First. I had been transported to an alternate version of my former universe (see "Fringe", Fox Network). This seems to fit because I did mention in the previous column my eerie bodily sensations as I walked through the darkened section six tunnel entrance and into the almost other worldly, brilliantly lit stadium interior. The players down on the field at that very time were revealed to me to be different somehow. Executing, as they warmed up, some of our regular plays and looking every bit like those they represented in my former macrocosm, there was something which wasn't quite right. The thing that unveiled the otherworldly place I found myself in was the uniforms the players were wearing. During the instantaneous transworldifying experience in the tunnel, my old world became new. Identical except for one thing, the spectrum of light. The laws of physics had not been identically duplicated. The orange had gone and in its place was something of a yellow ochre, maybe with a little cadmium red. The simple orange of orange and blue fame had vanished. That's how I know the men on the field were not those upon whom we rested our hope for SEC glory. That's how I know it wasn't really the Gators I watched that night.
OK, second.
The horrid hue of orange used for the uniforms that night was accursed. The odious choice brought doom upon the beloved Gator Nation for that night's competition. It was Emmitt Orange night. They had reverted back to a color worn by beloved Emmitt Smith. They had chosen the color of failure and defeat and it worked. The team failed. The coaching failed. The game was irretrievably gone. Take your pick. These two scenarios fit correctly with everybody else's depiction of an evening gone bad.
The one and only good thing I heard after the game came from Tre Burton. He was asked by a radio commentator on one of those talk show format, game recap programs about his touchdown. He said, "It doesn't matter, we lost!" Priceless.
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