Roll Tide In Portland?

Remember the last literary reading you attended? An author sat beside a stack of books, read a few pages, took questions, then signed copies.

It’s the way it’s supposed to be, nice and traditional. The audience knows what to expect. No one wants any more.

Like a football game between teams with rabid fans, some literary readings take on a life of their own. That’s what happened at Powell’s Saturday afternoon during the launch for Ellen Urbani’s novel, Landfall.

In the course of an hour, Ms Urbani demonstrated why the SEC is the SEC from the perspective of an Alabama grad. First the book.

If you’ve read William Styron, then you’ve had your vocabulary stretched. Instead of feeling less for finding new words, you felt grateful for the context Styron provided them.

If you’ve read Pat Conroy’s Prince of Tides, you’re seen inside a southern football coach.

If you read Ellen Urbani’s Landfall, set in the time of Hurricane Katrina, you’ll get the best jolt of true South this side of Tennessee Williams.

At her Powell’s Bookstore introduction, she mentioned her school, Alabama, including an automatic, “Roll Tide.” One is never without the other.

A few Roll Tides answered. Roll Tide in Portland, Oregon? You can say, “Roll Tide,” in Portland and call it good. No one’s going to challenge your right to Roll Tide, just as I’m sure you can repeat other college football team greetings in any bookstore in Tuscaloosa, Alabama and roll through the rest of your day without any new bumps and bruises.

Or not.

Urbani talked about her book, read a selection, then took questions. While no one asked about the role the New Orleans Saints played in bringing the city back together after the tragedy of Katrina, the Saints and their quarterback Breesus helped create a new identity. Sports talk radio hammered the universal quality of sports home during the tenth anniversary weekend.

And so did Ellen Urbani.  After the reading and talking she introduced a man who had played football for Bear Bryant, who was an assistant at Alabama when Mike Riley was there. She made a deal with him. He’d throw out beads and crackerjacks if Ellen did something in return.

The former Alabama player and coach started pitching gifts. Ellen put her phone to the mic. A school band played a song. She adjusted the set up.

“That’s the Million Dollar Band,” she said.

With no cheat sheet, music book, or notes, she started singing.

“Yea, Alabama! Drown ’em Tide!
Every ‘Bama man’s behind you;
Hit your stride!
Go teach the Bulldogs to behave,
Send the Yellow Jackets to a watery grave!
And if a man starts to weaken,
That’s a shame!
For ‘Bama’s pluck and grit
Have writ her name in crimson flame!
Fight on, fight on, fight on, men!
Remember the Rose Bowl we’ll win then!
Go, roll to victory,
Hit your stride,
You’re Dixie’s football pride, Crimson Tide!”

Remember the words to your college fight song? Your high school fight song? Me neither.

This author didn’t blink or miss a word. She called herself a horrible singer, but kept singing. And that’s how it is in the South. If you believe hard enough, you keep going, and football in the South is something to believe in.

Oregon is getting used to the idea, but hearing someone sing the Alabama fight song here still seems odd. Could you do the same in any Crimson Tide bookstore?
As long as you don’t start with War Eagle or Geaux Tigers.

Let’s stick with GO DUCKS.