November Whiplash: Iron Bowl Win vs. Election Defeat
November had been brutal. Kamala Harris’s Presidential loss was a gut punch. Laykin had thrown herself into campaigning, plastering #MadamePresident and #BreakTheGlassCeiling across Instagram. Her most-watched reel garnered 14 million views, but it hadn’t been enough. Harris was out; Alabama football was her last solace. She just wasn’t Joe Rogan.
The Iron Bowl victory was pretty special, whipping up on “those uppity Corncobs,” had been a rare bright spot. Alabama’s third straight win was the smug satisfaction only Tide fans could appreciate. That night, she’d gone viral in a houndstooth teddy, captioning her post: “#RTR, y’all. We’re still the standard. #RammerJammer.”
Too Radical for ESPN, But Not for the Gram
Laykin’s Tide football fandom wasn’t just a passion—it was her brand. Earlier that season, she’d come this close, her thumb and forefinger pinched together, to being featured on ESPN’s College GameDay. The producers loved her Instagram stats and her ability to merge Tide loyalty with a younger, progressive aesthetic. But things fell apart when Laykin insisted on wearing a custom shirt emblazoned with a “radical” feminist houndstooth purple clenched fist inside the female (♀) symbol.
“Apparently, I’m too radical for ESPN,” she later told her followers in a reel that paired her recounting of the saga with a Tide-inspired makeup tutorial. “Guess what? The patriarchy wins again. But hey, at least I’ve still got all y’all.” Her audience, predictably, ate it up, flooding her comments with affirmations:
- “They don’t deserve you, Queen 👑!”
- “That shirt is 🔥🔥🔥, can we buy it?”
- “Imagine being too woke for ESPN. Iconic.”
Selection Sunday: Waiting and Seething
Now, on Playoff Selection Sunday, the stakes felt higher than ever. Alabama was clinging to playoff hopes by a thread, their three-loss season an ugly blemish. But Laykin refused to believe the committee would leave them out. “We’re Alabama,” she whispered, more to herself than to her cats. “The playoffs need us more than we need them. College football isn’t football without us.”
As she paced, her thoughts raced. She knew she was entitled to championships—every Bama fan was. But wasn’t that the whole point? Alabama had built the system, powered its rise, and now that same system had the audacity to snub them? She flashed back to last year, when the committee swapped out an undefeated ACC champion, FSU, to make room for Bama in the playoffs. They knew—everyone knew—Bama was the missing piece of the puzzle.
Then her phone buzzed with a notification. Once. Then again. And again. The notifications piled up, each one more insistent than the last. She squeezed her eyes shut, inhaled deeply, held her breath for four long seconds, then let it out slowly. Her second breath came faster, too deep, leaving her lightheaded. She opened one eye, exhaled through pursed lips, and unlocked her phone with deliberate precision.
There it was—the announcement. Her stomach dropped as her jaw tightened, her disbelief crashing over her like a rogue wave: Alabama at 13, didn’t make the cut. Her Tide simply wasn’t good enough?
Laykin froze, her breath catching before her heart launched into a thunderous rhythm, echoing in her ears. “This is fucking bullshit,” she hissed, her grip on her iPhone turning white-knuckled, as if it were the only thing keeping her anchored.
“We’re not just some big 12 team; we’re a fucking’ dynasty. The motherfucking brand. You don’t just leave us out,” she spat, her voice trembling with a raw, guttural rage that clawed its way up her throat.
Laykin tried to cope but she could only seethe, and she may have touched grass if she knows what that phrase really meant, her mind spiraled to the deeper conspiracy unfurling on social media: What if? That if there was an anti-Bama bias. And the face of it all? The fat-ass playoff committee chairman, Warde Manuel. Manuel was born and raised in New Orleans; the man had SEC country in his blood but not in his cold black heart. He was a Michigan man through and through—former Wolverine player, now athletic director—he was a walking conflict of interest.
“Of course, this fat fuck,” Laykin spat under her breath as she tapped furiously at her phone, her Twitter feed brimming with theories. Warde had never been seriously recruited by LSU, and Alabama hadn’t even given him sniff. How dare this clown used his power to put Alabama out? She wondered, “How long do we have to suffer the injustices of people who don’t know football before we are given the credit and respect that we deserve?”
Her Twitter was ablaze, the Tide Nation uniting under a single narrative: payback.
She sank into her Adirondack chair, her Yeti trembling in her hand, her vacant and soulless eyes gaze fixed on the empty yard. Somewhere in the distance, a truck hummed past, but she barely noticed. ‘We always find a way,’ she whispered, her voice sharp with desperation and determination.”
Stay tuned for Part Two: Green Monday, Warde Manuel, Gone to war, The committee’s decision, DeBoer’s gametime ensemble, Laykin’s inevitable meltdown (or triumph), and the tangled web of Tide entitlement and influencer contradictions.
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