By MONTE DUTTON

When Presbyterian upset Wofford, 23-20, I thought, thank God, I saw it.

When South Aiken upset Clinton, 41-30, I thought, thank God, I didn’t.

In the latter case, I was listening to most of it after serving as one of the judges in the “Clinton’s Got Talent” competition uptown. Listening to games on the radio is nerve-wracking. There’s that pause – did he make it or didn’t he? – before the announcers paint the picture. I wish I could see it through my camera.

I had a week that was so bad I can’t possibly recall now all that went wrong. It was so bad it got funny. By the wee hours of Saturday morning, it was hilarious. It was a Marx Brothers movie directed by Mel Brooks with pratfalls by Mack Sennett. It was a Ray Stevens song.

By then – come hook or crook, I am going to be up until 3 a.m. on Saturday morning – I didn’t care what happened. I was an adventurer wondering out of sheer curiosity what was going to happen next.

Ah-ha-ha. The money’s in the other account, and that’s why the gas pump just let me have $3.88 worth. Ah-ha-ha. I’m trapped in the drive-through, and I just realized my wallet is in the other pants. Ah-ha-ha, that’s not Mrs. Thomson, it’s Mrs. Shucker, and Mr. Shucker isn’t doing well because he died two years ago.

Shift in reverse and peel off backwards, and it’s even funnier going the other way.

Then I awakened at about 9:30, and I could hear birds chirping through an open window. It was like my temperature broke. I got up, tended to a little social media, shaved, showered, drove to buy gas with the card that did have money on it, bought two Bojangles biscuits for $5 and added a Diet Pepsi. Then I proceeded to one of my three favorite places in the Lower 48, and I’ve never been to the other two.

The Paladins were playing, and I heard a rumor that Clemson was playing at home, too.

The day was perfect at the aptly named Paladin Stadium, where one FCS-ranked team, Furman, defeated another, Mercer, by the resounding margin of 38-14. Tyler Huff plays like Sam Huff with a throwing arm and is as smart as Archie Huff, a one-time Furman history prof. I feel like writing a folk song about him because, like Davy Crockett, he’s prone to kill Bears, in particular, Mercer ones.

As usual, in the pregame rally around “our dear alma mah-ah-ah-ter,” I ran into someone I hadn’t seen in decades, old war stories were told.

Hey, what does Mark do for a living?

Beats me. All we talked about was that party at the ski lodge back in the previous century.

I don’t know what any of my old friends do. I just know what they did.

Text message: Meet me at Blair’s parking space.

How could I possibly know where Blair’s parking space is?

I watched the game in my comfort zone, otherwise known as the press box, sitting next to a friend and colleague of somewhere north of 40 years. More old war stories were told. Many were the chuckles. Raucous laughter is frowned upon in press boxes, where one cannot cheer for either team, but pithy satire about both is encouraged.

On Saturday night, I wrote about Furman’s triumph while I watched South Carolina defeat Mississippi State. I was just thankful somebody else in the state won.

Later, I watched that rarity, a wacky film noir, in which the character played by Tom Conway had amnesia and didn’t know whether or not he’d murdered somebody. There doesn’t seem to be as much amnesia running around these days.

Or ambrosia, for that matter.

At the moment, I’m downloading Furman photos to augment my story. Undoubtedly, many NFL teams are playing today.

Now I’m sitting on top of the world as much as Jimmy Martin ever was.

Thanks, Paladins. I needed that.

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