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What's the Good Word?

Nov. 24, 2011

Gameday Central

By Matt Winkeljohn
Sting Daily

Here at the end of a full day for which I’m oddly thankful (partial details to come), I’m thinking of you, dear Georgia Tech fans. Actually, I’m thinking of what you think.

Send me ( your best thoughts on:

# Your favorite memories from Tech-Georgia games, whether it’s specific plays, upset wins, circumstances from tail gate parties or aftermath situations. Bet Roddy’s run comes up.

# Unusual traditions that you have for this game.

# Whether you think there is a distinct difference between this rivalry and others in the college ranks. If yes, why? Do you dislike UGA, or truly hate?

There’s been quite a bit of opinion exchanged in recent days on some topics for which there can be no bottom line (see item No. 3 above).

Count me among those a bit surprised that the AJC’s Ken Sugiura tacked on those comments at the end of his blog the other day. That’s not his style.

I worked with Ken – aka Gilbert (check his mail) – for several years at the paper, and I would say that he broke character in offering some editorial thoughts on events of the week and whether or not Tech fans look down their noses at Georgia fans.

Having trained Gil as best I could, which may explain bubbles in his line, I don’t recall him opining in print. Yet, I welcome his discourse and his move to engage. Judging from comments on the blog and on message boards elsewhere, he did that.

He can’t get away with doing that on a regular basis because he’s not a columnist (Bradley, Schultz), and therefore it is not in his job description to opine abundantly. Plus, to over-opine would compromise his standing among readers over the long haul.

I get what he wrote.

My wife is a Tech graduate, and I’ve become partial to the school. I know many, many Tech fans. As a group, I consider the Jackets contingent to be extremely well-educated, yet perhaps more defensive than the average group.

A lot of fan groups are accustomed enough to being ripped by other groups that one criticism of their ilk rolls off the back as easily as the next. Tech fans strike me as that way with the exception of situations when their treatment/perception of Georgia and its fans comes up.

I’m not sure this matters, though, to a degree that it should rise to public crisis alert.

When it comes to a rivalry, doesn’t every fan group look down on the other?

In my view some of the fuss earlier this week about a comment made by a head coach was the product of the fact that in this age we as a society look for something to be offended by and then also lust to plead about being wronged. Political correctness and all its trappings … phooey!

As I step off by personal box (never seen a soap box big enough to hold me), I’d like to take you to north Georgia, where I’ve spent the last few days with my family.

After camping in DeSoto Falls Monday night with my daughters (and faking my way through an injury report on 790 with the Two Live Stews while trapped deep in the woods that afternoon with no more information about injuries than you had), I headed to the second home outside Hiawassee (pop. 810, according to the 2000 census).

At the Lakeview gas station where I almost always buy gas (no ethanol) if the pumps are working, there was a Mason jar on the counter by the cash register. It had a black-and-white picture taped to it, and while it was fuzzy the photo made it clear that the man in it had issues. His head wasn’t straight.

There were coins in the jar, and a bill or two, all behind a message taped on the outside and under the photo. It read, “Please help Benny ______. He had to have bone taken out of his head, and he doesn’t have insurance.”

I was reminded yet again why there is just about always plenty for which to be thankful.

I’m thankful for my Thanksgiving gathering, even though I nearly went nuts a few times.

Thursday began with my munching almonds, which was good for my heart.

Not long after that, to get ready to transplant ornamental grasses out on the back 40, I hit a few beers, which were good for my happy. Those who know me know.

Back in the house after my green thumbing, my mother in law – who was helping my wife cook up a storm.

The kids were squabbling.

The dog was stinking, but abundantly happy. He’s had a very good week.

The hot water was, I was told, insufficient.

So, I turned up the dials on the water heater.

There was fracas.

My son, who seems to feel out-numbered in these situations (“Why couldn’t I have a brother.”), was in a foul mood.

The boy tried to intimidate one of his sisters. So I threw his PSIII out the window.

Well, I wanted to throw his PSIII out the window, but I didn’t. Still, he stormed off presumably to swap tales with his friend by the lake, the bear. He said I ruined his phone.

Patrick was in gym shorts and nothing more on November 24.

When I found him, he was pulling weeds by the dock. We talked. His phone is fine. The picture went schizo for a moment, but the phone is fine.

He thinks his sisters get more attention than he does, but this only comes out once in a while when he gets really upset, and Patrick doesn’t articulate it very well.

I’m thankful for my son, who is a great kid. I’m thankful for my daughters, who are great kids. I’m thankful for my wife, and I’m especially thankful for our collective health.

We went back to the house, which was filled with a variety of smells and hot. There was shrieking. The word, “scald” came up twice in no time. I turned down the water heater.

Then, I watched football.

My son asked me questions about Morgan Burnett, Calvin Johnson, and then Keith Brooking. I saw Mario Butler leading cheers on the Cowboys’ bench.

All of that reminded me that I have to write, but also that I didn’t have a specific topic about which to write because attempts to reach Tashard Choice this week have failed. Tashard, bless his heart, apparently has been mentoring UGA’s Brandon Boykin.

That brings me back to my original points. Write me about Tech-Georgia.

You know the address: P.s. this is heavily edited; shortened, in fact, by 40 percent.


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