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re: Alright Vol and Bama fans, your favorite TSIO memory. No answer is wrong
Posted on 10/10/22 at 2:28 pm to TouchdownTony
Posted on 10/10/22 at 2:28 pm to TouchdownTony
0
Posted on 10/10/22 at 2:32 pm to TouchdownTony
I guess 2006 I think I was in 5th grade so pretty much is the only game I really remember that we actually won
Posted on 10/10/22 at 2:33 pm to TouchdownTony
quote:
1990- 4th ranked UT hosts unranked Bama. A 6-6 game with a minute left in the 4th UT sets up for the winning FG but Bama blocks it and it rolls some 30 yards back towards the UT goal line. Bama lines up and kicks a 47 yd FG with no time left.
Will always be my favorite. I was a student then and you could hear the screaming all over campus when Doyle hit that field goal.
Posted on 10/10/22 at 2:36 pm to David Ricky
quote:
2003 - VOLS win 51-43 in five overtimes in BDS. Bama was up 34-27 in the 2nd OT and had VOLS down to their final play facing 4th and 19 when Clausen hit CJ Fayton for a first down
Definitely my most painful TSIO. I wouldnt watch a game again at my in laws for years because of bad juju. Eventually I think I did but it was years later. Then I watched the 2014 playoff game against Ohio State there and never watched a game at their house again.
Posted on 10/10/22 at 2:37 pm to TouchdownTony
This happened to me when I was fifteen. I fictionalized the story for a book I wrote back in 1992. All of it's true except the names. It concerns the 1982 game.
I'm Jacky in the story.
TLDR; I had a car crash while listening to the game on the radio and didn't find out who won until I came to in jail. In case you don't want to read the whole thing. It's a whole chapter, so kind of long. So long that I have to put it into two posts (7900 character limit)
-------------------------------------------------------
KILLING BEAR
Well, it was bound to happen, and it did. After eleven years of one humbling defeat after another, after enduring over a decade of being the butt-end of jokes told all over Tuscaloosa and Birmingham, the Tennessee Volunteers finally defeated the Alabama Crimson Tide. This was the day Johnny came marching home, as the song says. All the frustration, humiliation and dejection that comes with being the doormat of your biggest rival finally came to a glorious end. With a fourth quarter interception clinching it for the Vols, the whole state erupted in a frenzy of pagan celebration. Every Tennessee fan in the world joined in as they celebrated without inhibition then heaved a collective sigh and thought of the future. Of SEC titles, of heisman trophy winners, and dare they think it, of National Championships. This was a day that every Big Orange fan could take part in.
Except, of course, for Jacky and his friend, Pete Martin, who were at that moment sitting in the Hawkins County Juvenile Detention Center.
The day had started perfectly for the boys. By eleven a.m. they had found a willing drunk to buy them a bottle of Bacardi 151, and within fifteen minutes were back safely at Jacky´s house, devoid of life for the afternoon, as everyone had gone to the game in Knoxville, over a hundred miles away.
They decided to start celebrating right away, as game-time was set for 12:30, and the boys wanted to be ready. They felt that this was the year, but of course they felt this every year, as did the rest of the state. Tennesseeans are optimistic about their football teams, if anything. By noon half of the bottle was gone, and the boys were in an uproar. When the Pride of the Southland Marching Band cranked up Rocky Top, Jacky went bounding into his bedroom, pulling out his treasures, two tightly-rolled joints and four blue Valiums, and returned to the living room, dumping them on the coffee table before Pete.
Here, let´s get toasted.
By halftime, with Tennessee only down 21-13 and apparently threatening to accomplish the impossible, the boys got “The Idea". Actually, Jacky would to his dying day claim that it had been Pete´s idea, that he would have never, left to his own devices, thought to take his father's prize ´69 VW Beetle out for a ´victory lap´. He was only fifteen, but probably should have known better.
With John Ward blasting out the play-by-play in the car´s stock AM radio, the boys headed down Netherland Inn Road. No problems speeding, thought Jacky, every cop in the city is glued to either his own car radio or the black and white TV of some poor hassled donut-shop owner. No time for speeders. History was being made.
Across the Ridgefields bridge they went into the subdivision of the same name. Ridgefields. Richfields it was called by the local population. Every town had one, a place, isolated, that the upper crust of any respective community could hide. Of course, they don´t call it hiding. The call it security. They call it isolation. But it comes down to the same thing, separating yourself from the less fortunate.
Because who knew? Who really knew? The more affluent of any town could always count on being the target of the largest portion of local crime, couldn´t they? The robberies, the burglaries, the rapes, arsons, and just flat out skulduggery tend to happen more to the richer than to the poorer. They have to get used to locking all doors and windows every night, even in the heat of August. They have to ferry their children to and from school, ensuring their safe arrival and departure. Oh sure, they could take the bus, couldn´t they? But then they might get their lunch money stolen by some dirty-mouthed ingrate over Fort Robinson way. Those kids were always into something. If it wasn´t your pockets, it was your garage. And who knew when the side-view mirror of your new BMW or the ninth hole of your favorite golf course would be vandalized?
Aah, the dangers of being rich....
Fifty-two year old Seamus O´Donnell lived with his family in Ridgefields. He was a third generation Irish whose great-grandparents came to America with eighteen dollars, their youth, and the clothes on their backs. Johnny, the great-grandfather, was a carpenter, and came hoping to make his fortune. He moved originally to Cleveland, Ohio to work for a form carpenter named Joe Suggs. Joe had promised to pay him twenty percent above union scale to start, with more raises coming as soon as he proved himself. He was management material, Joe told him, and precisely what Suggs Construction needed. A fresh face, and fresh energy.
After putting in two backbreaking weeks he was laid off. It took him over ten weeks to get his pay, and by that time had decided that if he was going to do it at all, if he was ever going to get independent, he might as well start now. He took the money from the two weeks and bought an old Ford truck. He then packed his wife and their few possessions into it and headed to Kingsport, Tennessee, where he had heard there was subcontracting work to be had if a man was willing to put in a fair day´s work for a fair day´s pay.
And here was his great-grandson, never much of a success himself, still living off the proceeds of the O´Donnell´s first five years in America. Sure, he was pretty sharp with a flow chart, and could predict the market with some accuracy, at least given that he was drunk as a skunk when he attempted this, but he could never seem to actually strike out on his own, to come up with any good ideas himself, but could only live off his family´s leavings. Under Seamus, and with his wife´s help and guidance, the family fortune had managed to remain somewhat intact. It was going little by little, sure, and maybe his great-grandchildren wouldn´t have any left, but that was no shame to Seamus. All he wanted to do was finish these first nine holes then head to the clubhouse, where little Dee Dee Hicks was waiting tables. She had such a sweet smile, and always had a kind word for him, ignoring his kind remarks to her, remarks that usually were punctuated by a quick pinch on the butt.
So with his putt lined up, only a nine-footer, piece of cake, he started his swing, but was thrown off by a sound you didn´t really hear very often out on the ninth. The sound of an engine. A car motor. A Volkswagen, by the sound of it. Oh shite, he thought as his shot went wide right.
Hooligans.
-------------------------------------------------------
I'm Jacky in the story.
TLDR; I had a car crash while listening to the game on the radio and didn't find out who won until I came to in jail. In case you don't want to read the whole thing. It's a whole chapter, so kind of long. So long that I have to put it into two posts (7900 character limit)
-------------------------------------------------------
KILLING BEAR
Well, it was bound to happen, and it did. After eleven years of one humbling defeat after another, after enduring over a decade of being the butt-end of jokes told all over Tuscaloosa and Birmingham, the Tennessee Volunteers finally defeated the Alabama Crimson Tide. This was the day Johnny came marching home, as the song says. All the frustration, humiliation and dejection that comes with being the doormat of your biggest rival finally came to a glorious end. With a fourth quarter interception clinching it for the Vols, the whole state erupted in a frenzy of pagan celebration. Every Tennessee fan in the world joined in as they celebrated without inhibition then heaved a collective sigh and thought of the future. Of SEC titles, of heisman trophy winners, and dare they think it, of National Championships. This was a day that every Big Orange fan could take part in.
Except, of course, for Jacky and his friend, Pete Martin, who were at that moment sitting in the Hawkins County Juvenile Detention Center.
The day had started perfectly for the boys. By eleven a.m. they had found a willing drunk to buy them a bottle of Bacardi 151, and within fifteen minutes were back safely at Jacky´s house, devoid of life for the afternoon, as everyone had gone to the game in Knoxville, over a hundred miles away.
They decided to start celebrating right away, as game-time was set for 12:30, and the boys wanted to be ready. They felt that this was the year, but of course they felt this every year, as did the rest of the state. Tennesseeans are optimistic about their football teams, if anything. By noon half of the bottle was gone, and the boys were in an uproar. When the Pride of the Southland Marching Band cranked up Rocky Top, Jacky went bounding into his bedroom, pulling out his treasures, two tightly-rolled joints and four blue Valiums, and returned to the living room, dumping them on the coffee table before Pete.
Here, let´s get toasted.
By halftime, with Tennessee only down 21-13 and apparently threatening to accomplish the impossible, the boys got “The Idea". Actually, Jacky would to his dying day claim that it had been Pete´s idea, that he would have never, left to his own devices, thought to take his father's prize ´69 VW Beetle out for a ´victory lap´. He was only fifteen, but probably should have known better.
With John Ward blasting out the play-by-play in the car´s stock AM radio, the boys headed down Netherland Inn Road. No problems speeding, thought Jacky, every cop in the city is glued to either his own car radio or the black and white TV of some poor hassled donut-shop owner. No time for speeders. History was being made.
Across the Ridgefields bridge they went into the subdivision of the same name. Ridgefields. Richfields it was called by the local population. Every town had one, a place, isolated, that the upper crust of any respective community could hide. Of course, they don´t call it hiding. The call it security. They call it isolation. But it comes down to the same thing, separating yourself from the less fortunate.
Because who knew? Who really knew? The more affluent of any town could always count on being the target of the largest portion of local crime, couldn´t they? The robberies, the burglaries, the rapes, arsons, and just flat out skulduggery tend to happen more to the richer than to the poorer. They have to get used to locking all doors and windows every night, even in the heat of August. They have to ferry their children to and from school, ensuring their safe arrival and departure. Oh sure, they could take the bus, couldn´t they? But then they might get their lunch money stolen by some dirty-mouthed ingrate over Fort Robinson way. Those kids were always into something. If it wasn´t your pockets, it was your garage. And who knew when the side-view mirror of your new BMW or the ninth hole of your favorite golf course would be vandalized?
Aah, the dangers of being rich....
Fifty-two year old Seamus O´Donnell lived with his family in Ridgefields. He was a third generation Irish whose great-grandparents came to America with eighteen dollars, their youth, and the clothes on their backs. Johnny, the great-grandfather, was a carpenter, and came hoping to make his fortune. He moved originally to Cleveland, Ohio to work for a form carpenter named Joe Suggs. Joe had promised to pay him twenty percent above union scale to start, with more raises coming as soon as he proved himself. He was management material, Joe told him, and precisely what Suggs Construction needed. A fresh face, and fresh energy.
After putting in two backbreaking weeks he was laid off. It took him over ten weeks to get his pay, and by that time had decided that if he was going to do it at all, if he was ever going to get independent, he might as well start now. He took the money from the two weeks and bought an old Ford truck. He then packed his wife and their few possessions into it and headed to Kingsport, Tennessee, where he had heard there was subcontracting work to be had if a man was willing to put in a fair day´s work for a fair day´s pay.
And here was his great-grandson, never much of a success himself, still living off the proceeds of the O´Donnell´s first five years in America. Sure, he was pretty sharp with a flow chart, and could predict the market with some accuracy, at least given that he was drunk as a skunk when he attempted this, but he could never seem to actually strike out on his own, to come up with any good ideas himself, but could only live off his family´s leavings. Under Seamus, and with his wife´s help and guidance, the family fortune had managed to remain somewhat intact. It was going little by little, sure, and maybe his great-grandchildren wouldn´t have any left, but that was no shame to Seamus. All he wanted to do was finish these first nine holes then head to the clubhouse, where little Dee Dee Hicks was waiting tables. She had such a sweet smile, and always had a kind word for him, ignoring his kind remarks to her, remarks that usually were punctuated by a quick pinch on the butt.
So with his putt lined up, only a nine-footer, piece of cake, he started his swing, but was thrown off by a sound you didn´t really hear very often out on the ninth. The sound of an engine. A car motor. A Volkswagen, by the sound of it. Oh shite, he thought as his shot went wide right.
Hooligans.
-------------------------------------------------------
This post was edited on 10/10/22 at 3:02 pm
Posted on 10/10/22 at 2:37 pm to LunaFreak
-------------------------------------------------------
A VW Beetle came screaming over the nearest hill like a banshee, rear wheels slewing left and right, but always keeping a bead on the flag stuck into the ground next to the hole. Almost as if the driver was only thinking as far as that flag, not knowing what he would then do next. Seamus reached for his clubs, but didn´t have time to get a good grip, so settled for the putter already in his hand, a gift from his daughter back when she still liked him, before he started pinching all of her friends´ butts, and threw himself to one side just in time. Through slatted eyes he could see two young boys, probably not even old enough to drive, grinning at him like two demons out of the deepest depths.
As he hit the ground and rolled, dirtying his new pants in the process, he had time to think of only two things, how his clubs were ruined and how to catch these two little heathens and see to it that they were punished. It suddenly became very important to him.
Pete and Jacky didn´t see Seamus very well, only caught a blur of green and white checkerboard pants before he disappeared somewhere near the right front bumper. They had been doing 180´s and 360´s on the golf course for the last five minutes now, and had decided to finish on the ninth, since that was the hole nearest to the main road. Then it would be time to turn back for home. They did, after all, want to catch the fourth quarter on TV, see history being made.
They ran right over the flag, bending it back till it snapped, throwing little pieces of sod all over Seamus, then spun around and headed for the little dirt exit. Seamus threw a rock in their direction, which landed about ten feet in front of him. He wasn´t young anymore. Oh, no. But he still had his connections.
As the boys reentered the main road it never occurred to them that they might have pissed someone off. It also never occurred to them that there might be four cop cars giving chase at that moment. They neither knew nor cared. They hit Meadow Rain Drive at full speed, heading out towards the city limits, Jacky knew a back way home, and were doing fine until that intersection with the gravel road. Jacky never saw the gravel spread across the pavement. Jacky only saw the gentle sweeping curve in the road, and tried to negotiate it. Without luck. He hit the graveled area and got sideways. At fifty miles an hour. And when the gravel ended, the pavement began, and the car flipped. Four times.
Jacky woke up in the infirmary of the Hawkins County Jail. A deputy was seated at a reception desk by the door. Jacky struggled up on his elbows and asked the question that was most important to him. Not am I gonna make it? or at least is my friend Pete even alive? but a question that everyone, and I mean everyone in the state of Tennessee other than Jacky knew the answer to.
Did we win?
And we had. Go Vols.
-------------------------------------------------------
A VW Beetle came screaming over the nearest hill like a banshee, rear wheels slewing left and right, but always keeping a bead on the flag stuck into the ground next to the hole. Almost as if the driver was only thinking as far as that flag, not knowing what he would then do next. Seamus reached for his clubs, but didn´t have time to get a good grip, so settled for the putter already in his hand, a gift from his daughter back when she still liked him, before he started pinching all of her friends´ butts, and threw himself to one side just in time. Through slatted eyes he could see two young boys, probably not even old enough to drive, grinning at him like two demons out of the deepest depths.
As he hit the ground and rolled, dirtying his new pants in the process, he had time to think of only two things, how his clubs were ruined and how to catch these two little heathens and see to it that they were punished. It suddenly became very important to him.
Pete and Jacky didn´t see Seamus very well, only caught a blur of green and white checkerboard pants before he disappeared somewhere near the right front bumper. They had been doing 180´s and 360´s on the golf course for the last five minutes now, and had decided to finish on the ninth, since that was the hole nearest to the main road. Then it would be time to turn back for home. They did, after all, want to catch the fourth quarter on TV, see history being made.
They ran right over the flag, bending it back till it snapped, throwing little pieces of sod all over Seamus, then spun around and headed for the little dirt exit. Seamus threw a rock in their direction, which landed about ten feet in front of him. He wasn´t young anymore. Oh, no. But he still had his connections.
As the boys reentered the main road it never occurred to them that they might have pissed someone off. It also never occurred to them that there might be four cop cars giving chase at that moment. They neither knew nor cared. They hit Meadow Rain Drive at full speed, heading out towards the city limits, Jacky knew a back way home, and were doing fine until that intersection with the gravel road. Jacky never saw the gravel spread across the pavement. Jacky only saw the gentle sweeping curve in the road, and tried to negotiate it. Without luck. He hit the graveled area and got sideways. At fifty miles an hour. And when the gravel ended, the pavement began, and the car flipped. Four times.
Jacky woke up in the infirmary of the Hawkins County Jail. A deputy was seated at a reception desk by the door. Jacky struggled up on his elbows and asked the question that was most important to him. Not am I gonna make it? or at least is my friend Pete even alive? but a question that everyone, and I mean everyone in the state of Tennessee other than Jacky knew the answer to.
Did we win?
And we had. Go Vols.
-------------------------------------------------------
This post was edited on 10/10/22 at 2:38 pm
Posted on 10/10/22 at 2:42 pm to LunaFreak
Holy wall of words ...
Posted on 10/10/22 at 2:59 pm to Hback
he stated that ahead of his post.
Nice job,Luna.
Nice job,Luna.
Posted on 10/10/22 at 3:20 pm to I-59 Tiger
Thank you, sir.
RIP Johnny. RIP Bear.
RIP Johnny. RIP Bear.
This post was edited on 10/10/22 at 3:44 pm
Posted on 10/10/22 at 3:25 pm to TouchdownTony
4th and 19
Posted on 10/10/22 at 3:26 pm to Che Boludo
quote:
The 93 tie game on the back of David Palmer was one of the greatest efforts I've ever seen in the series.
Everyone in the stadium knew he was running around the end. The only question was right or left?
Posted on 10/10/22 at 3:31 pm to LunaFreak
Posted on 10/10/22 at 3:34 pm to LunaFreak
quote:
I called that chapter "Killing Bear" because that was Bear Bryant's last game. He never coached again, and died a few months later.
What are you going on about? I've seen you post this twice today. Bear's last game was in the Liberty Bowl in Dec. 1982.
Posted on 10/10/22 at 3:38 pm to LunaFreak
Posted on 10/10/22 at 3:43 pm to LittleJerrySeinfield
Hmm, weird. You're right, he did die three months later, but coached through to the end of the season.
I edited it.
I edited it.
This post was edited on 10/10/22 at 3:45 pm
Posted on 10/10/22 at 4:05 pm to TouchdownTony
Major Applewhite, with a suspension-riddled offensive line, bending John Chavis over and repeatedly packing his fudge in 2007.
Posted on 10/10/22 at 4:11 pm to TouchdownTony
Johnny sending Bear to his grave with a last loss to UT.
Posted on 10/10/22 at 4:28 pm to TouchdownTony
quote:
1990, Stacey Harrison's blocked kick and Phillip Doyle's game winner.
This. No way we win that game, until we did. Tennessee lines up for winning FG and we block it so that ball rolls all the way back to inside their 35 and Doyle drills the game winner. Really the beginning of Stallings' success at Alabama.
Posted on 10/10/22 at 4:28 pm to David Ricky
quote:
2003 - VOLS win 51-43 in five overtimes in BDS. Bama was up 34-27 in the 2nd OT and had VOLS down to their final play facing 4th and 19 when Clausen hit CJ Fayton for a first down
Mike Shula coached teams could never close a game. I remember that game like yesterday. 4th and freaking 19!
Posted on 10/10/22 at 4:40 pm to TouchdownTony
That fumble through the endzone and then DJ Hall with the deep reception and game winning kick
Man Tennessee fricking sucks
Man Tennessee fricking sucks
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