BATON ROUGE, La. — Heading into Tiger Stadium on Saturday evening, we had to walk through a gauntlet of liquored- and revved-up LSU fans who, naturally and understandably, took their share of potshots. Most of the taunting involved Florida’s quarterback and Second Coming of Wuerffel, Spurrier and Jesus Christ combined, Tim Tebow.

The most creative jab came in the form of a mannequin, creepily stripped bare save for a sign on its chest: “Tebow circumcised me.” Perfectly acceptable.

But the not-so-good-natured-yet-strangely-endearing roasting turned nasty minutes before the game. No, not when a group of Florida players jumped on the eye of the tiger at midfield. I was getting a hot dog and didn’t witness that. This had nothing to do with fans, players or coaches but with whatever staff member puts together the Tigers’ pre-game video montage (which, I must say, was about as lame as most universities’ TV spots that almost without fail will show a. the pastoral campus, b. the multicultural group lounging at the student union and c. a professor and student intently staring into a beaker).

First of all, I’m not sure why said staffer felt it necessary to include clips of the Gators. I’m assuming it’s a weekly thing, showing footage of the Tigers’ opponent. Personally, I found it sophomoric, even for the 128th-ranked university in the country. Lame strike No. 2. But when the clip reel included the vicious hit Tebow suffered at Kentucky I lost my shit. Here, in the week leading up the game, you had LSU coach Les Miles and his players saying all the right things about wanting Tebow to bounce back, to be OK, to be on the field. Then to show that “highlight”? That was about as classy as the LSU offense was prolific.

In the end, though, Tebow lined up in victory formation, took the snap and took a knee, and I could look up at the video board and smile: UF 13, LSU 3. See if they show that shit in two years.

ABOARD AIRTRAN FLIGHT 450 — I’m 30,000 (or something) feet in the air, somewhere between Atlanta and New Orleans, getting more nervous by the minute about the impending game Saturday night at Death Valley.

I just read an article in The New York Times (print edition, duh) about Tim Tebow’s concussion. Before that I read a column by ESPN’s Pat Forde on the (gray) matter (I stole Forde’s pun). Earlier, in the Atlanta airport, a CNN anchor mentioned Tebow, and it gave me pause. I doubt we’ll know whether he’ll play until 8 p.m., when the ball is kicked off at Tiger Stadium, but I had myself convinced that he would. As the game nears and the speculation intensifies, doubts are creeping in.

OK. The plane is beginning its descent into the Crescent City. The last time I arrived here for a football game was late December 1996. A few days later, Florida avenged its loss to hated in-state rival Florida State to win the Sugar Bowl — and its first national championship.

Good sign? In the airspace over a state rife with voodoo, I’ll take it as such.

They say it takes a lifetime for an empire to fall (to quote the Boston hardcore band The Suicide File). Really, as we found out Saturday, it only takes as long as it takes a defensive end to come off tackle unscathed and wollop your wunderkind, Christlike, saintly, promise-keeping, doesn’t-just-walk-but-runs-for-touchdowns-on-water quarteback.

I was in the newsroom last Saturday evening, feeling good that the Gators were manhandling Kentucky in the third quarter and were about to put more points on the board. Then, all of a sudden, on a third down, the world stopped. I was looking at my monitor when a sports writer says something like, Whoa, did you see that hit?

“What?” I asked and looked up. “Is that Tim?”

Then the clock started ticking on the longest five minutes in the 103-year history of University of Florida football. I’ve seen big hits, but Jesus, I’ve never seen anything like that. At least not to a Florida player. Let alone the greatest Florida player ever. Let alone (probably) the greatest college football player ever.

I was anxious about my (and the Gators’) trip to Death Valley on Oct. 10 before The Hit. Now I have no idea what to think. It will be interesting to see how Louisiana State stacks up against Georgia between the hedges. No matter, it will be a whole other ball game, a whole other world when the Gators, the No. 1 team in the universe, take to the field at Tiger Stadium. And if No. 15 isn’t suiting up, I don’t know if I’ll want to be in that world. I hope the players don’t feel the same way.

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After the game Saturday I was walking around the southwest corner of the stadium when I saw a sign that read, “RIP Lane Kiffin 5.9.75-9.19.09.” Naturally, this made me smile and as I was getting out my iPhone to photograph it, two Tennessee staffers, pictured above in those horrendous burnt orange adidas polos, came walking by.

A passing Florida fan talked a little shit, though I can’t remember what he said. Homeboy pushing the cart paused and was trying really, really hard to think of something to say. Then his colleague insisted he shrug it off. So he muttered something profane and continued down Stadium Road.

After chatting with an Alligator photographer I ran into, I grabbed the sign from the wall and went to meet up with the Record reporter covering the game. (Interestingly, I opened The New York Times on Sunday, and the game story made reference to the sign to describe the mob mentality awaiting Kiffin in Gainesville.) I have no idea what in the hell I’m going to do with it — the aforementioned reporter suggested making it a shower curtain. At the very least, it will serve as a reminder that Lane Kiffin is an asshole and will keep me motivated to sing the hell out of “We Are the Boys” if I’m in Knoxville come Sept. 18.

Just had some chicken and Gatorade, and I’m ready for kickoff.

There’s a tailgate nearby flying an orange and blue Confederate flag. We do football right here in the South, but there are some areas where we could use improving.

‘Neath the orange and blue victorious
Our love shall never fail
There’s no other name so glorious
All hail, Florida, hail
University of Florida alma mater

I’ve decided to chronicle my experiences of the 2009 college football season — either from the stands or in front of the TV — because, well, Florida football is the one thing in the world I love more than Morrissey, and I think I’ve blogged that horse to death. There is little to report about the first two games — just watched the bloodbaths at home over frozen pizza. So, just as it does for the team, my real season starts Saturday.

Saturday, oh Saturday: “Rocky Top,” Lane Kiffin, Smokey, that shade of orange that both resembles vomit and induces it, the dumb camo hats emblazoned with that even dumber T. They’ll all be at Ben Hill Griffin Stadium on Saturday, and my blood is boiling just thinking about it.

There have been few regular season games I have looked forward to more than this one. I know the Vols are shells of their former selves, but their fucking coach has put such a target on their backs that their shoddy record over the last few years matters not. Not that Florida ever takes Tennessee lightly. But I have a feeling a 40-point win would be extra sweet for Urban Meyer and Co. this year after the shit Kiffin talked over the summer. Dude was in the league for 10 minutes and couldn’t keep his yap shut. At least Mark Richt was holding on to his gig like grim death when he pulled his stunt in Jacksonville in 2007. Sure, Richt won that battle. But war is hell, and he’ll learn that.

Saturday, Kiffin gets his first lesson.

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MIAMI GARDENS, Fla. — The atmosphere outside Dolphin Stadium is beginning to boil, though not quite yet to the level of a Florida-Georgia game or, I’m assuming, an Oklahoma-Texas game.

Part of the reason for the fairly demure behavior thus far is partially due to the fact that tonight will be the first meeting on the football field between the two schools. (It’s certainly not due to a dip in the imbibing that is such a part of fall Saturdays in SEC and Big 12 country, I assure you.)

Florida fans seem to be having a difficult time coming up with the hate-filled, spit-spilled zingers that are also so much a part of life in big-time college football because they have no idea what in the hell a Sooner is. (One guy just said, “If you’re from Oklahoma you got a long way homa.” Yeah.)

Best I can figure, it was a person who illegally settled in Indian Territory before the goverment opened it to all comers. (How democratic.) They apparently rushed westward to stake claim in what is now Oklahoma, hoping to get there sooner than anyone else. (God knows why.)

In conclusion, a better, less-exploitative mascot, a better Heisman-winning quarterback and fewer fans in cowboy boots should add up to me singing my alma mater’s alma mater at the end of the night, damn near teary-eyed. Let’s hope. Either way the end result’s likely to be the same.

Descending a ramp to get the hell out of the Florida Citrus Bowl, “The Victors” made its way through the bowels of the old stadium and into my pissed-off ears. Michigan, which had been beaten by a Division I-AA team a mere four months earlier, had just beaten my beloved school by six points, and I was in no mood for any Big 10 revelry. It was about 4 p.m. on Jan. 1, 2008, and my year was off to a shitty start.

Lucky for me, 2008 was a leap year, so I still had 365 days to turn it around. And indeed I did, but not solely by my own volition. The following helped:

The Alligator staff and the hours we spent at budget meetings, on deadline, playing trash-can basketball, putting out newspapers, etc., etc.; the fleeting moments I got to see my girlfriend in between all of the aforementioned madness; graduating; getting a job; The Gaslight Anthem; “Wall-E”; Florida 49, Georgia 10; Florida 45, Florida State 15; Florida 31, Alabama 20; indulging myself with a MacBook and a bathrobe; covering an Obama rally on the eve of Election Day; and the West Coast: Disneyland, the Moz homestead, and driving up the Pacific Coast Highway, celebrities’ beachfront Malibu homes on one side and the Santa Monica Mountains on the other.

Onward and upward, to England, a trophy made of Waterford Crystal, a haircut — a year of downright refusal…

TALLAHASSEE, Fla. — I’m at Doak Campbell Stadium, where only a downpour can drown out that wretched chant these people like to do.

Work ’em silly.