So my oldest boy came home from school and said, “Roll, Tide!” over and over. Apparently, one of his friends is an Alabama fan, so he caught onto the chant and kept repeating it. Loudly.
At the dinner table, the youngest expressed his confusion. His brother helpfully said, “Roll, Tide!” louder and with a misshapen Southern accent.
“They call Alabama the Crimson Tide,” I explained to the youngster, who might have had a brief glimmer of understanding lost when I followed with the apparent non sequitur, “Call me Deacon Blues.”
That might not have made sense to anyone at the dinner table, but it made all the sense in the world to me.