GENRE: Literary Fiction
I’d always thought that if God decided to ever speak to me, it’d be like in The Ten Commandments, just like how God spoke to Charlton Heston. It wasn’t. Lately, I’m starting to think it wasn’t God at all. If anything, it sounds a lot like my dad.
I was fourteen when I first heard that voice. It was back in ’64 at the SMU game. Kenny Hatfield returned a punt 78 yards for a touchdown against the Ponies; Dad grabbed my arms and forced me to join into the cult of Hog nation. It was the first time I ever felt embarrassed as the first “Wooo” in the first “Sooie” echoed throughout the stadium. For some reason, I couldn’t join in. Maybe I was trying to be a rebel but my dad saw it as insubordination. He nudged me the same way he would nudge me in church when my eyes would close and my head would lean all the way back on the pew. I had failed at being a fan in his eyes. I was his son, born and raised in Fayetteville, and I had refused to “Call those Hogs.” In his eyes, I committed treason.
Now, a good five years later, I wish I were that fourteen year old. I had it good. I’ll call those hogs if it keeps me from going to Vietnam. Nixon wants to eliminate the “agony of suspense,” when it comes to the draft. Personally, I’ve enjoyed not having my life uprooted like a tree.