It was a magic night in Knoxville.
A night when a hundred thousand toothless, slack-jawed yokels french-kissed their daughter-granddaughters goodbye, tied up the pot bellied pigs, unhitched the gun rack from their pickups to pile in as many yahoos and cases of Jack Daniels and moonshine, called out to their ken and descended from the mountains into the big city. Their bladders were full and their parotid glands juiced, ready to greet Gator fans with fluids from the body of pure mountain men. Content that all their fugitive abortion clinic bomber friends were safely tucked away from the prying eyes of the feds, they careened across double yellow lines and raced to Neyland stadium.
Stopping only once at the drive through liquor store and once to pick up a down-on-her luck hooker ex-country singer wanna be from Nashville, they hummed to the sound of dueling banjos and nighttime gunfire. They were proud men. Strong, proud hill people, with manly mustaches still caked with last night's pig roast. They looked forward to the same hideous, sloppy play that had led them to victory in two of their last three games.
Once at the field, they saw their savior lining up his troops. Who couldn't love the fat, befuddled face of Phillip Fulmer? There was a good old boy. Not like that traitor, that city slicker Spurrier, the one who grew up in Johnson City Tennessee and left, seemingly taking from the state any semblence of a cohesive offensive game plan.
But as the game went on, the good old boys from good old rocky top had to believe that things were going their way. Sure, it didn't work in the Orange Bowl against Nebraska, but it worked at Syracuse and it worked in the SEC Championship game: stun your opponent with sloppy, inexcusable poor execution and poor play calling, and you might just emerge with yet another skin of your teeth victory. With each third down it couldn't convert, with each 3rd and long it gave up, the Vols had to know the plan was working. And when they saw Coach Cutcliffe and Coach Fulmer wisely start OT by throwing two deep end zone bombs... bombs from an inept, inexperieced passer to butterfingers receivers... when they saw a second down incompletion turn into a second down holding call... they had to know something special was happening. Here was Phil Fulmer, in all his Gilliganesque glory, fumbling his way to another victory.
And when it was over! Oh, yes! When the state troopers hired to keep the fans off the field had only begun whooping it up and firing their revolvers into the air, there was barely time to spit at the leaving Gator fans and toss the remains of their spiked Cokes onto a dejected Collins Cooper, UF placekicker, before tearing down the goalposts; the usual post game celebration for a team that, sure, "expected to win".
And into the night they celebrated. The guns fired. The Tennessee Whiskey was inhaled. And the hookers and the sisters and the barnyard animals could barely contain the excitement of the men.
A magic night in Knoxville, indeed!!
News and Notes
Just a quick shout out to the New Mexico State Aggies, a team I picked preseason 112. In a shocker, they beat in state rival (a middle of the pack WAC team) 28-27 on Saturday to climb forever out of my basement and maybe into the top 100. Way to go Aggies!