Summer in Savannah always drags lazily into fall, a blurry transition marked more by a pronounced uptick in hurricane anxiety than by falling leaves. It’s a time I usually write an annual paean to college football, my favorite sport. The collegiate gridiron scene is a messy, imperfect thing these days, ripe for yet another hyperbolic, overly dramatic piece extolling its many virtues and lamenting the many changes wrought by name, image and likeness deals and the profound chaos of the transfer portal.

Alas, this is not that article.

Daphne and I recently kept Violet, our precocious 7-year-old granddaughter, for a weekend. Violet is what my grandmother would have called a “firecracker,” a nonstop bundle of unmitigated enthusiasm enthralled by everything the world has to offer her—and it of

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