Call Maury Povich.

Those vacuous, narrow-set eyes. That pursed-lip scowl, so cognizant of self-mediocrity. Those many telling chins. So familiar. Where have I seen them before? Could it be that Nick Stephens' recent promotion to starter was born not only of the pathetic performance of Jonathan Crompton, but also of the never-to-be-spoken love of a...father?



I envision a hot, sticky, east Tennessee night in the late '80s. A wisp of teased, crimped blonde hair across the barroom catches the corner of Phil's eye. He looks up from his tall beer mug and near-empty box of Krispy Kremes. With desire enflamed by her jail-orange sweatshirt, cut wide at the neck and draped below one shoulder, he wipes the glaze from his chin and makes his approach. Soon all control is lost in a breathy fog of heaving thighs and guttural bellows of hillbilly ecstasy.

She never spoke of the encounter, and Johnny Joe Stephens raised young Nick as his own, deep in the heart of Texas. Still, a long-repressed paternal pride later became a scholarship offer, and now, the opportunity to start under center. Just like his lustful mother, this bastard is going to be on his back all night Saturday, and his hefty biological father will be out of a job come Sunday.

Go you hairy Bulldawgs!!!