"You know, I was thinking the same damn thing," Saban said. "This is 1960 all over again, and I'm still enjoying myself like I always enjoy myself."

I hadn't reached a receptionist, but I had certainly received a warm reception. Maybe this wasn't going to be so bad, after all.

Then again, maybe it was.

On game day, I got hopelessly lost on the way to the Manning Bowl despite the expert advice of countless wellintentioned Lynnites. ("Go down three lights, and take a left. No wait, two lights. Then take a right...") By the time I arrived, I was in a pretty foul mood.

On my way up to the press box, I noticed a man wearing a Heat Wave T-shirt. Lars had told me to come visit the Macon contingent, so I introduced myself.

"Howdy, Mike! I'm Lars Anderson!" Undoubtedly the jolliest man I have ever met. My spirits surged.

"Hi, Lars. How was the trip up?"

"Fuckin' miserable, Mike!

It seemed that the Heat Wave's chartered bus had failed to show up. Lars had been forced to schedule a last-minute game-day flight. Hmmmm. You don't see problems like this in the NFL.

You don't see press boxes like this in the NFL, either. I didn't mind the makeshift stairs, the creaky floors, the peeling walls or the paint chips falling on my head. (I later learned that the press box was the only part of the ancient stadium that had undergone renovations.) I wasn't thrilled about the large beetle I had to scrape off my seat. But what really made me nervous was the presence of only one telephone in the box. The local radio station was using it for its direct feed. How would I send my story?

"Don't worry," a man in a red shirt told me. "You can use it after the game."

I trudged out of the stadium to a Stop n' Shop pay phone down the road.

"11:15 deadline, Mike. Hope everything goes smoothly."

I made some quick calculations. Game starts 7:30. Three hours for the game, 20 minutes for interviews, 20 minutes to touch up my story, five minutes to send it. No problem.

"I hope so, too."