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By B.J. Bennett
SouthernPigskin.com Senior Editor
SouthernPigskin.com Senior Editor B.J. Bennett continues his exclusive series on college football in the south. Follow us on Twitter at Twitter.com/SouthernPigskin. Become a fan of us on Facebook at the SouthernPigskin.com Facebook Page
John Thomas Bennett is exactly like me, minus four years and plus four inches. Like players running forty yard dash bursts in front of NFL scouts, J.T. has followed in my tracks, going through the exact same steps into adulthood as I did: directly in front of God, the world and, of course, mom.
As long as I can remember, J.T. has been by my side on Saturday afternoons. In high school, that assessment was literal. Now, with him standing as tall as a college shooting guard and me having to ask for help when reaching for the cabinets, the reference is more figurative. That said, the overall sentiment remains.
J.T. and I have an absolutely ridiculous relationship. We are best friends and, best of all, our character traits offset each other. Though I'm 25 and he's 21, I help keep him young; he helps me act like an adult. We are the type of duo a reality television show should follow. We sing in the car, speak with looks and have the same utter obsession with college football that makes our friends just shake their heads. We're products of a beach bum from Fernandina Beach, Florida and a redneck from Valdosta, Georgia. Both of us were born with stitches holding us together.
When I say J.T. and I are close, I mean it. Forget peas in a pod, we're more like grits and bacon; both are so much better when you mix them together. This past semester of his in college, he literally worked my job with me. Everytime I was at work, a great job I have in sports radio, J.T. was there. It got to the point where my boss started talking of how I had a posse. By the middle of the semester, J.T. was basically producing my show. For free. The man has connections. One recent Friday afternoon I came to him 30 minutes before airtime with no guests and a two-hour show looming ahead. He promptly called former Tennessee quarterback and current Kentucky assistant coach Tee Martin and former Clemson signal caller and current Middle Tennessee assistant Willie Simmons and booked them both. Not bad for a little brother.
Our lives have developed like a return man moving upfield. Life experiences and late night road trips have been our first down sticks, gas gauges and barometers our chain gang. J.T. and I use pigskin memories like folks use landmarks when giving directions. Sitting around family and friends, we correct each other with a timeline intertwined with birthdays and big plays. Our discussions give new meaning to the phrase third down and ten.
Outsiders could make the argument that we grew up with our priorities a little out of whack. As grade-schoolers we had been to as many college football games as veteran beat writers. Growing up, our Christmas mornings looked like the main strip of the team shop. When we were young our grandfather died from a fierce battle with lung cancer. I remember mom telling us we didn't need to go to the funeral, which was on Saturday, because grandpa wouldn't want us missing the big games.
Entering college, neither one of us went to senior prom at our own high school, but we had been to college football stadiums in seven different states. Blindly entering the field of entrepreneurial sports journalism as young men, we were less concerned with Moulin Rouge than we were Baton Rouge. We were young men who planned dates around college football games and grew up with more posters of Eric Zeier and Peyton Manning in our rooms than photos of Halle Berry and Jennifer Anniston. Sometimes it happens that way down here.
Our progression has been marked by trips out of town, weekends on the road and New Years' nights in coastal hotspots.
The most notorious of those experiences came on a January trip south. J.T., one of his buddies and my girlfriend and I headed to South Beach for the Orange Bowl. We woke up at 5:00am on St. Simons Island, Georgia and arrived in Miami, Florida a little after lunch. We were greeted by a Dade County police offer who responded to our question about parking with "No habla Espanol...", then a hearty chuckle and directions. The joke proved to be far from the funniest thing that would occur that day, at least in J.T.'s eyes.
The plan was for me to drive down, which I did, then for J.T. to drive at least a large portion of the way back. Let's just say he fumbled the responsibility. After breaking free from Orange Bowl traffic, we pulled away from the pack like a tailback entering the open field. J.T. then dropped a ball that would have made former Alabama fullback Ed Scissum blush. After driving literally two miles north on I-95, he pulled over on the side of the road and uttered the following words that will live in infamy, "...Dude, I'm done...". The phrase hit me in the backseat like Greg Jones hit Dexter Reid. I felt like Mark Richt at Matthew Stafford and Knohshon Moreno's NFL Draft press conference.
He then promptly pulled over and got in the backseat.
It was 2:08am in the morning. I had been awake and driving since 5:00am the day prior and my sidekick just went all Alvin Mack on me from the movie "The Program". Author Marc Brown once said that sometimes being a brother is even better than being a superhereo. In the wee hours of that Miami morning, seriously doubting that passage mind you, I then decided it was time to fly. As the baby boy basically cuddled with my now wife in the backseat, I drove and I drove fast. Rest stops and exits zoomed by me like a blur, as did thoughts on dropping the people's elbow on little J.T. While many words popped in my head during that trip back, I simply said nothing as we rolled into the drive. "Don't talk too much. Don't pop off. Don't talk after the game until you cool off," one Paul "Bear" Bryant once advised. In the days, weeks, months, years to follow, I never hesitated from reminding J.T. of his epic fail.
This past bowl season, the boy became a man, rewriting his wrongs with great verasity along highway 341 and that very same Interstate 95. J.T. and I, covering games for Southern Pigskin, decided to made the following trek; St. Simons Island, Georgia to Atlanta, Georgia for the Chic-fil-A Bowl between Virginia Tech and Tennessee on December 31st at 8:00pm, then to Jacksonville, Florida for a 1:00pm kickoff between Florida State and West Virginia for Bobby Bowden's last game. After a wild game at the Georgia Dome, we left for north Florida about 2:00am. We drove straight to Jacksonville Municipal Stadium, arriving early for the festivites surrounding Bowden's finale. To my surprise and nodding approval, J.T. drove the entire way. And drove a stick. Man's game, baby.
Spending all of our money on tickets and gas and constantly frustrating the women in our lives with our weekend addictions, J.T. and I have spent our years following and now chronicling the game we both love. The infatuation was expected. J.T. was born in an ACC city. The first shirt I was ever dressed in was of a team in the SEC.
Like any two brothers, we've grown up close with similar interests and goals. But J.T. and I have shared nearly the exact same experiences, with his coming just a few years behind. From sliding down pizza boxes at Paulsen Stadium at Georgia Southern to going to Florida State and FAMU games in Tallahassee, Florida to mingling with the rowdies as youngsters at Florida/Georgia, our growth has been marked by memories in college towns.
I'll be the first to tell you our family is weird. On road trips growing up, we didn't play I-spy or 20 questions. We played name that college mascot. Ironically enough, on a recent family trip on my wife's birthday, the competition started again. When it comes to that game, J.T. still knows who his daddy is. And he wasn't the 49-year old driving in the front seat.
From a big-eared boy following me around at stadiums around the south to a big-time journalist following the game he loves, J.T. has developed much like the older brother he tagged along with growing up. He's now had exclusive interviews with Bobby Bowden, Jim Grobe, Houston Nutt and Armanti Edwards, among many, many others.
Though we have lived in different cities and have different interests that clearly separate us amongst those who know us best, college football continues to be the bond that keeps J.T. and I close year after year. I like having my little brother around. In more ways than one, he gives me someone I can look up to.
**Down Here IX is the ninth installment of Bennett's continuing series on southern college football. Click to read Down Here I, Down Here II, Down Here III, Down Here IV, Down Here V, Down Here VI, Down Here VII or Down Here VIII. Email Bennett your southern college football thoughts at .
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The down here series is my favorite thing to read on here, keep it up!
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