I considered devoting this column to a critical examination of one of the most pressing questions of our day: who would win a cage match between Merle Haggard and David Allan Coe?

We could make it happen, my friends. Heck, it could be a slam-dunk event. Both are playing in the region soon — Coe plays Asheville on Friday, while Haggard plays Cherokee on Sept. 9 — and their lives are at least two shades similar. Think of the marketing possibilities: two ex-con country superstars, known for their rowdy ways and not quite ready for elder statesman status, facing off “mano a mano” with fists, folding chairs, and bicycle chains. You could get at least 50 bucks a head, plus 20 each on pay-per-view.

But I nixed the idea, for at least three reasons. First, I’m a peace-lovin’ man. I don’t like violence of any stripe, and so I probably shouldn’t get in the business of staging celebrity cage matches. Second, I’d hate to be on the wrong side of either one of those fellas. They could both whip me, with or without folding chairs. Third, I don’t want to be a hypocrite. If either Merle or Coe proposed a cage match between me and Smoky Mountain News editor Scott McLeod, I’d be quick to turn it down. I’ve seen what McLeod can do with nunchucks.

Instead, I’ll tell the story of the only time I saw Merle Haggard live, at the Fireman’s Ball in Austin, eight years ago. It was nothing short of a fiasco. Haggard fell victim to Austin’s aggressive allergens — the cedar, most likely — and his throat closed up on him well before showtime. He couldn’t sing a lick. He tried to soldier through, even bringing opener Johnny Paycheck back out to help carry the lead, but it was rough going. You could see the frustration mount on his face, and when a drunk young cowboy staggered down the aisle to ask Haggard to autograph his boot, Merle brushed him off. The cowboy insisted, but Merle gave no ground. In response, the drunk young buck threw his boot at Merle. He missed, but his intentions were clear. Merle took one look at the man, unplugged his guitar, and walked off stage. The lights came up and the show was over. My sawbuck had bought me 15 minutes of allergic Merle, and I left with the feeling I’d been royally screwed.

I held a grudge against Merle for quite some years, and I’d likely be holding it still had I not heard his brilliant version of Blaze Foley’s “If I Could Only Fly” while listening to public radio one day. I went out and bought the album of the same name, and that single remains one of my favorite releases of the past 10 years. It’s one I still cue up sometimes after midnight, when the sun is gone and the kids are in bed and I need to hear a song both sad and slow.

I haven’t yet decided if I’ll catch Merle this time through. But if I do, I’ll try my best not to think about convicts, cage matches, or the night that Merle unplugged. Instead, I’ll sit and listen and wait for him to play that terrific song. And if he does, I’ll forgive him, for once and for all and forever.

(Jay Hardwig is a writer and teacher. He can be reached at smardwig@charter.net)