The Immaculate Deflection — Egg Bowl 1983 (The Day the Wind Became a Rebel)

Some football moments feel scripted by ESPN. Others feel scripted by God Himself. And then there’s the 1983 Egg Bowl, which felt like it was scripted by a mischievous Ole Miss ghost with a sense of humor — a moment now immortalized as The Immaculate Deflection. Back then, I was on campus at Ole Miss, up in my Sigma Pi fraternity room, listening to the game on my radio — the kind that crackled like bacon grease anytime the announcer took a deep breath. Honestly, the place was practically empty. Maybe one or two other guys were around, but it was basically just me, the radio, and the sound of my own heartbeat. Mississippi State lined up for the game-winning field goal. Easy. Routine. Practically a formality. The announcer got quiet. I leaned closer to the radio like I was trying to hear a whisper from heaven. The ball went up… …and then the wind decided Ole Miss deserved better. That Mississippi breeze reached out like an invisible Rebel hand and pushed the ball away from the uprights like it had someplace else to be. Just like that — the kick missed, Ole Miss won, and I almost knocked my chair over in that empty frat room celebrating by myself. That miraculous gust sent the Rebels to the 1983 Independence Bowl in Shreveport, Louisiana to go against Air Force — and my dad, my brother-in-law, and I packed up and headed down there to see it in person. Now, let me tell you something: Mother Nature did not go easy on us that night. It rained so hard it felt like we were sitting inside a car wash. We had plastic sheets draped over us, trying to keep at least a few drops of rain out of our beers — but the rainwater kept winning. By halftime, our beer had turned into a sort of “Shreveport Light.” We watched as Air Force grounded us 9–3 in a cold, soggy slog where the ball probably gained more yards from slipping out of players’ hands than from actual plays. Meanwhile, my dad — bless his short, easily-frustrated stature — kept hollering “DOWN IN FRONT! DOWN IN FRONT!” every time someone taller stood up. Which, of course, was everyone. I’m pretty sure he spent more time yelling at people’s backs than watching the game. Still, soaked to the bone and losing or not, it was a trip I’ll never forget. The miracle in Jackson, the monsoon in Shreveport — it all blends together into one of my favorite Rebel memories. 1983 will always be the year: the wind blew left, a miracle was born, and Ole Miss blew our minds. The Immaculate Deflection. A Rebel legend — with a punchline only football can deliver.

Finding My Voice at 63: Karaoke, Grief, and the Healing Power of a Song

Grief shows up in strange ways. It sneaks into the quiet hours of a morning walk, it lingers in church pews, and it settles in the empty chair at the dinner table. After my wife Patty passed away from Parkinson’s this past May, the silence in my home felt heavier than ever. Even with my good dog, Mr. Jude, padding around the house, the rooms echoed with memories. Somewhere inside that silence—somewhere in the middle of trying to keep going, trying to find rhythm in a world that felt off-beat—I discovered something unexpected: I started singing. Now, let’s be honest. I’m 63 years old. I’ve lived through classic rock, disco, New Wave, and all the wild and wonderful noise of the ’60s, ’70s, and ’80s. But despite all that music around me, I never once had the confidence to sing in public—or even in church. I was the guy who mouthed the hymns and hoped nobody noticed. But grief has a strange way of rearranging your fears. When you’ve lived through something as heavy as watching the love of your life battle Parkinson’s, the fear of singing a little off-key suddenly feels pretty small. So one day, in the quiet of my living room, I cued up a karaoke track and started to sing. It wasn’t pretty at first. Mr. Jude promptly walked out of the room—probably wondering why his dad suddenly sounded like a one-man rock opera. Dogs hear music differently, so maybe all he caught was my voice bouncing off the walls like a siren. I told him he didn’t have to be my biggest fan today. (He still isn’t.) But something happened inside me. I felt lighter. I felt a little freer. I felt, for the first time in a long time, like I could breathe again. What started as one song became two… then ten… then dozens. Classic rock ballads, soft rock, the songs that shaped my young adulthood—and the ones Patty and I used to hear on long drives together. At some point, without really planning it, I began posting the videos on my social media accounts under Galen’sWorldBG. And here’s the surprising part: People watched. People listened. People responded with encouragement. What started as a private moment of healing turned into a small community of folks cheering me on. Some were friends. Some were strangers. But the more I sang, the more I felt myself slowly stitching together pieces of a heart that grief had torn open. Singing has become my therapy. It’s become my companion. And it’s become a reminder that even after loss, life still invites us to create. I’m not trying to win a Grammy. I’m not trying to be the next YouTube sensation. I’m just a widower in Kentucky, singing rock classics in his living room, finding comfort in the stories and melodies that helped shape who I am. Patty may not be here to hear me sing, but I like to think she’d smile at the idea. Maybe she’d shake her head a little, laugh the way she used to, and say, “Galen, sing your heart out.” And that’s exactly what I plan to do. So here’s to late-in-life beginnings. Here’s to music that heals old wounds. And here’s to singing—even when the dog leaves the room. Below are a few of my recent karaoke covers. I hope you enjoy them as much as I enjoyed making them.

College Town At Christmas 2025: "Healing & Comfort In Work, Family, Friends & Travel To Places I have Never Been Before"

There’s a quietness that settles over a college town at Christmas as I look to the holiday season in Bowling Green, Ky. The students leave, the traffic thins out, and the same streets that buzz with life in September feel suddenly gentle, almost reflective. This year, that quiet will feel deeper to me than ever before. Maybe it’s because 2025 has been the hardest, longest year of my life—a year that reshaped me in ways I’m still trying to understand. When Patty’s (my wife of 39 years) Parkinson’s began taking more from her, caregiving stopped being a choice and became a calling. I didn’t know then how much strength, patience, and love a human heart could hold. I didn’t know how much it could break, either. Parkinson’s is a thief—slow, steady, unrelenting. Every day it stole little pieces from her: her strength, her independence, her voice, and finally her life on May 1st, 2025.

Those last months, I learned what real devotion looks like. I learned how quiet a house becomes when the person you love most slips away piece by piece. I learned that grief begins long before death ever arrives. And when the moment finally came, when Patty took her last breath, the world didn’t just feel emptier—it felt rearranged. After she passed, I found myself needing purpose again. Something to ground me. Something to get me out of the house. So I went back to Walmart, part-time, working the door in asset protection. Greeter, door host, security—call it what you want. I call it rebuilding. Every shift pulled my muscles of discipline and routine back into shape. Every customer reminded me that life keeps happening around us, even when our hearts feel frozen in place.

And then came the trip—up to New Jersey to see my son, Tony, and his wife, Danielle. My anchors when the seas get rough. Patty always loved that our boy built a life for himself, and being around his family lets me carry a piece of her with me. There’s comfort in watching life continue—in their home, in their conversations, in the way they include me without hesitation. Grief doesn’t disappear, but love can still surround it. The other day, for the first time in my 63 years, I stepped into New York City. December lights, skyscrapers, crowds, the 911 Memorial, the Empire State Building, the roar of Penn Station—all of it overwhelming and beautiful. I thought about Patty as I walked those streets. She would’ve smiled at me taking it all in like a wide-eyed kid from the South. She would’ve said, “Go on, Galen. You deserve to see things.”

She was right. I did. And I still do. Christmas this year will feel different. There’s an empty space at my side that no season, no trip, no celebration can fill. But there’s also a warmth that comes from knowing Patty’s love didn’t end—it just changed forms. It lives in the memories. In the stories. In my son. In the journey she set me on long before illness knocked on our door. This holiday, I’m holding sorrow and gratitude at the same time. Sorrow for the woman I lost. Gratitude for the life we shared. Gratitude for Tony and Danielle, for New Jersey hospitality and her family-my new family for the warmth and love as well as for acceptance that they have extended to me on my trip. And for all the new experiences in New York City, and for the quiet of a college town waiting for me back home at Christmas. I carry Patty with me into every place I go. And this Christmas, in a season built on hope, I’m learning how to carry myself again too.