© Celine Sparks
Crimson and orange have always clashed. I’m not sure they’ve figured that out at Virginia Tech yet. But we’ve got a pretty good handle on it right here, Bub. That’s what happens when you plant your house in a field of corn, and 3.4 miles from the state line.
I was raised on football in a time when an elephant and a Bear conspired together, and tore apart everything in their path. It was the era of Golden Flake potato chips and a southern man in a houndstooth hat wishing he could call his mama long-distance on an AT&T commercial.
We don’t even know what a long-distance phone call is anymore, but we wear more houndstooth on Saturdays than people wear pajama pants to McDonald’s. It’s how we know to yell “Roll Tide” to a total stranger a half-mile away. If he’s got a scrap of houndstooth on, or a crimson ballcap with an “A” embroidered on it, it would be downright unfriendly not to give a shoutout.
Fall Saturdays were made for rivalry, and the closer you live to the opponent, the thicker the tension. And 3.4 miles is pretty stinkin’ close. Not to mention this year’s face-off is significantly significant in significance. This being because last year, in two seconds that were put back on the clock, after it had read :00, Tennessee kicked a game-winning field goal. Toot. Heartache. Gloom. Despair. And a period of grave silence in a room that was just previously filled with celebration, high fives, and Bluetick Coondog nuggets. Oh well, sob, there’s always next year.
Actually, I wasn’t at all in the family room where I belonged last year. I was 27 miles away from Knoxville, Tennessee, where the tragedy occurred. I was at a women's event in Pigeon Forge, a spiritual renewal type of weekend, and it was attended by about 850 women. Some things even trump football (a few), and one of them is spiritual renewal. Besides, we were ahead when we went into the session, and Tennessee hadn’t beaten Alabama since 2006, so what were the chances?
Earlier, we had gone to the nearby McAlister’s, and I was wearing a bright crimson Bama jersey when a man walked in with checkerboard orange overalls and most of his teeth. I felt so confident about the whole thing, we had our picture made together. I planned to use it for a post-game hilarious status update on social media.
Later that night, during this spiritual womens’ event, I was singing hymns at the top of my lungs, when someone’s phone started broadcasting directly behind me. I won’t tell you who was checking the score of the big game and then desperately trying to silence her phone, but her name starts with an S and ends with an A. But this game wasn’t. Ending with an A, that is. That post-game status update wasn’t going to be so hilarious after all. Not in the least. I was beginning to feel just how hard the rock was on old Rocky Top.
I could not have picked a worse place to be stationed when this upset materialized. You do the math. At a gathering of 850 women 27 miles from Knoxville, how many of them do you think were Volunteer fans? The whole place was so orange it looked like the pumpkin spice factory had vomited in the convention center. I felt pretty nauseous myself because it was almost time for me to get up in front of this audience for the entertainment portion of the weekend. I was supposed to make them laugh. And I was so ready to cry. Suddenly I understood Bear Bryant and his AT&T commercial better than ever. I wished I could call my mama.
But then I got it together. I realized, if this had to happen, what great timing! I was about to face a pretty big audience, and with comedy, you always second guess if you’re going to be applauded. I suddenly knew I was safe. All I had to do was mention the word “football,” and there would be thunderous applause. Every. Single. Time.
It’s been a year. Bring on the kick-off. I’m ready for a redo. We’re within five days of the crimson-orange clash again. And if anyone wants a sideline couch seat or a tray full of Coondog nuggets, I volunteer.
Wait. Let me rephrase that.
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