Somewhere far away from Alabama

It's the fall in the South, which means football season. Which means a weekly reminder that I don't like Alabama fans.

They are arrogant, mean, and probably the people who break the "pay it forward" chain in the Starbucks line. And worst of all, they are everywhere. Your ears are never safe from hearing "Roll Tide:" not at work, Chili's, school, or even church. It's a problem, and I've written my Senator about it.

Dadgummit, Bama fans just grind my gears. And I don't even say, "Grind my gears." I'm just all out of sorts. I need to write about something else today.

Somewhere far away from Alabama … I lived in Kansas City for a while.

I moved out there on February 20, 2016. By February 21, I missed home.

I'd never lived outside East Tennessee, let alone the Southern United States. I missed the mountains. I missed Southern accents. I missed my family and my friends. My Tennessee license plate was expired, but I couldn't bring myself to change it. It's unsettling how you can be in the same United States and miles from anyone you feel understands you.

My co-workers wanted to discuss the Chiefs (the pre-Patrick Mahomes Chiefs, woof). They didn't care that Tennessee had our best shot at beating Florida in years. College football was sub-par, JV, bush league. Nobody cared, or they cheered for something called "The Big 12," Heaven help them.

When I get a lot of thoughts and feelings I don't know what to do with, I go for a drive. Where I'm from, there are state routes, rivers, and foothills parkways. I could get lost for half a day and come back feeling like myself again.

I didn't know if it would work in the Midwest, but I got on US Route 71 heading south out of town into Missouri. Lost in my thoughts, I took turns where I saw fit through the golden-brown countryside with its long grasses and bumpy hills south towards Joplin. The only direction I wouldn't go was back the way I came. Not until I felt like myself again.

Somewhere in Cass County along the Kansas border is a little town called Cleveland, Missouri. The posted speed limit is 45 mph. I rolled through at 67. I know this because I saw two blue lights in my rearview beaming through the Tennessee Football decal sticker.

"You've got to be kidding," I think I said, though it might have been more vulgar.

The expired license plates and the speeding ticket totals were rocketing in my head: $200, $300, $400.

It was a state patrolman in a stone-blue shirt. He sauntered up to my window with his hat under his arm. His mustache was gray and curved into a slight smile.

"Afternoon. Where ya headed?"

"I'm just out for a drive, sir." When I speak to policemen, I take on the attitude of a 2nd-grader in the principal's office.

"Do you know how fast you were going?"

"I don't, sir."

"Clocked you at 67." I winced. "Can I see your license, registration, and proof of insurance, please?" This was when I also realized I didn't have proof of insurance. $400, $500, $600.

He went back to his car while I sat there dejected, with my head resting on my hand. I closed my eyes.

I heard his boots crunch on the gravel.

"Did you know your plates are expired?" he asked, walking up to the window.

"Yeah, I just moved here. I haven't had time to get it changed." It was kind of true.

He paused.

"I saw your Tennessee Volunteers sticker on your car."

"Oh yeah," I chuckled. "That's where I'm from."

"Hehe, well. I ain't going to give you a ticket or anything. Just get those plates changed."

My heart leaped out of the tangle down in my guts.

"Wow, thank you, sir."

"And hey, buddy?" He turned around, his mustache tilted upwards at a full grin.

"Yes, sir?"

"Roll Tide."

I drove back to Kansas City feeling like myself again.