Out in the suburbs, races for city hall tend to come down to how many doors you can knock on, how many hands you can shake, how many potholes the incumbent filled, how many funerals and weddings and club meetings and youth baseball games you can get to, and whose back yard got flooded in the last round of thunderstorms.
In Jackson, it’s nuclear war. It’s artillery fire from beyond the horizon. Mortars. Shrapnel. Blood and guts. It’s Ali-Frazier, Yankees-Red Sox, State-Ole Miss. Don’t show up without headgear.