Better days are a'comin

Better days are a’comin in Knoxville

In the third installment of “A Look Back,” I explore weeks 9-12 of the college football season. I visit two proud programs who have recently fallen on hard times – Tennessee and Michigan, return to the Northeast to watch “The Biggest Little Game in America,” and head south to the modern-day capital of college football: The University of Alabama. Along the way, I witness the limits of fan loyalty at a shockingly empty Big House, the effects of winning on the city of Tuscaloosa, and the power of hope on the Tennessee community.

IMG_2432Week 9 – Alabama 34, Tennessee 20: From Mississippi, I drove north to Memphis and east to Knoxville. College football in East Tennessee is about as big as it gets. Drive fifty miles in any direction from campus, and you’ll find small towns cloaked in Tennessee orange. Nearly every non-Christian radio station is dedicated to Tennessee football coverage 365 days a year. The area code in the Knoxville area (865) even spells out VOL.

For Tennessee fans, the past seven years have been a nightmare. There are a few different places you could point to as the beginning of the dark ages, but the hiring of Lane Kiffin in late 2008 serves as a pretty could start. After calling Tennessee a dream job, Kiffin left Knoxville after just one year – a year in which he led the Vols to a 7-6 record. Kiffin’s departure to USC, which was announced in the middle of the night, led to such outrage in town that residents named a waste treatment facility in Kiffin’s “honor.” Tennessee hired Derek Dooley three days after Kiffin’s departure, but Dooley floundered his way to three straight losing seasons.

In 2012, Butch Jones replaced Dooley and hope for the future returned to Knoxville. Jones’ ‘brick by brick’ philosophy of rebuilding the program from the bottom up has been widely embraced, though as Offensive Coordinator Mike Bajakian told me, the honeymoon period only lasts so long before you have to win football games. Last year, Tennessee finished with a 5-7 record for the third year in a row, and the Vols entered the game against Alabama at 3-4 and struggling to stay in bowl contention.

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I was fourteen when the Red Sox won the World Series in 2004. As a born and raised New Englander, that October is one I will never forget. Eighty-six years of frustration released in the most improbable of fashions. Facing a 3-0 deficit to the mighty Yankees, the Sox climbed out of a hole that only two other professional sports team had ever managed to overcome. With each successive win, Red Sox fans faced a growing sense of hope matched with an equal sense of impending doom. People across the state were afraid to sleep or eat for fear of messing with some cosmic power that was altering the series. They expected defeat. They were used to defeat. More than defeat, they were used to soul-crushing, championship-teasing defeat. Bill Buckner defeat. Or Aaron Boone defeat.

I remember going home each day from school wondering whether I’d have to face the gloating of my Yankee friends the next day. Trash talk filled the hallways and grocery stores of my New York-Massachusetts border town. For a week, everyone was a baseball fan. Even teachers wore jerseys to school.

On the night the Red Sox won the championship, finishing a four-game sweep of the St. Louis Cardinals, I remember thinking that I would never experience something like this again. I was watching history. A generation of Red Sox fans had lived and died without seeing what I was seeing. In sixty years, I would tell my grandkids where I was when the Sox reversed the curse.

In the midst of the celebration, nostalgia began to creep in. The curse was gone. “Next year” was now a childhood memory. The Sox could win again, but it would be just another banner. The chance of being a part of something truly historic was gone forever – or at least for as long as it takes for the Red Sox to sell away another game-altering player and plunge into a century-long championship drought.

For me, baseball has never been the same.

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