The Fire Stick

This week's song - You've Got a Friend in Me - Randy Newman - Toy Story is one of my favorites. So is Christopher Leach

The ground was still wet with dew. I looked down the fairway trying to envision my shot. The stakes were huge. When my new driver struck the ball, it rose against a late-summer sky and gently faded over the trees that stood at the corner of the dog-legged par 5, landing safely in the fairway. “Good one,” my competitor said. It was his common compliment - short, to the point. There would not be much conversation during the round. This wasn’t our first rodeo. The game was on. He teed his ball, and after he struck it, Chris Leach’s drive flew mine by 10 yards. We picked up our golf bags and walked stride for stride down the fairway. It was 1988. I was 19. He was 17. I was starting my sophomore year at UT. He was the star senior quarterback at Farragut High, bathed in the glow of all that befits the age and position.

Money Players

Because of my close relationship with my brother, John, his friends became my friends. My friends became his friends. Chris and my brother were in the same class. As kids, we all played golf, tennis, billiards, basketball - well, anything - together. Chris and I were usually pitted against one another, inevitably for money. I like to think I taught him how to gamble, but in hindsight, I think it was as much a genetic predisposition as hair or eye color.

We often played for large sums of money, despite the fact we didn’t have access to more than pocket change. But, on that day, we played for something more - The Fire Stick. The club, manufactured by Wilson, was the hottest driver of the day. The beautiful and intimidating red fiberglass shaft ran down into a titanium/metal head. Every golfer wanted a Fire Stick in their bag, and I was one of the fortunate few. My father had given it to me the week before as a gift. It was a good club, but it was also something else, something players like Leach and I couldn’t resist - flash and status. Bad golfers would look silly trying to play it. People paid attention when it was carried onto the driving range. Rumors flew around our club about which golfers were going to get one. A friend of my father’s approached me at my grandmother’s funeral, extended his hand and said, “Sorry about your grandmother,” then leaned in to whisper, “How do you like that Fire Stick, kid?” 

I’d lost to Leach the day before and he came up with the idea that, instead of having me pay, he wanted to play for the Fire Stick. “Absolutely,” I said without hesitation. Money players don't hesitate or turn down a challenge. It was a beautiful day. We strolled down the fairways of Fox Den Country Club with the confidence that tomorrow was promised and the world belonged to us. We were good. We knew it. Our bodies were lean. The inevitable tragedies and storms of life had never earned proximity to us.  We were boys playing a game we loved. It was a 9-hole match. We battled back and forth like it was the Ryder Cup. It is always serious between friends upon the field of battle. We pulled for each other, conceded the right putt, and made club suggestions. It came down to the last hole. When I tapped in for par, we shook hands and walked to the clubhouse, laughing and reliving the match that resulted in my retention of the desired Fire Stick.  

The Fire Stick

The years slid by faster than those infinite summers of my youth. Chris would become my little brother in the fraternity. He stood with me at my wedding to Cheryl. I toasted him at his. We have so many close friends. When a money game was being put together, it has to include Pryor and Leach. We’ve traveled to football games and multiple locations to play golf with my brother and other friends. And, then he and his wife gathered with many one fall afternoon, outside the emergency department of Park West Hospital, awaiting word about my wife’s condition after she’d been rushed there from our home. When I exited to deliver the news of her death, Leach was the first. The first face I saw. The first friend to rise. The first person I embraced. The first of many to come unglued with me, as the eye of the hurricane arrived in defiance of our presumed exemption from such things. Long before that terrible day, we had been dear friends and rivals in all manner of games.  The storm transformed us into brothers. A Storm turns a friendship into something greater, something deserving of its own temple. 

It has been 28 years since we first played for the Fire Stick. The club has long been obsolete. Driver technology has gone through the stratosphere, but the ole Fire Stick is still around. I looked over at Chris’s bag this past April to see its red shaft and gray titanium head protruding as we stepped onto the first tee in Destin, Florida. It has been our tradition, our temple if you will, for 21 years, that the first day of our big golf trip is the day we annually renew our competition for the relic. The Fire Stick Round. One round of golf. The club itself  hasn’t touched a golf ball for a quarter of a century. At the end of the tee box, away from the others, he approached me for the ceremonial conversation. “I see you brought it with you,” I said. He smiled. During the past year he’d had his picture taken with it on his travels, texting the image to me with very little if any caption, each photo serving as both a good-natured jab and a nod to the institution of our brotherhood.“We’ll play straight up as usual?” I asked. That is how it has always been, how it shall always be regardless of the fact his game is much better these days. The winner always keeps the Fire Stick for the next year. “Alrighty. Good luck,” he said, winking as he turned to walk away, still the cocky kid I taught to gamble on the golf course, the one who would roll out for a pass on fall Friday nights and then keep it just to run someone over. He is the same cocky kid that never gave up the ball on the basketball court and the same confident man who told me everything was going to be alright after he and five others carried my Cheryl to her place on the hill where the leaves still fall with a certain grace this time of year. 

I leaned over and placed my ball on the tee then struck a slow-rising shot that drew slightly around the fairway bunker and into the plush green fairway. “Good one,” he said. A Good One, indeed. 

The Bandits

This week's song - Lose Yourself - by Eminem. No particular meaning here, except for the fact that every time I hear it I'm transported to an SUV driving boys to basketball games. 

“Time-Out!” I yelled as I ran toward the referee at mid-court. The Shockers had just scored to take the lead. I needed to calm my team down and draw up a big play.  The Bandits were down three with only 6 seconds remaining in the Championship game. AAU travel basketball gets intense. My players gathered around me as they always had, each of their expectant faces looking up, trusting I would come up with something that would lead them to victory. No one in the Powell gym that night expected us to compete with The Shockers, much less lead the entire game. Their faster and more athletic players had annihilated the rest of the field on their march to the championship. We had played an incredible game. Everyone played. Everyone contributed. Now, we were seemingly yielding to our fate, relinquishing our hard-fought lead with seconds to go. I was so proud. I told them. We’d played a great tournament. We’d made it to the finals. The rosy cheeks and excited eyes of the 11-year-old boys gazed up at me. The gym was on fire with excitement and expectation. Connor, the tallest of the kids, circled the huddle nervously. “Connor! sit still! What are you doing?” I asked. “I’m just so excited, Coach! This is awesome!” It was awesome. I grabbed my dry-erase clipboard. There was still fight in this team. It was the spring of 2009.

The Bandits

Those little boys are now young men, most of them Seniors in high school. Connor Arnold is 6 feet 7 inches tall and an All-State forward at Grace Christian Academy. Caden Harbin is Mr. Everything at Halls High - an All-District and All-State football player. Isaiah Sulack broke the Arby’s Classic (a nationally recognized tournament) three-point record earlier this year, scoring 39 points in a single game for CAK High School. The kids, most of whom played for me for the better part of a decade (more than half of their lives) are scattered across the city. Griffin Hicks and Ryan Lee are at Webb. Tyler Parker is a talented golfer at Catholic. Haydn Tanner is a two-sport star at CAK, and Tyler Young, aka Big Mac, is also a Senior at CAK. Alex Majoras, the quietest kid I’ve ever known, is at Bearden. Shawn McKay, who I held as a newborn, will graduate from Farragut in May. Then there is my baby boy, Andy Pryor, who is a Junior at CAK and my all-time favorite Bandit. Most still play basketball, but not all. Dozens of other boys have played for me at one time or another over the years - too many to list here. All of them are great kids with wonderful, loving parents. Several have earned athletic honors, but very few, if any, will go on to play basketball in college. The core group has been with me since they were eight years old. 

Coaching

We’ve burned up the roads of this state, singing rap and pop songs and talking about the finer things in life - video games, Krispy Kreme donuts, and girls. We’ve eaten a lot of pizza in hotels, where boys with boundless energy took over indoor pools while parents washed uniforms in bathroom sinks and dried socks on hotel-room air conditioners. The Bandits have spent many a night at my house and my son has been welcomed in each of their homes. When I started coaching them, I thought I was simply coaching a game I loved and bonding with my son. When I hung it up, I realized that I’d made my own friends for life. I am the beneficiary of a gift I inadvertently gave myself. Coaching these kids has been one of the great privileges and honors of my life. One of my players wrote a school essay about how I influenced his life. Another said I would be one of his 8 invitees on NBA draft night when he would be taken in the first round. I text them after their wonderful high school performances and, more importantly, after the poor ones. They text me to give me a hard time when they see my commercial on television or an appearance on Legal Lowdown. I sometimes just text to check in. Andy and I go to their high school games. They often come to his. They tell me they love me. They hug me whenever I see them in public. Even though it has been over a year since I put down the clipboard, they still call me “Coach” or “Pryor.” 

On that night in March of 2009, the Shockers thought they had us. They didn’t know what a good play I had drawn up. I knew the shot was good before it left Parker’s hands. He was a great shooter. They all were. When the three-pointer passed through the net as the buzzer rang out, the gym erupted. Tie game. We were going to overtime. A few minutes later, after Connor slid down the baseline and drained a three pointer two minutes into overtime, the game was over. We were the Champions. As Connor said, “It was awesome.” There are few better things in life than watching 11-year-old boys celebrate an unexpected and hard fought championship. I became one of those 11-year-old boys. 

My boys

All good things come to an end. Boys turn into men and seasons conclude despite our begging. I miss it all, but more than anything I miss the sideline huddle with the excitement of a game hanging in the balance. Should I one day be granted the gift of reflection during my final hours on this planet, I shall consider the many blessings in my life. Included among them will be my years with the Bandits. I will reach for memories of my precious time in the company of such fine boys and smile gratefully for our days together. I shall immerse myself in the echoes of shoes squeaking on gym floors beneath the hum of fluorescent lights and intermittent whistles, and desperately grasp for the vision of their youthful faces encircling me on sidelines. And, should anyone ask who I would like to carry me to my final resting place, I will without hesitation say “The Bandits.”

Dance Like Nobody is Watching

I've taken some time off from the blog. I've been writing other things and living life. Here is something I submitted to a periodical I write for. Hope you enjoy.

This Week's Song - Mambo No. 5 - Lou Bega's dance hit from 1999 gets the heart pounding, the feet moving, and for some of us, the tears flowing. Turn it up! 

Shelby

“Play it again, Daddy!” she implores. At four years of age, she is my little rosy-cheeked-head-strong first born. I push the button on the CD player that returns the electronic thump to its starting point. Shelby’s feet begin to shuffle across the hardwood floor while I do my best imitation of John Travolta in Pulp Fiction. I take her hand and swing her wide. The giggles float skyward. We both dance like nobody’s watching. I’ve taught all of my kids there is no other way to dance. Find your beat and turn it loose. Then, suddenly, someone is watching. Her mother, Cheryl, summoned by the familiar words of a song we cannot remove from our heads, bounces down the stairs to join in, the three of us effortlessly falling into the throws of what has become our small tribal ritual. We are at the mercy and direction of a four-year-old child. “Do this, Daddy!” she implores as she waves her arms. We move around the coffee table in familiar rhythm, singing along with Lou Bega - A little bit of Monica in my life, A little bit of Erica by my side… There is laughter in abundance as our little creation laughs at, mimics, and directs her parent’s moves. It is the spring of 2000.

This memory plays in my head like a movie reel as I look out on the landscapes of the Lolo Pass in Idaho this week, the last miles of our journey passing beneath the Michelins. I usually bring it on myself, conjuring the scene from another life and planet. It generally makes me smile. For a father of a little girl, she is always four years old, dancing in a living room, the envied and unknowing possessor of pure innocence and joy. The emotion of the memory is amplified today, cutting and exact, hitting its mark as we make our way to her new school, her new town, her new life so far away. She is 20 years old.

Shelby, the author, and Sophie The Dog

The living room from the memory no longer exists, our first house having been leveled years after our move to make room for a church parking lot. The adoring mother, who was born to be her mother and who executed the complexities of the privilege with overwhelming love and skill, suddenly and shockingly departed life on a sad fall day before the melody of laughter and song faded into the doomed hardwood floors. Cheryl will always be 31, dancing to Lou Bega on Belleaire Drive. The music-laden memory is immortal as long as one, or in this case two people remain. And though I know Shelby has little if any memory of the moment or the mother she lost, here is Lou Bega’s hit emanating from the speakers of my little girl’s car from a CD she made. She’s heard the story. As I write this from the back seat, occasionally glancing at the beautiful Snake River to wipe hidden tears from beneath my sunglasses, I’m struck by the cruelty and beauty of parenthood and the power of music. Over the past four days, we have seen things we’ve never seen - the grandeur of the Rocky Mountains, the majesty of Grand Tetons and Yellowstone National Park, the wide open skies of Kansas and the glorious majesty of Montana. Nancy, the courageous and loving woman who married me and who has expertly and lovingly mothered Shelby since she was five, the woman who not only inherited but earned the vaunted title of “mommy,” rides along next to Shelby, gaping at the brilliance of our country. I am a blessed man, no doubt. Yet, while they are taking in the scenery, I’m in the back seat trying to figure out how I can somehow speed up this damn song or, in the very least, find, kill and dismember Lou Bega.

This child who provided a reason to dance, a reason to rejoice, and for a period of time, a reason to breathe, sings along with Lou just like she did when she was four while I shore myself against the storm of emotion brought on by the most upbeat song I’ve ever heard. The practical and seasoned lawyer in me has fled and is hiding somewhere in the mountains just beyond the horizon. I feel like the dad in the recent McDonald's commercial, the one crying in the shower about the son who has gone to college. Perhaps it is the journey of all parents. We go to soccer, basketball, and football games. We go to recitals and plays, followed by dinners with siblings and grandparents. We shop for Christmas presents and work harder to buy the perfect birthday gift while the clock ticks. We pay the orthodontist and give driving lessons while the sound of the ticking of the ever-present clock escapes us. We rarely heed the call or soak up the song. The next thing is always “about” to happen. How can we not see it coming? Those of you with adult children know of the moment you realize it. Those of you with young children should heed the call, pay just a little attention to the ticking of the clock and turn the music up. Way up. And, put on your dancing shoes.

On the road to Idaho

She completed two years at Tennessee as an honors student, but needed something else. She was led to serve as a counselor at a Christian camp in Washington last summer and now to a new chapter with a new set of friends on what feels like the other side of the world to a father who has done everything to keep her close. I’m once again reminded of my lack of control over life. I’ve ostensibly supported her quest since she told me her plan several months ago. During that time I've lived in constant fear of the airport goodbye, the blow of separation from this joyous and beautiful creature. Silly Daddy. While the selfish side of me is dying inside, the practical side of me is so proud and knows she is doing exactly as I directed - She is dancing like nobody is watching. She has found her beat and is turning it loose. She is happy. What more could a father ask for?

After Midnight...

Alright, alright! - lets have some fun. My father always said, "Nothing good happens after midnight." He is a good and wise man, but he missed this one.


This Week's Song - Oh Sheila - Ready For The World - this song topped the charts in 1985, but on a cold night in 1989 it blazed a path to the moon. Turn it up and play it over and over.

The Pi Kappa Alpha House
circa 1989

The dilemma was a big one.  It didn't look good. I stood just outside the circle of decision makers watching the worried look on the faces of the elected officers as they brain-stormed solutions to the great crisis. It was Friday night on Fraternity Park Drive which meant one thing - The Pikes were having a band party. Thanks to the fact my fraternity dedicated 90% of its budget to "social" events, coupled with our election of the greatest Social Chairman in the long history of Pi Kappa Alpha, our house was the place to be in the Spring of 1989. This wasn't just any band party. It was Pike's Peak, a week long party complete with band parties every night, commemorative t-shirts, and no classes to attend. School was in session. The "no class" thing was self-imposed and not officially sanctioned by the University of Tennessee. Fraternity life was simple - go where the party is. These were the days before press conferences and "Butt-Chugging," and a band party was a sacred event. There were other great fraternities and we all went to each other's party's, but during Pike's Peak we were the only game in town and the crowd gathering was testament to that very fact.

Brett Shaw paced in the middle of the circle as all of his subordinate officers and wanna-be advisers harbored looks of panic and despair. "What are we gonna do, man?! We can't have a band party without a band!" said one concerned frat boy. Though there were extreme actions taken to contain the catastrophic news, the whispers of disappointment had already started to run through the ranks of co-eds gathered in the courtyard -  the excellent and heavily anticipated alt-rock band Brett scheduled had been unable to cross the North Carolina mountains due to early spring snow. They weren't going to make it. It was 9:30 on a Friday night. The band was suppose to start in thirty minutes. It looked as though all was lost. The courtyard outside the house and the entire first floor were covered in eager college students who'd been "getting ready" all day. So much hung in the balance.

Shaw wasn't conceding anything. He went to his room, closed the door,  pulled out his magic book and got on the phone. At approximately 10:46 p.m. he emerged from the situation room, clearly worn by the night's events, and announced "I have a band on the way." A collective sigh of relief emanated from the small group and congratulations were bestowed upon the man who had once again come through. Then, as a reflection of how spoiled we were by Brett's efficiency and good taste, our attention quickly turned to what we might expect from a band that was the only one in the book still available at 10:30 on a Friday. "They are called the Chevettes," Shaw announced with a lingering doubt behind the usually optimistic eyes, "and they weren't in the book." Brett was good, and he knew it. He took great pleasure in standing before the chapter during Monday meetings to announce the "excellent" and "in-demand" bands that would be coming. Although things were beyond his control, he simply would not accept this mark on his administration. "These guys were actually referred to us by another East Knoxville band who heard they were looking for gigs." Concerned looks among the group were exchanged. "What kind of music do they play?" asked an exasperated kid from Memphis. "Not REM!" he said to the kid, who listened to almost nothing else. He turned and made his way to the courtyard to make an announcement which would hopefully save our party. The house was packed. The rain began to fall and everyone moved inside. "This is going to be a disaster," said our Treasurer, looking toward the heavens.

After what felt like hours, a collective roar came from those gathered in the house and courtyard as a 1970’s white cargo van pulling what appeared to have once been a U-Haul trailer turned into Fraternity Park. Remarkably, everyone remained at the house and many more came when they heard the band was coming late. Only in college can a 3 hour delay possibly increase your crowd. Brett pointed the van’s driver to a location beside the house where equipment could be unloaded into the basement. The Courtyard was no longer an option because of the rain. A large group of pledges who had been hastily gathered and given instruction prior to the Chevettes arrival moved quickly into place and began assisting in the unloading of speakers, guitars, keyboards, drums and all manner of things that were necessary for The Chevettes to entertain. 

Basement - Men of PKA

The members of the band and their sizable entourage exited the rear of the van like clowns from a circus car. It looked like a gathering of central casting from the movie Purple Rain. Each of the men wore their hair in a jheri-curl and were adorned in short double-breasted blue and white jackets. It wouldn’t have surprised me in the least if Morris Day, himself, stepped out of the van.  I shook the hand of the keyboardist, who looked like he was still in high school, and picked up a microphone stand and followed him into the basement. The young man was clearly nervous having likely been rousted from bed to play the show. He looked at me and whispered under his breath, “We’ve only been practicing for two weeks. I don’t know how this is gonna go, my man.”

This is how it went -

The tuning of instruments and sound checks rose like smoke into the fraternity house and bled into the rain-soaked courtyard captivating and drawing the throngs of college students to the stairway like moths to a fluorescent light. The earlier disappointment created by the absence of live music was wiped clean and each congregant was filled with a new adrenaline, that special kind of adrenaline held in reserve only by those of the human race under the age of 23. It was well after 1:00 a.m when the pilgrimage to the basement began. 

Basement - Men of PKA

In the light of day, the basement of the pike house could have been mistaken for a medieval death chamber. The stained and sticky concrete floor ran the length of the room beneath a low ceiling supported by haphazardly placed steel poles. A room-length-built-in bench covered the west wall above which small windows, which wouldn’t allow an infant to escape, provided what little light the room received. The bench had one purpose - to support head-banging teenagers trying to get a look at the act occupying the stage. The stage was made of plywood squares supported by rotting five-by-fives, the handy work of inattentive and distracted pledges from years past. The planks were easily transportable and creaked beneath the feet of frat-house rock stars and yesterday's fools. There was an abandoned bar area, where as a pledge I'd been instructed to mix PGA punch in garbage cans with my arm, requiring me to answer questions for days from professors and other students as to why my arm was purple. A descent into the basement, at any time of day, was a trip into a dungeon that smelled of stale beer and bad decisions. During Hell Week, my brothers and I mopped the floor until we collapsed only to find that decades of fight blood and alcohol stains were permanent fixtures. It was so bad that pledges were instructed to paint the floor at one point, an idea that proved to be among one of the worst when brothers tracked paint all over the house and courtyard after a band party. 

However it may have looked in the light of day, everything changed during those hours our house was bathed in the light of moon and stars, especially on those nights of basement band parties. Illuminated only by makeshift stage lighting and the pheromones of a Gen-X crowd, the basement became an ethereal dreamland and temple to the young at a time when magic was our province and the real world and all of its responsibilities were a distant and voluntary destination instead of an on-coming, unstoppable train. We were young, and in those moments, those nights below a low ceiling, overwhelmed by the decibels musical dreams, we learned more than we would in any university classroom.

The room filled. We stood shoulder-to-shoulder, swaying in anticipation of the arrival of music. The Chevettes entered from our right after making a pre-show visit to their van after the sound check. The crowd went nuts. The purple lighting from foot lights did nothing but amp up the level of anticipation as the members of the band all stood erect, eyes to the floor. When the percussion laden introduction to “Oh Shelia” jumped from the speakers, the room exploded. The uninhibited, rain soaked, and energized people, each of whom lived in that utopia between child and adult and stood possessed by hours of unfulfilled anticipation, liquid fuel from bottles, teenage lust, and a mainline infusion of the popping-Billboard-chart-topping R & B, moved like nobody was watching and our very existence depended on it. As the lead singer, in a mock-British accent, stepped to the microphone and said, "what's good for the goose, is always good for the gander... Oh Shelia" I thought the entire universe would collapse on itself.  The band moved in perfect unison to the beat of the electric percussion. Those of us men who didn't so much dance as try to look cool lost total control in the steaming pit. I danced with nobody and everybody at the same time, hands raised in the air, electricity running up and down my spine. When I stepped onto the bench and looked out over the crowd, I was convinced I was witnessing the greatest moment of my college life. At the close of the song, after what can only be described as a virtuoso performance by the boys from East Knoxville, the crowd - and the Chevettes - were convinced the band was the greatest in the history of R & B. Fraternity men high-fived, girls and guys hugged and all screamed in adulation. Then the second song began.

As good as “Oh Shelia” was, the next two songs were absolutely horrible. Forgotten words, poor instrumentation and missed harmonies cut into the night and sucked the electricity from the air of the basement. As disappointment began to filter through the crowd, a realization overcame the fading student body that the Chevettes were not cohesive or talented, that there was indeed a very good reason they were available at midnight on a Friday. They just weren’t ready. Then, something happened - something so simple and brilliant in concept that human ingenuity, the collective genius of human history, could not have come up with it had several weeks been given to solve the riddle.

The Basement - Travis Hill with arm raised 

My friend, my brother - Travis Hill - a man of great musical insight, a man who would go on to write several number-one hits, songs heard by millions, a man well-versed in the importance of pouring gasoline on the dying fire of a party - screamed out the greatest words of his life. “Play Oh Sheila, Again!!!!!” A great deal of debate exists to this day whether the photo to the left actually captures the greatest and most meaningful moment of Travis's life. The crowd, recognizing the genius of the instructions, roared louder than any which had previously visited the basement of the house. The band members knew immediately the request was not only a relief, a solution to their own dilemma, but that it was a revelation.  They immediately broke into the intro, assuming their choreographed positions from the first performance.

For the next glorious hour and a half, the Chevettes played “Oh Sheila” six more times, interrupted only by two terribly played and easily forgotten songs and a break. Like any great memory, that night 26 years ago sneaks up on me every now and then and grabs me by the shirt. When it does I slip my iPhone out, plug it into my living room sound system, and hit play.
 "Like they always say, what's good for the goose...." 

The Author in the Basement

The Board

*Note: I've Been away from the blog for a spell. Life happens. Thanks to all who pestered me for more and the many who've read my previous posts. Hope you enjoy.


This Weeks Song - Half Mile Hill - David Nail. This one was written by my friend Rick Brantley and  recorded by both David and Rick. It's nice to know talented people. Check them out on itunes and their websites. Rick has a new album and podcast coming out this week. Check out Facebook.com/rickbrantleymusic and discover a great talent. When he blows up, you can say you heard him first (unless you are in my presence). I just happened to be listening to his beautiful song when I recently drove by the Board.

The Board

He stood and made his way to the front of the packed chapel. This big and quiet man, this man of faith, this man I'm proud to call friend and brother-in-law rose to deliver his father's eulogy. Mike Turner has never been considered a dynamic public speaker. He is a trained accountant and great businessman, always deliberate and quiet, one who listens and is capable of cutting to the chase with a single well-considered response. However, I never thought of him as possessing great oratorical gifts. I've always respected his mind, appreciated his intellect, admired his faith, and welcomed his wisdom. So there I sat, excited to see two worlds collide in my quiet friend's public reflections on the father he adored.  His first words upon arriving at the microphone warned those gathered that he would be reading his remarks; Not a promising start to what would turn out to be perhaps the best eulogy I've ever heard. Mike captured his father's spirit and love of family in a way that only Monford Turner's son could. It was beautiful. With a scientific precision and order that defines Turner men, he chronicled the life of a good and generous Christian man. Then came the unexpected breaks for emotion. He told us what his father meant to him - the lessons taught for sure, but more importantly, the example he'd been as a husband, father, and man of faith. He covered details of his life, but what was intended to be a man's recounting of another man's life became peppered with glorious moments of a little boy simply talking about his dad. Perhaps it can't be helped when you love and respect someone like that. If you didn't know Monford Paul Turner, you would have known and loved him after hearing the ten minutes of his son's perfectly written and exquisitely told assessment. The words stood testament to and reminded me of how we are shaped by those who pass through our lives. The following day Mr. Turner was driven beyond The Board to his final resting place. The Board and I are old friends.

It's made of wood, painted black, and stands in the shade of a small tree. The white letters adorning its facade are interchangeable. The Board silently, and without a hint of apology, greets all visitors and future permanent residents of Highland Memorial Cemetery. On the last occasion I rolled by, it simply read Johnson and Hinton, announcing the ascendance of two souls and the arrival of their earthly vessels to reside forever beneath the East Tennessee clay.  I've entered many times, more often since that day in the Fall of 2000 when I buried my wife and the mother of my children. The Board always has at least one name. Always. Beyond it are many I've known and several I've loved.

Betsy Coffey became my mother's best friend during a time when a friend was desperately needed. The Coffeys lived next door to my parents when I came along in 1968, the first-born child. Betsy already had two boys of her own. While my mother was equipped with the love, dedication, and the enthusiasm required of a new mother, she was, as most first-time mothers, ill-equipped when it came to the practicalities of caring for a new baby boy. Betsy was a steel magnolia planted at the end of Columbine Circle in Rocky Hill. She was a West Tennessee beauty, a farm girl with an infectious laugh and a dominating, irreverent personality. She became my mother's sounding board, confidant and coach in all matters, including dealing with mother-in-laws, managing a grocery budget, and keeping other women away from their men. They were twenty-somethings without two nickels to rub together, married to law school buddies.

My very first memory in life is standing in Betsy's Volkswagon Bus as we made our way to get ice cream on a hot summer day. In the world of a child, can you tell me something that holds more excitement? I couldn't have been 4-years old when I stood between the seats of the hippie bus transfixed by the woman behind the wheel, her beautiful blonde hair in a bandanna. She laughed and barked out orders to her boys telling all of us to sit down as the bus pulled onto Northshore Drive. Seat belts? I don't think so. She steered with her left hand, using her right to shift gears and hold onto a lit cigarette, its smoke pierced by the voice of a young Michael Jackson declaring "I Want You Back" via eight-track tape. The notes of the Motown sound played in harmony with the laughter of little boys and their mothers and the unforgettable rumble of rear-mounted German ingenuity. When I let the memory take me I can still smell the mix of gasoline and unfiltered cigarettes, a scent that will always conjure feelings of excitement and adventure. I know now that Betsy was the type of woman men write songs about, a poet's muse. She had a raspy commanding voice, a youthful and beautiful face and a rare confidence that captivated anyone in her presence. I cannot for the life of me remember that voice without the beautiful sound of my mother's laugh.

I was in love with and continue to crave the sound of my mother's laughter. It brings joy to anyone who hears it and has the power to heal. Betsy always made her laugh - not a polite laugh, not the laugh drawn in the company of important people - but the laugh of unrestrained and unguarded joy that comes only in the presence of a dear friend. I was never around Betsy in my life that I didn't smile, too. She continued to be one of my mother's best friends long after Columbine Circle was in all of our rear view mirrors.  Betsy was the best kind of friend - one that not only brought laughter but longed to serve. She kept and tended to my young children on that terrible Wednesday in 2000 when "Pryor" made its debut on The Board. She insisted - and when Betsy insisted, you didn't question her - on staying with my young children as the rest of my family and friends made their way to Highland Memorial on an overcast October day to lay my wife to rest on a hill. When Betsy made her journey beyond The Board for the last time 10 years later,  felled by a cancer she'd fought for years, I sat by my mother as she succumbed to the unguarded and beautiful grief that comes only in the company of a lost friend like Betsy Coffey. It was the only time Betsy made her cry.

My grandmother, Louise Pierce Hammer, had a difficult life. She was a frail and generally unhappy person, but I never knew it. None of her five grandchildren knew it. Her name adorned The Board in 1991, the same year I graduated from college. She loved me. She was the greatest example of the transformative power of becoming a grandparent. It returned her to the joyful and sweet soul she was always meant to be, one that poured out God's word and a lifetime of love whenever we were around. When I was in her presence, the light in her eyes belied the years of hardship she'd suffered. She never talked about the husband who left her with two young girls to raise or the health problems that plagued her in the last decade of life. She threw the pitches a grandfather should have pitched, once taking a line drive from the end of my bat to the face, leaving her glasses broken and her face badly bruised. She drove like a NASCAR driver without a sense of direction. She had such an abiding faith in the Lord that she trusted He would deliver us to our destination in one piece regardless of what the traffic laws required or driving conditions dictated. It was during one of these trips that I first found and secured a seat belt.

I think of her most often these days when I'm struggling with sleep. She lived on a busy street when I was a little boy. In the quiet darkness she'd put me to bed on those nights I was privileged to stay over and together we'd sing "Jesus Loves Me." Before I'd drift off we took turns making up stories about the shadows that formed on the walls of her bedroom when headlights of passing cars passed through the blinds. The power of imagination, the enjoyment of story-telling and an abiding love of one's savior are lessons she bestowed, perhaps without even knowing it. It is a hearty inheritance.

Mr. Turner joins many others I've known and several I've loved beyond The Board. I don't list them here and I don't visit them all when I go, but there is always one more who calls to me before I leave.

I never met Lily Claire Felton. She is the smallest of my loves beyond The Board. When my good friend, Johnna Comer Felton, delivered triplets just three months after Cheryl died, all who knew her and her wonderful family rejoiced. I visited Johnna and her husband, John, in the hospital in the midst of my dark days, searching for a bit of happiness in the joyous gift of children delivered to good friends. After my visit and prompt return to grief, I was shocked and saddened to hear that Lily, the smallest of the three Felton triplets, tragically succumbed to an unexpected infection only 18 days into her life. 18 days. I was further astonished a few days later when I realized she had traveled beyond The Board and resided only 40 yards from Cheryl. I placed one rose from Cheryl's bouquet on her grave that cold February day. It has been a secret ritual I've repeated for 14 years.

When I decided to write this piece I called my dear childhood friend, Johnna. I'd lost touch and wanted to tell her how her daughter's death impacted me, reveal my secret relationship, and learn how my tiny friend's family was fairing in her absence. Facebook is an amazing thing but it rarely affords us a true view of our friends. It can never replace human interaction and the blessing of sitting and talking with a dear friend. Johnna and I had lunch and discussed those beyond The Board. We shared laughter and tears, our beliefs about those we've loved and lost, and the well-being of our families. She spoke of our shared season of grief and of the years that have followed. She spoke with great affection for the two children who survived (Hannah and Kate) and the two who followed (Sadie and Jack). She spoke with palpable love of her family and the everlasting hole in the family portrait created by the absence of my little friend. People who have lost a child deserve a special place in the scrolls of the grieved. I know many. I'm so amazed by those special people who have found their footing in a world that no longer includes their child. Lily's death made Johnna an overprotective mother. She knows she says "no" too much. She's allowed. We spoke of loss, the kind you hold close for no one to see, so close that few remember you have been brought to your knees in this life. She told me about a simple lone birthday cake that sits on the table with the one for the surviving triplets on each birthday and her sacred and sweet belief that a found penny is a smile and a "Hello" from her sweet baby beyond The Board.  Then, I told her about Lily's lessons for me. Simply put, Lily taught me then, in February of 2001, and every time I visit, to get over myself. She taught me death does not discriminate, that the pain of others we walk among cannot be compared, calculated or underestimated. Johnna also reminded me of a simple universal truth - nothing abides like a mother's love.

Lily's siblings - Sadie (11), Hannah (14), Kate (14) and Jack (9)

I go beyond the board to honor one and remember others. I go because it is where I'm reminded of their impact on my life and feel them push me to the point where my thoughts of them cannot remain confined to that hallowed ground. I am pushed to find them in those places they truly reside - in the eyes of my children, in the sweet sound of my mother's laugh, in the darkness of a sleepless night's shadow, or in what others simply think of as lost pennies on the ground. 

The Greatest Audible Ever Called

This Week's Song - Mean to Me by Brett Eldredge. This song was written by my great friend, Mr. Travis Hill, and it's climbing the charts. He has a few number 1's and is still gunning for the top. He is a great song-writer but the worst wide receiver to ever play the game of football. Check out the song - Mean to Me.

Audible - a change in the offensive play called by the quarterback at the line of scrimmage.

Nancy and I went out to hear a band a couple of weeks ago. The hour was late. The dance floor was crowded. "Wintergreen!!" she yelled to me above the crowd. "What does that mean?" a good friend asked. I smiled. It was time to go. It is a code word with the most interesting of origins. 

1990 was the year. The country was on the brink of war with Iraq. Michael Bolton's glorious voice was belting out  How am I Suppose to Live Without You on the radio, and The Cincinnati Reds were on their way to a World Series victory. However, in the Fall of that fine year something else was brewing in unit 18 of Lake Terrace Condominiums on the campus of the University of Tennessee - the formation of one of the greatest teams in modern history - Captain Bob's Fabulous 14.  

Not Captain Bob's Team

This band of unlikely heroes was thrust together two days after the team-submission deadline for on-campus intramural flag football. The idea to form a team came late and after a long football Saturday. It was around 2:00 a.m. when the first call was made. Due to our late arrival on the scene, my brother and I were forced to look to a list of candidates who had not been chosen by the many teams already in existence. Quite frankly, none of the candidates considered and ultimately signed by Captain Bob (me) had been real considerations for any other team. The finalized roster was a veritable who's who of kids picked last on their neighborhood teams growing up. There are no photographs of this team. No one would take our picture. But, if you close your eyes, the team sort of looks like the fraternity formed in the movie, Old School.

Preseason projections were not good. Our starting inside linebacker was an uncoordinated and slow hemophiliac who'd never played organized sports. Our projected starting quarterback ended up missing most of the season due to pre-game anxiety. The roster included a suspended member of the Golf team, several on academic probation, and at least 5 players who could not run under a 10 second 40. We had one guy who could really punt well, but kicking the ball was not part of Flag Football. Half the team smoked cigarettes on the sideline and all but a couple drank to excess before kick-off. There was an aversion to practice so fierce that it was not even mentioned. We had no uniforms. Our only fan was my girlfriend, and "fan" is a strong word. Looking back over the roster, we wouldn't have been preseason favorites at anything unless it was a team hot-dog-eating contest. As the season approached, we found our strength - drinking beer and talking about our various theories of how success could be accomplished on the field. Travis, the dreamer of the group, became our chief play designer. John, my brother, became the designated driver. As our first game approached it became apparent that I'd be the starting quarterback by default. Our starter wasn't prepared for the bright lights and crowds numbering in the tens, and no one else could throw it beyond 10 yards. 

A couple of weeks before the first game, Travis designed a play that would alter the landscape of football in a profound way and create a code word that would become part of my everyday vocabulary. The play was a wide-receiver audible. Yes, a wide-receiver audible. An audible, usually called by the quarterback, is a change in play called at the line of scrimmage immediately before the ball is snapped. Usually, again, the quarterback changes the play after assessing the defense. He does so by calling out codes to inform the players of the new play. Our play, code named - Wintergreen - was a true innovation in the game. The code word would emanate from Travis (of course), not the quarterback, if he believed he could blow by his defender. Travis was a receiver. It was a hot route (Wedding Crashers reference) to Travis where he would run a straight fly pattern to the end zone. Suffice it to say, I didn't think this would ever come up. Primarily because I didn't believe we had one receiver, including Travis, who could run a fly pattern without stopping for a Gatorade half way down the field. "We'll use it later in the season," he said, "when we've gotten use to our positions." In the weeks leading up to the first game, Wintergreen was often discussed with great reverence. There was great speculation about how the play would be called and what circumstances would qualify it as a viable option. 

The first game finally arrived.  Beneath stadium lights on a cool Fall evening, Travis and I walked to mid-field for the coin toss. I sized up our opponents. They were wearing matching shorts and shirts, each player with a new pair of cleats. They looked to be members of the university's track team, a team that would go on to win the SEC Championship that year. Our team, clad in Fruit of the Loom white t-shirts with sharpie-written numerals, looked like prisoners of war being returned to a defeated nation.The coin was tossed and possession granted to us. 

We trotted out onto the field of battle and huddled up for the first time. The faces staring back at me reminded me of the faces of the men in the opening scene in Saving Private Ryan as they huddled inside the troop carriers about to land at Normandy. Some vomited into the dirt, others prayed. In order to lead men it is important to be stern and confidant. It is also important not to go overboard on the "Rah Rah" stuff. Striking the balance is what being a leader is all about. "Ain't gonna lie, boys. It doesn't look so good" I said. With that and believing we were at a real speed disadvantage, I called a short pass play, took a deep breath and said "here we go." As we approached the line of scrimmage, unified only in our belief of impending doom, I held back in the shotgun position and assessed the defense. Every defensive back was up in press coverage and the linebackers, who had the physical prowess and crazed looks of tigers in the wild, were set to blitz me, each of them easing up between defensive linemen. Travis was being covered by the reigning SEC 400m champion. I realized at that moment that I'd never seen Travis so much as run to the mailbox. He could play guitar and tell jokes, but I'd never seen him engage in an athletic endeavor in my life. I adjusted my flags on my waist and looked over the mismatches at every position, preparing to run for my life. "Down... Set..." I began. Then, suddenly from my right, on the first play of the first game, came a booming call from a familiar voice - "Wintergreen!!!!!!" rang out into the night and echoed off the fraternity houses. Everyone on our team suppressed a laugh. Our opponents looked at each other dumbfounded. It was one of the most hilarious moments in my life. "Hut!" I called. Travis sprinted by his man and as the ball left my hands, I knew it was true. Travis was five yards beyond his confused defender when the ball hit his hands, his chest and then the ground. We lost a lot of good men that day. (Wedding Crashers) 

We went on to make the playoffs that year. We had some great games and Wintergreen was used to greater success. Since that night, Wintergreen has been called many times. It has been mine and Travis's code word to leave a party. It has been used to signal trouble among my friends. I recall one night in a famous musician's palatial home where it was used to signal "let's get out of here!" It has been used by my wife and I when we need to signal each other that we don't know someone's name at a party or, as it was the other night, to indicate to each other it is time to leave the party or event. I've given that name to basketball plays when I'm coaching my son in AAU. Anytime I hear the word I am filled with laughter and happiness. This is the legend of Wintergreen. Thank God for good friends.

The Perfect Day

This Week's Song - All I Want is You - by U2 - My dear friend, Travis Hill, performed it at the funeral of our friend and brother. I'll never forget it.

"I have the opportunity for hope. I have time to pray to God and thank him for the wonders of my life." - Eric Kline

On a Summer day in my fourteenth year, beneath a gray sky peppered with the figures and sounds of seagulls, I  stood with four of my best friends looking out upon the unusually placid Atlantic Ocean. The waves, which roared only  moments earlier during a storm, diminished beneath a light rain. It was as if the great ocean was resting while vacationing families waited inside their condominiums for the poor weather to pass.  No one else was on the beach.

"What do you want to do?" Andy Watts, age 11, asked. "Let's build a sandcastle," Eric said.  Before anyone consented to Eric's idea, a small fish jumped out of a cresting wave, its shinny skin reflecting in the dulled light of a hidden sun.  John (JW), Andy's 15- year-old brother and oldest among us, turned and said, "I'm going to get my net." 

He returned with a rather large casting net. It had a draw string at the top and small weights lining the opening. Not one of us knew how to use it properly. JW put it between his teeth while grasping the edge, poised to cast it into the next wave. My little brother, also named John, known as "Big Man," helped JW pick up the net and position it for casting.

We were a group not all that interested or necessarily experienced in the ways of fish. We were kids from the suburbs, experienced in bicycles, big wheels, imaginary gun fights and kick the can. Football games in the yard followed by meatloaf in air-conditioned homes were the hallmarks of our life. If left alone on an island like Tom Hanks, not only would we have been unlikely to catch a fish, we would have perished from sunburn in the first 48 hours. The Watts brothers were the most experienced of the five in outdoor life, but that wasn't saying much. Eric Kline, who was 12, had little experience with reeling in the fruitti' de mare, and the Pryor boys could only claim several visits to the Cross-Eyed Cricket as the highlights to our fishing resume. On those handful of occasions when we ventured to the "Cricket" with our father we cast our cane-pole lines into the heavily stocked pond and pulled the trout out at an alarming rate. I thought that was how you fished.We'd been downright unstoppable in the trout catching business, but these were the open waters of the Atlantic. I didn't think that casting a small net into its shoreline had much potential, especially since the sight of a fish near the shore was such a rarity. However, we were bored and JW, the eternal optimist among us, saw one fish and was ready to go get it.

The net was thrown.

Two hours of pure adrenaline followed. When JW pulled the net taught it was filled with surprised and uncooperative fish. They were not minnows or bait fish. They were Whiting, each measuring a good 6 to 10 inches in length and weighing as much as 2 pounds. The sound of ecstatic boys filled the air. "What are we gonna do?!" I yelled. "We need a bucket," said JW our leader. The tide was out, leaving over 200 yards of beach between the water and the boardwalk. The Big Man volunteered for the assignment of acquiring a trash can for our collection and ran to the vacation complex as fast as he could. We didn't know if another cast would result in such a bounty. Therefore, we couldn't bring ourselves to throw any of them back. The Big Man returned with a garbage can from our condo kitchen. After we placed the catch in the make-shift live well, the net was gathered up and released once more into a wave. JW jerked the string, and it nearly pulled him over. It came back so heavy with fish that it took three of us to drag it back to the shore. All of our parents and other friends were either shopping or in their condos. The beach remained empty except for the audible excitement of five friends, the waves falling into the sand, and the flopping of the conquered Whiting inside their plastic prison.

Eric, or "Kline" as we called him, lived two doors down from the Watts boys back in Knoxville. I don't remember ever being in the Watts home when Kline wasn't there. He was like another brother for Andy and John Watts and, subsequently, he became our brother. Kline had only an older sister and welcomed being the playmate of two sets of brothers. We'd grown up together and all of us were aware of his diagnosis of Hemophilia, an inherited disease that sentenced him to a lifetime without contact sports. Whenever a football game or wrestling match broke out, Kline would refrain from participation, fighting the natural boy inside. His condition made him cautious and quiet. It allowed him to find the artist in him. Kline may not have been allowed to play linebacker, but with a pencil or brush in his hands, he was an All-American. On that glorious day in the Summer of 1983, he ran with his four brothers in reckless abandon as we darted into the surf and carted the net and the fish to our garbage can. The shy kid with the sharp and dry sense of humor was as loud as any of us as we dragged the net in with a large share of the New Smyrna Beach Whiting population.

We smelled of surf and wind and fish. We tackled and high-fived each other in the water as our bounty thrashed and pushed against the sides of our garbage can and each cast came back with more to join them. We were overcome by a sense of accomplishment, amazed at our dominion over the great ocean and all of its creatures. Once the can could hold no more, we pondered the next step. "Let's cook em and eat em!" Andy said. I'd never cleaned or cooked a fish in my life. JW thought he knew how to clean a fish, but after an informal poll, it became apparent the rest of us were virgins in the fish killing and cleaning game. The Watts boys suggested we go to their condo, which was on the first floor, to carry out the next step of our master plan. The Big Man and Andy carried the fish-filled can to the porch, water sloshing over the sides, the occasional fish leaping out and onto the grass in a failed escape attempt. This is where JW sort of showed us all how to clean a fish. He slid the knife in and up, removing the guts and head. Each of us took our turn, knowing that our labors would soon satisfy our growing hunger. As we cleaned the fish, the sizzle of the pan could be heard as our Captain fired up the stove. We didn't know what we were doing, but we each one knew that we were in it together. No adults would be consulted, no questions asked.With a bit of corn meal and butter, fish which had just been swimming in the ocean and cleaned with our own hands fried in the skillet in a rented condominium on the coast of Florida. We had enough for trial and error. The five of us stood in the kitchen and waited with an irrepressible excitement to taste the fruits of our labor. We ate fifteen fish between us, each better than the last. We froze another 20 and let our friends and parents, who returned from shopping, take what was left on the stove. Nothing I've ever eaten tasted as good. We ate with great pride and satisfaction.

We left the kitchen in a mess. The sun fell and we'd planned to build a sandcastle that night. It was Kline's favorite time. We didn't build ordinary sandcastles. With Eric Kline, sandcastles became artfully designed and built cities rising from the coast. With the rain and cooler weather that evening, the sand was perfect - soft and just wet enough to be malleable. As was custom, the brothers did the heavy lifting. Kline didn't lift or haul sand. He didn't bring shovels and buckets. He brought toothpicks, popsicle sticks and butter knives from the condo kitchen. He always had something you'd never see on a beach. To each bucket load of sand we hauled and poured, Kline set his hands to work, carving stairs, windows and street corners with detail so fine you'd swear it wasn't sand. He wasn't a natural born leader, but when it came to this one glorious task, we all deferred to his direction, listened to his planning, and marveled at his mastery. He told us where to put the sand and how much should be deposited. He taught me how to craft the details, and I was an eager student. We worked long into the night and ended our long day standing on the pool deck looking back over our creation knowing that the surf and weather would lay ruin to our masterpiece by dawn. It had been a day where the beach and the ocean belonged to us. In a time without cell phones or digital cameras, we didn't come away with any photographs, but I can still see it, our creation, there beneath the weathered planks of the Castle Reef boardwalk. All the days of youth, beautiful and otherwise, are wiped clean by star-filled skies and left only to the memories of little boys. That day in the Summer of 1983 was perfect.

Eric Kline

Eric Kline died 18 years ago, today. His hemophilia was severe enough to require clotting  factor whenever he had reason to bleed. Factor was made of donated blood and used to control bleeding in hemophiliacs. It isn't fair that Eric needed factor before blood products were screened for the unknown and mysterious virus that began killing so many. It makes me angry, even now. He acquired HIV and AIDS simply because he had a mole removed when he was in high school. He was the kindest and gentlest soul I've ever known. He was talented and funny and loyal. He was my brother. I think of him this week for sure, but I think of him anytime I pass our fraternity house or hear the roar of a Neyland Stadium crowd. I think of him every time I'm with his beautiful sister, Ashley, who is a dear friend, or see a new post on Facebook from his widow, Emilie, who has gone on to a wonderful life full of love and children. I think of him with a smile on my face, especially when in the company of our mutual friends that he loved so much. One of the last times I was with him we talked about the day and others on New Smyrna Beach, the fish, the sand castles. He was a private person near the end, never wanting us, his friends, to see him dying. He was always thinking of others. He never complained. He always asked about me, about my family, even when he was so sick he couldn't walk.  He was always full of hope. On this anniversary,  I'll leave you with something he wrote in the time of his illness, something that tells you who he was and, perhaps, who all of us should strive to be.

"Why me?" That is the question that rolls through my head so very often. I could probably count the times that I have needed factor on both hands. And yet, against most odds, I have managed to become another victim to the world's most popular disease. So here I stand on the third planet from the sun and scream at the universe, "Why me?" Why me, when I have so much to do, so much to experience, so much to give. My goals, my dreams, my future - lost somewhere along with my CD4's and my white blood cells. Who invited this deadly disease to come and disrupt my precious life? "Why me?" 

Then it occurs to me, occasionally, as I escape the everyday sufferings and aggravations and enter that realm beyond reality that we only see glimpses of here on Earth. This is no insurmountable virus designed to eat away at me until I beg for death. Instead, this is an opportunity for a miracle. This is a chance to embrace life, to elevate my awareness, to learn, to share, to love. A chance to live a more full life, experiencing everyday moment by moment. There are those who believe that we choose our lives, along with all of the challenges, sometime in Heaven, long before we enter our mother's womb. That perhaps we have predetermined our pain, and that through this pain growth is found. I find comfort in the belief that something positive is coming from my circumstance. 

There have been times when I have seen stories of children dying of cancer, societies ripped apart by violence, families destroyed by the action of a drunken driver. It is in these times when I think how lucky I am. I have the opportunity for hope. I have time to pray to God and thank him for the wonders of my life. And I can pray for the chance to see even a few more. I have not lost my dreams. They have simply been accelerated. It is in these times that the question rolls through my head once more, "Why me?" Then, like a whisper from a loved one that alleviates all fear, the answer comes to me:.."because I can handle it."

I think about that day often. I escape the everyday sufferings and aggravations and enter that realm beyond reality that we only see glimpses of here on Earth - and return to the day five brothers ruled the sand and sea, where the last vestiges of innocence and childhood had one more good run beneath God's approving eye, and where my dear friend was healthy, happy and whole, and it makes me smile.

The Dawning of September

Author's note - 

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!

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.

Larry Seivers
I still have his jersey

Larry Seivers had 6 catches for 109 yards that day. He caught 2 Randy Wallace passes for touchdowns. Stanley Morgan, who had a wonderful career in the NFL as a receiver, played tailback and rushed for over 130 yards. However, after the pregame excitement, I have but 2 distinct memories. One is of Stanley Morgan returning a punt 73 yards for a touchdown. It was called back on a penalty, and I learned how quickly heartbreak could follow euphoria in a Southeastern Conference football game. The other is that my father bought me a program, a box of Cracker Jacks and a Coke.  What I felt in the bleachers on that beautiful fall day was the purest form of happiness a child can feel. I was home. How many have found "home" inside the confines of that place?

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!