I was baptized into the waters of the Iron Bowl as a young boy.

My father would often take me to the games at Legion Field, and for me, there was no sporting event in the universe with grander significance. To think that Alabama and Auburn would settle matters on this field was of no less magnitude had the uniforms displayed “Rome” or “Carthage” across the shoulder blades.

On the way to the game, Dad and I would often stop off at the Green Top Barbeque on Highway 78 for a cheeseburger and a bottled Coke. I remember there was a man going from table to table who wore a trucker hat and had a bulky, raven-colored mustache perched atop his lip.

“Y’all goin over?” he’d say.

There was no doubt where “over” meant.

We had our parking spot and our route to the game, and I remember feeling that nothing could touch me as my father held my hand and led me down the cracked, uneven sidewalks of Birmingham. I remember the franks sizzling from grills, the persuasive men with towels on their shoulders, holding signs that said PARKING scribbled in black marker. I remember the rush of energy as I first saw the stadium, eyes panning at the enormity of it, feeling the cool sting of anxiousness as I approached this colossus of iron and brick. I remember making sure I had my shaker firmly anchored in the back pocket of my Lee jeans. Remember adjusting my treasured “The Game” cap (crimson with the white circle with Alabama stitched in cursive). Remember how critical it was to buy a program and a souvenir cup.

As we entered the stadium, the first time in 1986, I was astonished at the immense fandom dotted in crimsons and whites, the glittery lockstep precision of the baton-hoisting majorettes, and the gallant trot of the Crimson Tide onto the field as the band struck up “Yea, Alabama.” I felt nervousness in my gut as I gazed across the hard turf and saw the Auburn squad stretching and punting. I wondered if today, Alabama would gain a victory.

I have been an Alabamaholic ever since I drank from that sweet boyhood elixir. As a rawboned child, what I failed to realize was that those games would later serve as a foundation to my mania, and I am forever a prisoner to those memories.

No, no one warned me about the hazards of this type addiction. No one told me there ought to be a disclaimer before every Iron Bowl game: “Caution: This is certain to take years off of your life!” and I am more than certain I have sustained a few mild heart attacks along the way.

For the past 30 years, there have been good years and bad. Christmas just seems a little brighter knowing that a year of bragging rights is under the tree.

But I endured the savagery of four losses in a row in the late 1980s, of the last-minute dagger from the foot of Jaret Holmes in 1997, of the six-year drought during the acidic reign of Tuberville in the first decade of the 2000s, of the histrionics of Cameron Newton in 2010, and the — dare I mention it — Miracle on the Plains in 2013.

I have seen fights. I have seen fans watching the game through blinds. I have seen pacing, nailbiting, crying, objects hurled. I have cursed, yelled, high-fived, and praised. I have said “why are we not running it?” more times than I care to count. I have battled cold and wind. I have stomached both frigid rain and anemic offenses. I have scowled and screamed until my voice went hoarse. After the “Kick-Six,” a friend went to Lowe’s and wore her Alabama sweatshirt. As she was walking through the store, a man dressed in an Auburn shirt walked up to her, moved in inches from her face, and whispered, “Weagle Weagle!” Disgusted, she looked at him and said, “You need to brush your teeth.”

True, the Iron Bowl has ushered in signs of the paranormal. A fumbled ball that rolled straight for 20 yards. A bobbled pass by the sure-handed Amari Cooper. An end zone drop by Trent Richardson (that would have put us up 31-7). I’ve seen footballs on the turf for what seemed like two minutes while no one in Crimson noticed. I’ve seen 17-0 Auburn turn into 24-23 Alabama. I’ve seen 17-0 Auburn turn into 31-17 Alabama. I’ve seen 24-7 Alabama turn into 28-27 Auburn. (As I walked out of Bryant-Denny I said, “I’ll never get over this.” And I haven’t.) I’ve seen 21-7 Alabama turn into 34-28 Auburn. And yes, I’ve seen the Kick-Six.

Credit: Todd J. Van Emst

When I saw Chris Davis streaking down the sideline and the realization came to me that Auburn was going to win, my first reaction was to laugh. I couldn’t help it. It was so ridiculous that an awkward chuckle blurted out of my mouth. “Hua-hua-hggh!” Then as I stormed out of the room, the hilarity turned to rage, and finally to a childlike pouting as if I didn’t get Castle Grayskull for Christmas. That night I curled up in bed and pulled the covers taut against my chin. I shivered the entire night and swore off ESPN for the next 48 hours. I couldn’t bring myself to watch it.

But since we are four years removed now, I am finally able to admit that the incredible happened that night in Auburn, Alabama. A few months ago, I even brought myself to watch the replay of the fourth quarter, thinking I could tolerate it. I vomited shortly thereafter.

Yes, the Iron Bowl is indeed the venue of the peculiar. But more often than not, this game has brought elation and joy to my odd little world. I think about the glory of Van Tiffin’s kick in 1985, the euphoria of a 16-7 win in 1990, the ecstasy of Dennis Riddle’s screen pass from Freddie Kitchens in 1996, the catharsis of Roy Upchurch’s game-winning snag in 2009, and the merciless 49-0 bloodletting of 2012.

Yet I find myself dreading the Iron Bowl more and more with each passing year. It is like a lurking ogre around which I must pass, an impending pill I am forced to swallow. With Nick Saban, it seems that the stakes are always higher. Twenty, 30 years ago, if we lost an Iron Bowl, the worst that could happen would be that we’d have to hear it from the Auburn faithful for a calendar year. Now, lose an Iron Bowl and you won’t play for the national championship. Heck, you might not even win the SEC West.

This year’s Iron Bowl is no different. I am about as excited about it as I would be an amputation of my big toe. I won’t fully exhale this week until the final whistle from The Plains. I’ve even thought about DVR-ing it and watching it only if there’s a favorable outcome. Just kidding. I’ll be glued to the set come Sat’dy.

I do not understand why Alabama football means so much. Over the years, I have grown into a fairly levelheaded individual, but something about this game brings out the worst in me. Something primal within. Something downright absurd.

Honestly, I wish we’d take a break from it for a few years. The Iron Bowl, I mean. Maybe Pat Dye was right. Maybe Auburn should move to the East. That way, the state of Alabama could chill out for a little while. Not be so Hatfields-McCoys-ish.

Anyway. My father died in 2011. I think about him a lot. Think about how he would have enjoyed this stretch of Alabama football. This great run. But mostly, I think about those days at Legion Field. How I wish we could take one more walk toward that stadium.

And I am still the boy who used to hold his daddy’s hand.

So I carry on this torch for him. The burden and benefit of loving Alabama football.

And, knowing what I know now, if I could go back to the time this Crimson football obsession began and stop it, I would choose to do it again.

Yes Dad, I would do it again.