This Week's Song - Tennessee - by Little Jimmy Martin and the Sunny Mountain Boys. There is Rocky Top, then there is this one. It is a bluegrass staple and, if you are a fan of the Big Orange, one of the greatest songs for a pregame tailgate ever written. Go Vols! It's time.
He didn't grow up around here, but Jeremy Pruitt understands the importance of football in this town. He is a southern boy. He may have never thought he'd be here, but tomorrow he's a Tennessee boy. I'll be watching on TV, believing West Virginia has no chance. It is the unfettered optimism of a child who still resides inside of me. It is born of a love planted in my heart on a fall day from my childhood and rooted so deep that it will survive the negligent leadership of any coach. So many that love the Orange have a story like mine. Go Vols!
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| Stanley Morgan |
I held on tightly to my father's hand as the crowd thickened. When we were overcome by the gathering fans, he lifted me up and onto his shoulders so I could see. I rested my hands on his golfer's hat and took in the sweet smell of his cigar, looking out over the crowd and attempting to process what I was witnessing. Thousands of people in orange moved toward gates at a quickened pace as kick-off approached. Men held tickets high into the air. Others held up their fingers indicating how many tickets they wished to buy. The latter were followed by families or friends, each with a worried yet hopeful look on their face. From inside the stadium a booming voice called out names and uniform numbers, cheers rising at the mention of certain players and coaches. My heart was pounding. My father's footsteps quickened, his voice lively as he tried to explain everything I was seeing, the meaning of his words lost among the sound of the crowd and the dizzying festivities witnessed in all directions. As we stood in line at the gate, I could hear the band playing the national anthem and then an unfamiliar fight song. My father wanted to explain it all. "That's Auburn's fight song," he said. "Our band plays it for their fans as a sign of respect." I'd never been this close to realizing a dream. It was my first Tennessee game.
Until that day, a Tennessee game was something from the radio where a distinct and welcomed voice described every leap and catch made by Larry Seivers, each cut and explosive return made by Stanley Morgan, and every bone-crushing hit by a "host" of volunteers. I would sit on my bed and envision number 21 flying down the field as John Ward told me, in a voice increasing with excitement, he was at "the 30, the 35, the 40, the 45, will he go all the way? Yes, he will. the 40, the 35..." I'd put on my uniform, complete with the plastic helmet adorned with a "T" on each side, and jump up and down on my bed as the man on the radio said, "Wherever you are in the world, it's football time in Tennessee!" He described the scene in detail as my team came through the "T" formed by the band. He gave the most detailed explanations of alignments and action and then offered up patented calls of great plays that mixed in with the sound from the bleachers as the unified voice of the greatest fans on Earth reverberated throughout the stadium. I wanted to be there. I knew I would one day be among those people, my people. September 27, 1975 was that day.
A record crowd of 74,611 filed into the stadium. Neyland Stadium was a cathedral where I'd never been allowed to worship, the only historical landmark in the registry of my mind. On those occasions my family's station wagon traveled beneath its shadow on Neyland Drive, I marveled at its size and dreamt of the day I might be allowed to pass through its gates and join the congregation of believers like me. "They would like me," I thought. I was one of them.
As my father and I came through the tunnel and into the great coliseum, the muffled sounds from outside its walls transformed into the clear cacophony of band and crowd and Bobby Denton's God-like voice. As we searched for our seats, I looked, with eyes the size of quarters, upon the Pride of the Southland forming the "T," just like John Ward said, the notes of Down the Field blasting from each instrument. "Watch them, son," my father whispered, "Coach Battle will hold them in the tunnel until we can't take it anymore." Then, while the members of the band marched in place in a perfect alley formed by their line, the restless crowd worked into a frenzy and the orange-clad warriors with the helmets just like mine moved from shadow to sun for just a moment before they exploded from under the east side of the stadium into the glorious September afternoon. As the crowd roared, tears formed in my eyes. I knew for the first time in my life that tears were not reserved solely for pain. "That's Stanley Morgan, Dad!" I said. Number 21 caught a warm-up pass as the band marched off the playing surface. "And, there's your boy," my Dad said with a father's exaggerated sense of excitement, pointing to Larry Seivers, number 89, sprinting down the sideline to talk to Morgan. They stood together on the sideline. I thought my heart might explode inside my chest. I couldn't catch my breath.
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| Larry Seivers I still have his jersey |
I'll turn 50 in November, clearly on the north side of that line dividing the innocence of a child and the maturity expected of a man. Yet, the dawning of September always takes me back south of that line where the weathered heart and soul of the man I've become is granted renewal and, once more, filled with the joy and excitement ordinarily possessed by children.
I've seen it all. I learned the words to the Alma Mater by 12. I stood with my brother in the freezing cold at Notre Dame in 1991 at "The Miracle at South Bend." I was sitting with Jimmy Johnston in 1982 when we ended the losing streak to Alabama and Johnny was carried across the field to say goodbye to the Bear. I was in Section Q in 1985 when Tony Robinson thrashed a number 1 Auburn team with Bo Jackson, and years later in the company of 7 fraternity brothers as Reggie Cobb ran through a driving rain to destroy the same team from the plains of Alabama. I was front and center in Section U when Al Wilson ate up Florida quarterbacks and running backs on a beautiful September night in 1998 and, again, a few weeks later when Arkansas's Clint Stoerner miraculously dropped a ball for Billy Ratliffe to fall on. I was in Gainesville in 2001 when little Travis Stephens sent Spurrier to the NFL in what I consider the greatest game in Tennessee history (apologies to those who believe the 86' Sugar Bowl or the National Championship in 99' holds that distinction). I was at every home game and many away games between 1987 and 1991, my college years. I've been the boy with his Dad and the Dad with his son and daughter. I've been on the fraternity date with my Cheryl and a Halloween-costume-black-jersey game against South Carolina with my Nancy. There is not one other single location in the world where I can envision a time-lapsed movie of my life every time I enter one of its many gates. It is home.
I like to win, but I don't dwell on the heartbreak. My brother and I, in an unscripted and unforgettable moment this past season, swayed together with arms thrown around each other's shoulders and sang every word of the alma mater at half-time of the Georgia game while many of our fellow fans were headed for the door. We sang, hats in hand. Every word. Loud.
People outside of the Southeast wonder why it is that we care so much about football. Why do we act the way we do? It's because it feels so much like faith. We stand with the congregation, one-hundred thousand strong, every fall Saturday as the Pride of the Southland marches into place. It won't matter whether I'm sitting next to a plumber, construction worker, postal carrier, lawyer, doctor, politician, student, the poor or the rich. When I enter I am among fellow believers, all of us born to the faith and dressed in our Saturday best, ready to give our all for Tennessee. The magic of September is upon us. The problems and evil of the world are melting away from me, leaving the kid with a coke, a box of Cracker Jacks, and a tear in his eye waiting for the Orange to run into a September afternoon. Beware West Virginia, Jeremy is lining them up. Go Vols!
1 comment:
Outstanding essay on the best place to watch a football game on this planet. If I may, let me offer my own nostalgic memory of Neyland. My parents had season tickets in Section R since my Father graduated UT in 1961. My Mother enjoyed going to the games, so it was not unusual for me to be sitting at home listening to John Ward on the radio. I was able to go to the games my Mom wasn’t interested in. These were usually the cupcake opponents, so I rarely got to see TN play Alabama or Auburn. When I turned 11, I discovered the director of concessions, Don Blackstock, attended the same Church as me. I labored to impress him with my maturity. Then I worked up the courage to ask him if I could sell Cracker Jacks at the games. He informed me that you had to be 14 to sell concessions, yet I did not let this deter me. I was on a mission. Because of my persistence and with my Dad’s blessings, I became the youngest Cracker Jack salesman in Neyland Stadium in the fall of 1976. I trudged up and down the aisles of Section R-V selling Jacks to my parents, friends and acquaintances; all the while keeping close tabs on the game. After a couple of years of that I was “promoted” to Cokes. That was my first realization that promotions were not all they were cracked up to be. Cokes were far heavier and untold gallons of the syrupy liquid ended up spilling on my crotch. So after 3 years of Cracker Jacks and Coke sales, I discovered the very best job at the Stadium. I became a program salesman. I could get to the stadium 2 hours before the game and pick up my minimum allotment of 50 programs. I would park on a corner not far from the stadium and cry out “PROGRAMS!” until I sold out. From there you had two options; pick up another 50 or call it a day. If you called it a day, you kept $5 and received a ticket to the game. Unlike most of the salesmen, I didn’t need the money. I just wanted to go to the games. So into Neyland Stadium I went. The $5 would buy me a Coke and a hotdog with mustard and this unidentifiable, delicious chili sauce. I was a 14 year old sitting alone. I couldn’t be happier.
Now understand, the ticket you received was not on the lower level west side that I had grown accustomed. This had to change. After kickoff one day, I headed over to the press box elevator near the gate to Section U-V. Pressing the UP button, I waited. When the doors opened, the elevator operator glanced at me with a skeptical look and asked where I was going. I looked him straight in the eye and replied, “To the top”. My Father always made me dress nicely to the games. I was usually in khakis and a button-down. I think because of this and I made sure to act like I belonged, he shrugged, pressed 4 and up we went. He asked me what my name was. I answered as I offered him a firm handshake and we officially met. This would end up being a crucial move on my part. When the doors opened, I was on the floor that housed the President’s box and Chancellors’ boxes. I wandered into one that had a few seats that were empty. There I watched the game in comfort. I also discovered that you could get free Cokes, hotdog, popcorn and these wonderful iced ginger cookies. It was more than a 14 year old could handle! When TN played Alabama or some other big opponent, the boxes were full of important friends of the University. So I would head up the stairs to the rooftop deck. This is where press photographers would shoot pictures for the local papers and AP, UPI and other news services. I would sit down, hang my feet over the edge and watch The Big Orange from the very best seat in the house. After kickoff every game for the next 3 years, I would head over to that elevator. When the doors opened, that same operator would smile and ask, “To the top”? I would reply emphatically, “To the top”! It would be college before I sat in a regular seat again. My autumns were complete.
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