huckaby

Darrell Huckaby is a syndicated columnist and author of six books including two about Georgia football. Read Huck’s Wit and Wisdom every Wednesday and Sunday. Subscribe at darrellhuckaby.net.

1.03.25

Dawgs come up Short to Irish in Surreal Season Ender

It was Georgia-Notre Dame in New Orleans. Of course I had to go. And because nobody is promised next football season—or even tomorrow—I wanted desperately to enjoy the experience one last time—with my family. So, we all went.

It was a great few days—until it wasn’t. We strolled through the French Quarter like we owned it and greeted friends—those we’d known for years and those we had just met--with rousing and heart-felt “Go Dawgs.” We sampled pralines from every confectionary shop in the Quarter. We at oysters by the dozen at Felix’s. We covered ourselves in snow white powdered sugar as we dined on beignets and café au lait at the Café du Monde.

We climbed the ancient stairs to dine at Tujaques, where locals and visitors have dined since 1856 and we feasted at Commander’s Palace, which Frommer’s calls simply “the best restaurant in the world,” on New Year’s Eve. The owner, Ms. Tia Brennan came by our table, resplendent in a dress which held more sequins than I knew one garment could hold. She laughed and said, “If not tonight, when?” We even lined up at Mothers and enjoyed the delectable fare that millionaires and street sweepers have been enjoying together since 1938.

We had shrimp and oysters and crab and fish and prime filet of beef and every kind of libation you can think of to wash down such succulent sustenance. We even had a New Year’s Day dinner complete with collards and black-eyed peas and roast pork and cornbread—and of course, being as we were in New Orleans—gumbo to start and bread pudding to conclude.

It was a perfect football week, until it wasn’t. We were all about Georgia—Notre Dame until we woke up Wednesday morning to news from everywhere—texts, television, news apps—that while we had slept, pure Evil had created mayhem right outside our window as we slept.

I could look out from my window at the corner of Canal and Bourbon and see seven bodies, covered with pick sheets. I would learn there were seven more further down the street and I would learn the whole story behind the evil radical Muslim monster that decided to attack the happy celebration on Bourbon Street on New Year’s Eve.

There were a couple of hours of surreal uncertainty where we wandered the streets and asked one another why—uncertain about when and if the game we all came to witness would take place. We finally learned that it would take place—a day late—and many of us had decisions to make. Folks who flew to the game, like me, had the toughest decisions logistically. Delta wasn’t ready when EVERYBODY was on Friday.

I had a doctor’s appointment that I couldn’t afford to miss on Friday, so my lovely wife, Lisa, and I got up and came home—along with other friends and family whose schedules weren’t flexible enough to allow them to stay around. Some of my family and friends—mostly those who drove—stayed right where they were, determined to finish the drill and cheer the Dawgs to victory in the Sugar Bowl game they came to witness.

That part was not to be. It was a tough ask, really. Kirby Smart had held this team together with smoke and mirrors all year—we really just weren’t as good as the past three teams—and, yet, we were 11-2 against the hardest schedule in the country and we were SEC Champions.

The game itself was a game of what ifs and would-a, could-a, should-a.

The referee refused to call the appropriate 15-yard roughing penalty when a Notre Dame player slammed into our new kicker, and then he refused to call the same penalty when the same player did it a second time. What if.

Dillon Bell dropped a certain touchdown pass. Then he dropped another drive-sustaining pass for good measure. I don’t mean he failed to hold onto the ball in a great effort to make a great catch. I mean he was wide-ass-open for a sure touchdown and let the ball bounce off his facemask.

Then those critical fifty-seven seconds when we failed to take a knee with seconds left in the half, fumbled the ball backward trying to pass, gave up a touchdown in the closing seconds of the half, failed to kick the ball deep on the second half kickoff and gave up a long return for a touchdown.

A couple of field goals when we had dead range chip shots would have helped an offense that wasn’t moving. We could have scored when Etienne fumbled the ball away. We could have scored when the referee called the cheapest penalty in history when he bumped into a player that wasn’t even dressed out on the sideline. I never even knew Barney Fife called football games.

Woulda—coulda--shoulda . . . but those Notre Dame boys are on scholarship, too, and they played well and they made big plays when they needed to and they whipped us. Hats off to them.

And to these Georgia Bulldogs—Glory! Glory!

This year we were 11-3 with an SEC Championship and a trip to the Sugar Bowl. Over four years we were—what?—52-5 with two SEC titles, two Nattys? Yeah. How ‘bout THEM Dawgs.

And we’ll be back. 239 days until we tee it up against Marshall between the hedges. If the Lord lets me live 239 more days, the good-looking man in the red shirt will be right there in Section 132, Row 40. If it doesn’t—well, don’t forget me.

Go Dawgs. Glory! Glory! to old Georgia and, by the way—to hell with Georgia Tech.

Darrell Huckaby

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