But it all went awry so very fast.

After dropping off a bag off at my hotel I headed over to the Paul W. Bryant Museum on Paul W. Bryant Drive, figuring that by immediately paying respects to the legendary coach known to all as the Bear I would pocket a few quick karma points. But as I approached the museum, proverbial olive branch in hand, my auditory senses picked up on the joyful noise of a football practice taking place nearby. Whistles blowing. People yelling. Pads and helmets crashing.

Indeed, the reigning national champion Crimson Tide were practicing directly across the street from the museum. Curious, I put aside my selfless act of diplomacy to walk over and check it out for a minute or two, if only to take a photograph of the practice field to send to a friend who is an Alabama fan along with a note that would say something witty like, “Hey, look where I am!”

But just as I approached a fence on the perimeter of the practice fields and began to lift my phone into the air to take a picture, I was startled by an ill-tempered voice barking at me from behind. I was not sure if, unnoticed by me, a corndog-like odor was emanating from my skin — popular college football myth suggests that all L.S.U. fans smell like corn dogs — strong enough to set off alarm bells inside the facility, but suddenly I felt like a C.I.A. operative who had brazenly strolled into the Kremlin at the height of the cold war. I turned to find a quite displeased-looking Alabama athletic department official. The exchange that followed went something like this:

Hey, what are you doing?

I was going to take a photo of the practice field to send to a friend, I answered.

Well you can’t do that.

Are you serious? Why not?

Because Coach Saban doesn’t like that, came the response.

Surely this man must be kidding, I thought. He was not. I know this because he began berating someone through some sort of walkie-talkie about the absence of a campus police officer — one who was apparently supposed to be stationed nearby to shoo away troublemakers like me. All the while, he was eyeballing the iPhone in my hand like something he would very much like to toss into a caldron of acid.