Land. Or at the very least, The Capital One Bowl.

Roll Tide, Roll.

Now that the Crimson Nation has suffered through “The Recent Unpleasantness,” it’s time for a sobering return to earth via the good folks at RollBamaRoll and realfootball365.

Okay, Tiders, stop sucking on those Kool-Aid straws. I hate to say I told you so, but, well, I did. I predicted several losses and now I see us finishing 8-4 or maybe even 7-5 after the last two weeks have revealed significant chinks in the armor. Conference USA champ Houston will be coming to T-town this weekend for Homecoming (we have tickets–woo hoo!), and this test will be a real barometer of the direction of the rest of the season.

Although our defense has frankly been playing over their heads and well enough that we could have won the last two games had our offense stepped up, the Cougar offense is explosive (they put up 545 total offensive yards in a losing effort to Oregon, you know, the team that spanked Michigan). This could spell trouble if JPW & Company don’t manage to put up some points early and often and possess the ball for the length of time it takes to rest our overworked defenders.

If Bama wins handily, then the right adjustments will have been made this week and the rest of the season will look reasonably bright (i.e., an 8-4 finish). If they struggle and win a squeaker, then think more along the lines of 7-5. If they lose (and if you don’t believe that’s possible, then please recall that Nick Saban lost to Conference USA Average Joe UAB during his first season at LSU), then batten down the hatches, because it’s going to be a rough ride the rest of the way.

Stay the course, Tiders. Stay the course. It’s all about “The Process.”

And this just in: On Friday, look for a special Homecoming pep talk sermon homily from none other than St. Nick himself.

Roll Tide, Roll.

On the heels of the freewheeling discussion emanating from my recent post “McChurch?” comes this succinct critique of “Consumer Christianity” from the ubiquitous and uber reasonable Church of Christ prophet, Edward Fudge.

Talk about jumping on the bandwagon. I swear, sometimes I think that man sits around reading my blog.

** years ago today, Eyegal was born. The world has not been the same since. Especially my world.

Eyegal, I just want you to know that those arbitrary chronological units based on the orbit of the Earth around the Sun mean nothing to me. You’re still hotter than a Fourth of July firecracker. Period.

Happy Birthday, Dear Heart. Everybody now: Happy Birthday, Eyegal!

I realize that very few of you know Lamar Jackson, but take my word for it: He’s a great guy. Lamar played club and high school soccer with Number One Son, and he is a sophomore pharmacy student at Ole Miss. Like many college kids in town, he had come back to Huntsville to rendezvous with friends at Big Spring Jam. On his way back to Oxford, he apparently fell asleep at the wheel and was injured badly in a single car accident near Tupelo Sunday evening.

Things were touch and go for a while and he was on a respirator, but he is now able to breathe on his own. I really don’t know much beyond that, other than it is expected to be a long recovery.

Needless to say, this type of news affects all of us who have kids out there driving–if you’re not a praying man or woman now, I guarantee you will be when your son or daughter hits the road. At the end of the day, we commit them to God, but that doesn’t stop us from waiting anxiously for that phone call at the conclusion of the trip signifying their safe arrival. Sometimes, though, the phone call comes from a state trooper instead. God help us all when that happens.

So, please, pray for Lamar, his family, for his medical team and for his rehabilitation and recovery. I would consider it a personal favor and would greatly appreciate it.

Watching 16-year-old boys play soccer at a very high level is not for the faint of heart. They are insanely quick, closing down the available space in the blink of an eye; if you find yourself thinking about your next decision of what to do with the ball, it’s already too late. And the physical contact? Brace yourself, because it hurts just watching. They are young kamikazes in colorful kits who have no regard for their own bodies or the bodies of their opponents. They are young rams testing their mettle in head-to-head combat, guarding their turf as if it were a matter of life or death.

Number Two Son and Number Eight on the opposing squad went at it all afternoon. I focused on their contest within a contest and witnessed a titantic tussle: So-called legal “shoulder charges” which were really a little more than that, frequent tugs of the jersey and elbows to the ribcage, subtle and cleverly disguised, and acrobatic, aerial dogfights fought over the control of a lofted ball. Just as wince-inducing were the sounds of mortal combat, the collision of leather, plastic and bone whose report echoed throughout the battlefield. The center ref was of the mind to let them play, and they took the leash in their steely jaws and stretched it to the breaking point.

But I saw something else too. Whenever the action shifted away from them, the two stood close together and chatted pleasantly, seemingly pleased with each other’s company as their strong athletic bodies glistened like young gods under a blazing, early fall sun. But when the ball was switched back to their side, it was back to business: “An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth.”

At the end of the match, the two of them shook hands, did the man-hug thing and amicably parted ways. Later, I asked Number Two what they had been discussing in those brief moments of truce. “Oh, you know, this and that–movies, music, how French people talk, that sort of thing.”

I noted how odd it seemed, the two of them locked in Darwinian struggle one moment and acting like brothers in the next.

“That happens all the time out there, Dad,” he replied. “It’s nothing personal. That’s the way soccer should be.”