Who Dat

“WHO DAT!” A deep soulful voice booms at me across the parking lot.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, “ I reply.

I am not a fair-weather fan. My reply is not unenthused. You see, a month ago my mother came to visit me in Augusta. It was also the first weekend of NFL football. She arrived in town, and after lots of shenanigans we ended up back at my apartment complex. We pulled little Will Shat into a spot right in front of my apartment, and right across from the main office. As we began unloading mom’s luggage from the trunk, she notices a truck parked directly behind us. It has an Atlanta Falcons plate on the front, and the owner sits in the drivers seat with a hat to match.

Suddenly my mother begins to scream. “WHO DAT! HEY, WHO DAT!!!!” wildly motioning to the Louisiana license plate on my car and screaming “DIRTY BIRDS!” her little finger pointed at him with a smile on her face. He, in turn, laughed and nods his head playful, understanding the divisional rivalry.

Little did mom know that that was my apartment maintenance man. I see him just about everywhere I go at my complex, and for the first four games in a row he let me have it. “Who Dat!!” he would scream when a loss was still fresh in my mind, his Falcons hat ever glued to his head. “Who Dat baby!!!” One day I even yelled back that my mother was the original instigator, not me. It did nothing.

Today as I was walking back from the main office he was passing in a golf cart. “How you doin?” He asked me cheerfully. He is always cheerful.

“I’m good now!” I smiled, gloating in our Colston centered win on Sunday.

“You good now?” he asked happily confused. “Oh! Oh she good now! Hey even a blind dog finds a bone every once in a while.” He zoomed past me on his cart before I could reply. I guess this will last all season. 

(saved from last week)