By MONTE DUTTON

It did everything but rain on Clinton High School in Inman, S.C., on Friday night.

I got up Saturday, trudged through a wretched account of Chapman’s 45-13 victory — I shall not lie; I left the game early — and just wanted to go out and see something wholesome.

Watching (on TV) the Clemson-LSU debacle and its various and sundry rumpuses, the swindle of Western Michigan, and news from South Carolina that a blue-chip runner from one private school transferred to another in the midst of the season, I realized I was having no fun.

Watching the Red Devils lose makes me sad … but not often.

Rion Gordon plays at Brevard College. He and I played on state championship teams 49 years apart. The Tornados opened their season against the University of the South (Sewanee, Tenn.). Neither school gives scholarships.

When I first moved up here, I left my old Ford pickup in Clinton. I hitched a ride home with Rion to pick it up. Yeah. I picked up the pickup.

Running late, hungry, buckets bouncing on the ground from the rain they were carrying, ducks outside marching around, quacking merrily because rain is the only time they are truly happy — I set out against all odds and my better judgment.

Brevard was already well in front as I patiently snaked my way around the little campus.  I think each fan came in two cars. Persistence found success. I parallel-parked my pickup less than a hundred yards from the visitors’ side. I got out, looked across at the game and thought, gee, a lot of folks just watch the game from outside.

As I walked across a mushy field, carefully, it occurred to me that there was no apparent way to pay my way in. I sat down in the Sewanee stands — purple makes me feel right at home — and it immediately started raining harder. I had pulled a pullover over, as pullovers are wont to do, and was wearing my floppy brown hemp hat.

Though hopelessly behind, Sewanee never gave up, and as I sat among parents and grandparents, it was all carried out with admirable sportsmanship.

Confirming the notion that the visitors’ bleacher at Brevard College is a small world, the 80-year-old man behind me was a coach at Greer High School while I was playing at Clinton. It went without saying that he didn’t remember me.

This pleasant chitchat began when the man asked me where I got my hat. He called it a word I had not previously heard, and, at first, I didn’t know what he meant. He might have called it a “panny,” which might have been short for Panama.

I don’t know.

We reminisced about Keith Richardson, Bill Rhodes, Robbie Caldwell, J.D. Fuller, Willie Varner, Whitey Kendall, Pinky Babb, Cally Gault, Bo Strock and Jim Few.

And it rained. Brevard won, 39-14.

I hung my short pants in the shower, which is the only place in the shoebox conducive for hanging. I put on some dirty, but dry, sweats and, yes, a sweatshirt.

Furman upended 14th-ranked Mercer in Macon, Ga., 20-13. Given the time, it was a great defensive performance. Texas — I have a family connection with the Longhorns — rose to edge Ohio State, 24-23.

I feel fine. I’m like one of those ducks.

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Most of my books are available at Amazon. Two of my novels, Cowboys Come Home and Lightning in a Bottle, are available in audio versions. Most of the Kindle versions are free with Amazon Prime.