It was 5:30, and the orange hues of the sky above Bryant-Denny painted the prettiest picture I had ever seen. I was praying as Wes Byrum aligned his kicking foot with the South endzone, and I knew in my heart that it was over. As the ball lofted toward the goalpost—up,up, up then down and true—my head lowered and my heart sunk when fear became reality. Auburn 28, Alabama 27.
There was a stillness in the place, like the mist of the dawn that hovers over a tranquil lake. Almost one-hundred thousand people stood stunned, restless in the raging assurance that victory would not be found today. There was no noise, other than the roar of the enemy waving their orange and blue shakers and screaming their battle cry.
Disbelief? Yes. Gut-wrenching? Yes. Hurt? Most certainly. The one thing that I feared most was about to happen: Alabama was going to lose to Auburn.
As I marched back to my car like a defeated soldier, I whispered to myself, “I’ll never get over this.” The pain that I felt was almost too great of a burden to bear. In so many ways, I felt as though I had somehow lost. I was part of the team, part of the mania and obsession we call Alabama football.
For the next two weeks, I didn’t want to turn on the television. I didn’t want to hear about the big loss, of how we squandered a 24-point lead to throw it all away at the end. I thought that if I simply ignored it that all the hurt might go away. Weeks later, I still found myself replaying the game—the parts of it that really mattered anyway. A dropped pass here, a fumble there, a bounce of the football, an errant play by one of our defenders that could have been different. I even considered the fact that it might have simply been a dream and that one day I was going to wake up.
People who don’t follow football or at least those who don’t follow it the way we do in the South don’t understand. It’s just a silly game to them. The Iron Bowl doesn’t really matter that much. They might consider us lunatics for becoming so obsessed with Alabama and Auburn. And in many ways, they’re right.
After the crushing loss, I began to consider the importance of football in my life. I had grown up an Alabama fan, attending games, spending my time watching it on TV, worrying, shouting, screaming, cursing, hurting, and celebrating. I will estimate that at least five years of my life have been taken away from the anxiety it has caused me. And if the trend keeps up, I’ll be lucky to make it to fifty.
As an Alabama fan, there is but one name that towers above all others. Bear Bryant. He is the quintessential coach—rugged, hard-nosed, tactical, witty, strong, and reverent. He’s like your grandfather, only cooler. His face has been tattooed on bodies, his picture hung on ten thousand walls. If Bryant was a mythological god, his name would be Zeus. I will have to boldly admit, there are times when I have been brought to tears by the mere sound of his voice, as if he had some greater insight into the human condition than most of us mortals.
But after the Auburn loss, things slowly began to change in me. As I began to unravel my desperate love for Alabama football—asking myself why and if it’s all worth it—I began to realize that my passion simply was in the wrong place. It mattered to me too much. Amid all of the screaming and groaning, I had lost sight of something that is very important—that God is much greater than football. God alone is worthy to be praised, even more so than Bear Bryant.
I pondered greatly the extent of my screaming and cheering. I wondered when the last time it was that I cried when God spoke to me. I asked myself, “Why do I get so angry when we lose and cheer so mightily when we win?” This begged the question, “Why do I not celebrate like this in church?” Why do we not scream and pray and long for victory in Christ like we do on the football fields of our lives? At last, I came to a wonderful conclusion: that the fear of losing is so great that these emotions are brought out in all of us. A cheer of victory is simply a recognition that the fear of losing is over.
Life presents a much more difficult game. The stakes are higher, and the battleground is the mind. There is no time for time-outs, no place for referees, and the battle is perpetual. It is Satan versus God, and whether we like it or not, we are all part of the struggle, we are all players in the game. The most reassuring thing that God has revealed to us is that the victory has already been won before the battle was ever fought. Losing the overall battle is not a consideration.
Therefore, our resounding battle cry should be “Victory in Jesus” instead of our own collegiate anthems. Instead of being fixated on football, we should fix our eyes upon Jesus. We should put on the armor of God more than we do our favorite team’s jerseys. We should have the Ten Commandments hung in our homes with more pride than the precious moments of our greatest games.
Forasmuch as I love Alabama football, I have to catch myself before it becomes an idol. At the end of the day, it’s just a game. We have to continue to remind ourselves of this fact, although there still remains great value in athletics. The greatest part of our games is not winning or even championships, but the greater learning we can receive as part and parcel to being participants, fans, and coaches. God uses even our athletic pursuits to bring us closer to him, to teach us lessons about how to live life in this important training ground for the real battles we will eventually face.
What, then, should we celebrate? The real celebration occurs in life when a new believer accepts Christ as his personal savior. This should give us something to cheer about, something to raise our hands heavenward in utter joy—as if we have scored the winning touchdown. The real loss is when we lose a brother and sister to Satan for eternity. This gives us reason to hang our heads in defeat as we are walking back to the car from the funeral ceremony of someone who never knew what it was like to taste Christ just once.
Though we may cry, we simply cannot dwell on our losses. We have to hit the recruiting trail as hard as we can, searching for lost sheep to bring them back to the fray. And so we ask ourselves the all-important questions, “Are we following Christ the way we are following football? Do we tune into the Good News of the Gospel as much as we are turning in to Sportscenter? Is God on our Fantasy team? Have we applied Matthew 6:25, urging us “do not worry,” to our football obsessions? Are we considering the green pastures of Christ instead of the green grass of the ballfield? Are we boasting about the Lord instead of our ball team? Most of us agree that God is greater than football. Maybe we should start acting like it.
