It’ll be talked about all week in classrooms and at the water cooler, fretted about on message boards and dictate some lives for the next 96 hours.
Yep, it’s Alabama week.
The annual Southeastern Conference Western division matchup that’s determined national champions, created legacies and begged the question “Where is Jarrett Lee?” staked its claim as the premier matchup in college football the last three seasons.
On a primetime national stage, it’s delivered the top players from the best conference playing a sensational football game.
It’s must-see TV. The game that can actually keep Tiger Stadium filled to capacity until the game clock reads 0:00. And a glaring example of why SEC football is and will continue to be the toughest conference in America.
But please don’t call it a rivalry.
I’m a Baton Rouge native and can proudly say I’ve attended LSU games since 1999, when the Tigers were so dreadful they had no right to call anyone but Tulane a rival.
Suddenly, 14 years and two supposed “rivals” later, LSU’s finally content with a “rival” and its game against Alabama has drawn comparisons to Ohio State and Michigan.
The proud Michigan man he is, Les Miles sidestepped the notion on Monday, only willing to “suspect some similarities there.”
I won’t suspect anything, Les. I’ll flat out say, there are no comparisons necessary. Not just to Ohio State and Michigan, but any true rivalry in college football.
For an LSU program that tried to latch on to a rivalry with David Greene and Georgia in four meetings from 2003-05, then moved on to Urban Meyer and Tim Tebow’s Florida Gators from 2006-09, it’s a familiar script.
Find a team with a nationally known figure, play it to a few close games, win once or twice, give away free rally towels at one home game and call the opponent a rival.
Except in this instance, Tiger nation relates too closely to the national figure.
Nick Saban’s departure from LSU to the NFL still irks fans. His subsequent pay raise and unparalleled success at Alabama now has them fuming. So anytime LSU can defeat its former coach, it’s billed as the end-all, be-all of games.
Therein lies the problem. A rivalry can’t spring from one person. Rivalries are steeped in tradition and longevity. The hatred is brewed naturally, marinates and is fresh enough for even the young, novice fan to grasp.
Take, for example, Ohio State and Michigan. The two teams have met 108 times, dating back to 1897, when the Toledo War manifested a rivalry between the schools that was unmatched.
Or Army and Navy, where the rivalry is self-explanatory. Add interstate foes Oregon-Oregon State and Florida-Florida State and rivalry games become truly defined.
Such longevity fosters memories. Any Michigan fan could rattle off its victories against the Buckeyes by date and score during the John Cooper era. And Ohio State fans still curse the name Tim Biakabutuka.
I’d be willing to bet a seasoned LSU fan couldn’t tell me who Alabama’s coach was in 1997 when the Tigers throttled the Tide in Tuscaloosa. Or that the Tigers even won the game.
But Alabama fans would surely be able to fire back with one score from Mike DuBose’s inaugural season. An 18-17 loss in Jordan-Hare Stadium to the Tide’s one, true rival — Auburn.
It’s difficult for me to imagine another rivalry that trumps
Alabama and Auburn. Aside from the talent, prestige and tradition between the schools, the vitriol shown by the schools is unlike any other.
You’ve heard the stories about the trees. About the trailer parks that remain divided. About the Auburn fan that allegedly robbed an Alabama fan’s car and left a War Eagle Christmas ornament as a reminder.
It’s a hate that can’t be imitated. Even if LSU and Alabama move past the three-year rivalry period the Tigers have grown accustomed to fabricating, no revulsion could compare to the Iron Bowl.
So what’s the point of a rivalry if the hate isn’t fully reciprocated?
I’m not diminishing Saturday’s game. Or any of the previous four meetings. Take away that nippy New Orleans night in January 2012, and the game has proven to be the most well-played, hotly contested matchup in the country.
But if you’re looking for something to call a rivalry, it should be a hell of an Iron Bowl on Nov. 30.
Chandler Rome is a 20-year-old mass communication junior from Baton Rouge.