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Jace Wilson (16) to Dominic Roberto.

On Friday morning, Caleb Gilbert and I discussed over the phone how in the wide, wide world of sports we were going to get the football playoff games on Laurens County Sports and Electric City Sports, DHK Sports’ other two sites.

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Monte Dutton

Games involving Laurens County teams were in Rock Hill and Hopkins (south of Columbia). Two games in Anderson County were within its boundaries. Others were in Gaffney and Columbia. I went to Hopkins. Caleb went to Gaffney. Our Presbyterian College part-timer, Mitchell Mercer, went to Rock Hill. Elena Davidson was in Powdersville already. Jamal Session shot photos there. Chase Owens was best man in a wedding. We didn’t cover that.

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Tide turns in Hopkins.

The biggest problem was that the main cogs in the weekly comedy of errors were traveling. The words come through me. The images go through Caleb. We mix and match when necessary.

If everything had gone as smoothly as a billionaire space flight, we couldn’t have gotten done, or within range of done, before 3 a.m.

Finally, I said, “I think we’ll be all right unless something crazy happens like Furman upsetting Louisville.”

You’re welcome, everyone.

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Just as a prize for participating on Jeopardy, Presbyterian defeated VMI in overtime. The Furman women clobbered PC, so I had to write that one two ways -- two really similar ways -- and post them on both sites with separate file photos.

Word one on a marvelous game -- Clinton 48, Lower Richland 34 -- flowed artfully out of my fingers at 3:15. I didn’t add the final photos to the gallery until I was sitting in the Paladin Stadium press box. Two of the basketball games didn’t arrive until I had gotten up at 9 and stamped 2nd priority -- after making coffee -- on them. Then it was off to the stadium and another afternoon of Furman football amid the vast array of colors in the trees that provided a lovely backdrop to the Paladins’ victory over VMI.

This week should be much better. We say this every week, of course. The playoff games have abruptly been whittled down to two, and Caleb may cover the Furman basketball game with Radford while I’m traveling to the high school where sons of Clemson coaches invariably play ball. Elena is conveniently available and has been so all year as the Powdersville Patriots have lost nary a game.

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I love Furman football games like nothing else, with the possible exception of Clinton High football games. Traces of blood at both places still course through my veins, not to mention my arteries.

There’s just no telling how much I would enjoy writing about my alma maters if I had more than four hours’ sleep between them.

Caleb and I, not to mention 3 of 4 doctors surveyed, have arrived at a common goal of relieving the pressure and finding time for fun and Furman. Plans are being made.

When I got home Saturday night -- I felt I was inexplicably running late until I remembered the time had changed -- photos from Mitchell were in my email with many words to follow. It takes a long time to describe 57-32 and almost as long just to count up eight losses in a row while giving up points ranging from 38 to 72.

Caleb sifted through his lovely Paladin pics while, 50 miles away, I played amateur photoshopper on the result of Blue Hose clicks. The result of my editing was gradually downloading when, in spite of the miracle drug caffeine, time jumped ahead, or perhaps I nodded off.

Thus was I left to wonder, how is it that I attended an afternoon game and now it’s midnight and I’m just getting started?

I had a text from Caleb: “You aight?”

Sunday was catch-up day. It might have been ketchup day except that I only ate breakfast and I’m not one of those people who likes it on eggs.

Working closely with a young man has about “slanged” me to death. I grammed (Insta, that is). I soshed (Twitter, Facebook). I edited videos. My camera is now my recorder. Part of the moving images turn into a theoretically snappy video. I look at part of it and transcribe it into quotes for stories.

Inexplicably, I love all this. I don’t think I’m fit for nothin’ else.