My father-in-law, as great a man who ever lived and a most frank and candid son of the depression, had a way with words.  He also held the occasional wager on college football games. On autumn Saturday mornings his kitchen table in Tuscaloosa, upon which the line sheets were spread, was like the set of The Sting.  During the desert wandering years before Saban, Alabama once had a QB2 who was a baseball pitcher.  QB1 went down to a knee injury, and the pitcher started a few games.  I believe we lost them all.  Dad’s customers continued to bet Bama anyway, every week.  He would jack up the line, pretending it had shifted.  If the actual line was Bama -6, he would “adjust” the 6 to 10 or 11 and make a few extra bucks each weekend. He knew he was safe because of the baseball QB, who was a decent athlete but a shitty passer. “That boy couldn’t hit a bull in the ass with a bass fiddle.” Dad would have a heyday with this SEC.