This morning at the Maryville Cracker Barrel , there were three pregnant Bama women along with a huge passel of kids and fat husbands, sitting in the rockers, playing checkers on the front porch waiting to be seated.

Farm animals waiting to be seated like cattle at the feed trough. Some of these old girls weighing at two and a half or three bills.

Their poor henpecked husbands were inside, wandering through the store, picking at the Tennessee Vols gear like vultures. One of them held up an orange t-shirt, eyes rolling as he sneered, “Who’d wear this god-awful color? Must be blind or a convict.” Another smirked, holding up a Dolly Parton mug. “Bet this thing cracks under pressure, just like their team.” They laughed, puffing out their chests like they were trailer park all-stars.

Then Spooky Rocky Top began to play on the intercom, on loop. The Bama women shifted uneasily, their smiles fading, fingers twitching at their mud-streaked shirts.

Some of them were wearing’ crimson shirts with that Bama ‘A,’ jean skirts dragging’ to their ankles, Their sleeves were smeared in mud, like they’d clawed their way out of a swamp. Trailer trash reborn, and looking for a fight. There they stood, silent, waiting’ like it was some sort of judgment day.

And everything stopped.

Bama Slayer Will “By God” Brooks walked in a was seated in front of the Bammer women. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t have to. His presence was a storm on the horizon, and they felt it. The Bama women exchanged nervous glances, their confidence draining faster than Alabama’s hopes in the fourth quarter.

No matter if it’s football, Country Jake, or some backwoods brawl, when you face Alabama, you aim to win. You aim to take what’s theirs. Their pride. Their women. Their whiskey. And sure as the sun will rise, you aim to bring down bigger deer than they ever could dream of.