The Ballad of "Ole Miss"

In the South, college football isn't a sport; it's a secondary religion. I'll admit, I usually don't tune in until the playoffs—and what fun it was watching Indiana University take the national title this year—but when you're out quail hunting with a shotgun in hand, you quickly realize you can't escape the fandom.

Our expedition took us across two cathedrals of the uplands: the rugged, sprawling acreage of the Guitar Texas ranch and the wide-open, wind-swept Oklahoma sportsman lease. I was out with the kind of friends every hunter hopes for. To borrow a sentiment from Harry Chapin, old friends mean more than new friends because they can see where you are and they know where you've been.

We were chasing wild quail—a first for this particular crew. We were a ragtag assembly of concerns: ballistics, aging hips, dog power, and the setting sun.

The Birth of a Legend

We spread out five wide, trailing three hard-working dogs across a hundred-plus yards of cover. There is a specific rhythm to a bird drive in that country. You witness the point, you hear the explosive wing beat of the flush, and then you witness the shot. In that vast landscape, there's nowhere for a bird—or a shooter's ego—to hide.

Usually, the air is filled with "Nice shot" or "Did you mark it?" But eventually, the tone shifts. "How did you miss that?" becomes the chorus. Missing one is a fluke. Missing a pair is pathetic. But missing several shots across two different states? That's an inauguration.

It happened to one member of our party. After a series of spectacular whiffs that spanned from the Texas mesquite to the Oklahoma motts, the banter began. Recounting the circumstances of a missed shot is the byproduct of hunting ribbing; the birds are just the excuse.

The excuses came out like a rehearsed litany. First, it was the gun fit. Then, the January clothing layers. Hunting the South in the winter means starting the morning bundled and stripping down as the sun peaks through. One too many layers throws off the mount; one too few changes the sight picture. Or so we were told by the man who, by lunch, had officially been dubbed "Ole Miss".

Membership Has Its Privileges

To his credit, Ole Miss took the branding with the grace of a true sportsman. He didn't sulk; he opened a recruitment office. He was ready to welcome any of us into his club—a fraternity no one wants to join, but everyone eventually pledges.

As we walked through the oak shinnery, he reminded us that missing is always better than the alternative: the so called "safety" malfunction. Nothing earns a colder look from a wing man than a hunter who stabs at a rising covey because he forgot to click off his safety. We'd come too far to blame the safety.

A Token of Remembrance

The beauty of these sophomoric moments is their immortality. You can't take a photo of a miss, and the birds that get away don't end up on the grill. But memories of the Ole Miss variety require a different kind of remembrance.

That's why, as we planned for next season, the college swag will be purchased ahead of time. There's a certain irony in seeing a group of grown men in the heart of the prairie wearing Mississippi colors. It's a permanent reminder that in the field, your reputation is only as good as your last shot—and your nickname is only as good as your friends' memories.

We all have been there!