You remember being dominated in the 80's and you think you hate Georgia. You have to listen to Buck Belue chiming on Atlanta radio and you think you hate Georgia. The voice of Vince Dooley ("This could be the fahnest Flardah Gatah team evah") still rings in your ears and you think you hate Georgia. You were there for Jan Kemp and for L%^$%y Scott and for Herschel Walker and you think you hate Georgia.

No. I hate Georgia.

I was 12 years old, selling cokes for the Normandy Dolphins at the Florida-Georgia game. I was walking around in really big crowds all by myself for the first time in my life with a heavy, unbalanced tray of over-filled cokes draped around my neck. People were clamoring and reaching for them. They were spilling. Someone had set the price at 55 cents which was a hard thing for a boy making change for a sea of sweaty drunks with a ten point lead. People were screaming at me and my Pic-N-Save Gator cap.

GIMME A COKE BOYAH! I SAID TWO BOYAH! WHERE'S MAH CHANGE BOYAH???? THE GATAHS SUCKKKKK BOYAH.

They were in my face. They smelled like tobacco and sweat and urine and Old Crowe. They were fat. And they barked. Like dogs. At me.

THE GATAHS SUCK BOYAH! ROWF! ROWF, ROWF, ROWF!

The women, heavily invested in acrid perfume, rum and coke and Maybelline, leaned in on me, dripped on me.

WHERE'S MAH CHANGE? YOU GOT MAH CHANGE WRONG! THE GATAHS SUCKKKK! YOU OWE ME A NICKLE!!!!!!!!

When the game finally ended, I was soaked with sweat, sticky from spilled coke and dead tired. My Gators had lost again to the Dogs. Fights had broken out all over the stands as the game careened to its pre-ordained end. My mind still reeled from the yelling, the heat, the barking, from making change out of odd numbers, from another humiliating loss. From being thoroughly and completely intimidated. From the kind of hot, thick, anger that simmers and keeps within a young boy with yet another loss and a dime store cap and damaged pride.

When the crowds had finally left the old Gator Bowl to its trash and treasures, we lined up as many whiskey bottles as we could find and they stretched for twenty yards over fifty rows of bleachers. As I walked slowly back to the meeting place to find my coach, the remaining Georgia fans barked at me and yelled at me and smiled their sneery smiles.

GO GATAHS! HAHAHAHA! ROWF, ROWF, ROWF!

I am 47 years old now and I no longer sell cokes or make change. And my Gators have beaten the mangy Dogs a time or two. But that anger remains, swirling and bubbling, threatening to boil over and burn not only the obnoxious dogs but a young boy grown into a father who is supposed to have straightened priorities and a handle on boyhood demons. So the wins are never enough. I want more. I want my Gators to beat the Dogs over and over and over again - until those drunk, obnoxious fans in silver britches simply quit and walk away.

I'm trusting they never will.....