Good Mornin’! Good Mornin’!
Well, I put on my best Leonard’s Loser hat last week and came out 5-0 in all my picks.
I didn’t traverse to Vegas to lay any money down virtually or otherwise, so I’m retiring while on top. Pulling my best Clint Longley, I’m getting out of Dallas before I sucker punch the starting quarterback. But I digress somewhat.
The Trojans, Statesmen, Colonels, Bulldogs and Rebels all tasted wins with those Starkville pirates giving everybody a good scare at losing before finding a way to win. But I was covered with just a generic bulldog pick.
But September has come, and the doves are flying, at least the ones that didn’t hit Caile where the Aycock clan put a hurting on the grey feathered population. If there’s one magical hunting event, it just has to be opening day of dove season. It’s hot, football is on the radio, camouflage is getting smelly and damp and your shooting shoulder is turning all kinds of shades of purple like a Bob Ross painting. Yeah, whenever I hit a dove, it was always a “happy accident” and for me to hit the limit was more than one answered prayer.
You see, when my daddy asked me what shotgun I wanted, I was in love with a pump action, no matter what. He got me a Remington 870 12-gauge and my shoulder starts hurting just at the mention of it all. It’s called a Wingmaster but I was always more of an apprentice while pulling the trigger. I’ve run through all kinds of bird shot and chased squirrels and rabbits with it in my hunting career. I’ve even flung it up to scare ducks on a few rare occasions. It needed an owner with more of a sure shot and patience when pulling the trigger but it has always been there for me. Maybe it hated duck hunting as much as I did.
The idea of being cold and wet and getting up before Woodie Assaf just wasn’t something I was born to do. I’m more of a “let’s shoot at things when it’s hot and the season opens at noon” kind of a hunter.
Well, dove season used to open at noon and it was like getting ready for the Kentucky Derby to start. Lots of anticipation and eating and a little bit of adult beverages being consumed by the hunting elders all while waiting on the magical hour of noon. But now they’ve gone and ruined it for folks like me and made it an early morning sport. Oh, well, more hours to hunt is never a bad thing for anybody so I’ll play along.
My hunting skills are like that vaunted Ole Miss Rebel defense. Awful one year then stellar for a half. Hopefully, they’ll be able to find the consistency that never came to exist with my hunting prowess.
But if we’re talking fishing, then I’ve got a much better chance. Still don’t like to get up at the crack of dawn to chase ’em. I like going later when it’s a bit hotter. But that’s what beer is for, right?
