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Send a letter to the editor to P.O. Box 1600, Dawsonville, GA 30534; fax (706) 265-3276; or email to editor@dawsonnews.com.
DawsonOpinion
WEDNESDAY, August 15, 2018
This is a page of opinion — ours, yours and
others. Signed columns and cartoons are the
opinions of the writers and artists, and they
may not reflect our views.
UGA needs to
do right thing
for Dooley now
I have said it before and I say it again: If
the field at Sanford Stadium is not named for
Coach Vincent J. Dooley while he is still
around to enjoy the honor, it will be a traves
ty and an insult to a man who well deserves
the recognition.
Alas, football fans can be among the most
short-sighted of all forms of life. They are a
“what have you done for me lately?” crowd.
None worse than the anonymous twits that
tweet on Twitter about what recruit may be
going where as though civilization as we
know it may rise
or fall on the
decision. Most
of them couldn’t
locate the cam
pus library if you
drew them a map
with crayons.
For the infor
mation of these
social media misfits, it was Vince Dooley
who brought Georgia football back from a
long period of mediocrity and set the stage
for the program’s current expectations for
success.
A member of the College Football Hall of
Fame, Dooley has won more games than any
coach in UGA history (201), six SEC titles
and a national championship in his 25-year
career. He also ran a fiscally responsible ath
letic department during his time as athletic
director.
In the meantime, the University of
Alabama plays its home games at Bryant (as
in Bear)-Denny Stadium; Auburn at Jordan
(as in Shug)-Hare Stadium; Tennessee at
Neyland (as in General Robert) Stadium; Ole
Miss at Vaught (as in Johnny) Stadium,
Georgia Tech at (Bobby) Dodd Stadium and
the biggest insult of all, the Florida Gators
call their home field Steve Spurrier-Florida
Field at Ben Hill Griffin Stadium. Vince
Dooley? A statue on campus. A nice gesture,
but not nearly enough.
If Dooley is guilty of anything, he is not a
back-slapping schmoozer. He was and is a
straight arrow. As such, he ran afoul of a
vengeful member of the Board of Regents
and an egomaniacal university president who
didn’t like the fact that they could not tell him
what to do. Their pettiness continues to hang
over the university like an ever-present fog
and no one seems willing to do anything
about it.
The big mystery to me has been the lack of
advocacy by the football lettermen who
played for Coach Dooley over the years. I
would estimate the number to be near a thou
sand. Who among them can say they are not
better men for the experience? The list
includes physicians, attorneys, jurists, busi
ness executives, educators, military leaders
and the greatest running back in the history
of college football. I have written, called and
goaded them to take some action on his
behalf.
With one exception, my inquiries have
been ignored. One former player who was a
scholar-athlete in the best sense of the word
has given it the old college try only to be
rebuffed at every turn.
What about the rest of the lettermen? Do
they have a problem with the field at Sanford
Stadium being called Vince Dooley Field? Is
a statue on campus good enough for them?
Do they think they don’t have enough clout
to make it happen? (I can answer that last
one: You bet they do.)
I have always been a bit cynical about rela
tionships. When I could employ consultants
in my former corporate life, they laughed too
hard at my jokes and couldn’t buy me enough
lunches. When I retired, I never heard from
them again.
During my Olympic days when I could
dispense much-sought-after credentials, I had
more friends than I could stir with a stick.
They, too, have vanished.
Today, with a newspaper column that spans
the state, I have a whole new set of relation
ships that will be gone with the wind as soon
as I am.
Through all of these iterations, Vince
Dooley has remained my friend. I could fill
this page with kindnesses he has done for me
and for my family through the years for no
reason other than friendship. (No, I never
asked for tickets. I have excellent seats, thank
you.)
I admire him as a true Renaissance Man —
a master gardener, a serious historian, an
author, family man and a pretty darned good
football coach. He has achieved it all, except
the one honor he so richly deserves.
Somebody needs to get off their ungrateful
rumps and get the field at Sanford Stadium
named for Vince Dooley right now. He has
earned it, he deserves it and it should have
happened a long time ago. Shame, shame
that it has not.
DICKYARBROUGH
Columnist
You can reach Dick Yarbrough atdick@dickyar-
brough.com; at P.O. Box 725373, Atlanta, GA 31139;
online at dickyarbrough.com or on Facebook at
www.facebook.com/dickyarb.
"Gramps, how long
have the water
wars been going?"
"Gosh....It's been
quite a while....
Guess I'll have to
ask my grandpa."
Breakfast war about more than waffles
For a quarter of a century,
I’ve grown up in a pancake
household. My parents and I
are strictly pancake people,
favoring the fluffy breakfast
delicacy to its competitor, the
crunchy and less filling waf
fle.
It’s not that I didn’t like
waffles. I’d eat blueberry
toaster waffles on occasion.
My mom ate toaster waffles
too.
But we didn’t get up early
to make waffles. We didn’t
gather as a family to eat waf
fles. We never had a waffle
maker to whip out for a deli
cious breakfast food dinner.
It has always been pancakes.
Dad would grab the frying
pan and start whipping up
some crunchy bacon (cooked
to perfection) then whip up
the trusty Aunt Jemima mix
and pour it on the faithful
griddle.
It’s been a long standing
tradition that we, the Browns,
are pancake people.
On Christmas morning,
we’d often make pancakes.
On cold fall nights, we’d eat
pancakes for dinner. When
Mom wants a special treat for
Mother’s Day we get her
some blueberry pancakes at
the International House of
Pancakes.
To us, there is no greater
JESSICA BROWN
Columnist
breakfast choice than the
almighty pancake.
And then I met my fiance,
who is, dare I say, a waffle
man.
I think the only way to
describe our relationship is a
clandestine love affair like
the Montagues and the
Capulets. Clearly we are star-
crossed lovers in this break
fast war.
Sure we look past our dif
ferences as best we can, but
truthfully how will we raise a
family in a divided house?
The difference between us
and our Shakespearean coun
terparts is that Romeo and
Juliet were young and naive
whereas we’re older and
unrelentingly stubborn.
I realized in order to have a
happy life that one of us
needs to concede for the
other. I can be the bigger per
son and concede for the bet
terment of our upcoming
marriage, so I made the
switch to embrace the waffle
(even though I still find it
inferior to the pancake).
One day I finally asked my
fiance why he hates the idea
of a pancake so much. There
are so many positives about
pancakes. They’re fluffy and
allow for a more even spread
of butter. Restaurants ran ‘all
you can eat’ pancake deals so
it’s an economic incentive to
choose the pancake. They
melt in your mouth and are a
joy to eat.
The counter argument is
that pancakes get soggy from
the butter and syrup, and that
you can only eat a couple
before you get full so the ‘all
you can eat’ promotion is a
bunch of malarkey, says my
fiance.
According to him, waffles
are superior because of their
increased surface area and
convenient pockets to hold
syrup, should you be the type
to enjoy pouring syrup all
over your waffles.
(Personally if you want to
avoid sogginess on both sides
of the war, simply dipping
into the syrup solves that
common complaint.)
He also made the argument
that it’s “chicken ‘n waffles”
not “chicken ‘n pancakes.”
Our house contains two
waffle makers and more fla
vors of waffle batter than I
care to admit as my one little
box of Aunt Jemima sits on
the top shelf of the pantry,
her eyes staring at me disap
provingly.
It’s hard being a pancake
girl in this new waffle world.
It feels like a piece is miss
ing, a void that can only be
filled with pancakes.
When I return to my par
ent’s house, to the home I
grew up in, I often ask if we
can have pancakes for dinner.
My parents are always
delighted as there’s nothing
better than eating breakfast
for dinner with the ones you
love the most.
And maybe, that’s what it
really is all about.
The debate between waf
fles and pancakes will always
exist for centuries with each
side firmly planting their
flags in the sand. It’s a war
with no end.
And truthfully, the batter is
basically the same - just pre
sented slightly different.
It’s the loving memories of
enjoying breakfast with fami
ly that matters, and if I have
to make new memories with
my little family eating waf
fles for dinner, then I can live
with that.
Jessica Brown is a reporter
for the Dawson County News.
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