So, I punch the coordinates for Dagobah, 1980, to get some wisdom from the Jedi O.G. himself.I splash down in the swamp, boots squelchin’, and there’s Yoda, perched on a gnarled root, levitatin’ a dented Schlitz tallboy like it’s the Force’s finest hour. Mist’s curlin’ around us, X-wing’s still half-sunk from Luke’s crash-landin’ ass, and the air smells like moss and regret. Yoda’s eyes narrow, that wrinkly face sizin’ me up like I’m a walk-on tryin’ to make the ‘Bama roster. “Hmph,” he grumbles, “Daiqwan, you are. Loud, you be. Disturb my swamp, you do.” I’m grinnin’, unbothered, ‘cause I know what’s comin’. I toss him a crimson-and-white koozie—houndstooth pattern, naturally—and say, “Master, you ever hear of the Crimson Tide?”Yoda cocks his head, ears twitchin’ like he’s pickin’ up a signal from the Force’s AM radio. “Tide, you say? Crimson, hmm? A team, is it? Strong, they are?” I laugh, loud enough to scare off a bogwing, and break it down: “Strong? Yoda, they’re the Force of college football—Bear Bryant’s legacy, sixteen ‘ships and countin’, runnin’ over Auburn like an AT-AT on Hoth!” I’m hyped, pacin’ the swamp, mimin’ a wishbone handoff while Yoda’s just sippin’ his beer, floatin’ it with a lazy twirl of his claw. But I see it—that glint in his eye, like when he’s about to drop some cryptic truth bomb.Then it happens. Yoda sets the Schlitz down, real slow, and hops off his root. He waddles to the edge of the water, staff tappin’ the mud, and starts hummin’. Low at first, like a distant rumble from Bryant-Denny’s stands. “Mmm… do or do not,” he mutters, “there is no try… but Roll Tide, you must.” I freeze. Did he just—? Oh, hell yeah, he did. Yoda’s voice cracks like a whip: “ROLL TIDE!”—a straight-up bellow that shakes the swamp, sends critters scatterin’, and makes the Force itself ripple...