Dear Barb,

The first question your husband answered at Tennessee was whether it bruised his ego to ascend from backup candidate to Last Man Standing in the Vols' 2012 coaching search. His response was, “Absolutely not. I think I was my wife’s third choice and it’s worked out for 20 years.”

From that moment on, you've been a public part of the Tennessee football program. On a weekly basis, your husband promotes on Twitter, "Barb's Chip Dip Player of the Week!"

You didn't shy away. Just last week, you invited ESPN to follow you and write-up, with quotes, you and your minor children's critique of performances by Tennessee football players against Georgia. Your underage child who has not yet been made a part of Tennessee's coaching staff is quoted as "deadpanning" when an SEC recruit wearing the orange and white dropped a pass with the rhetorical snarl of a Knoxville Catholic student: "And you wonder why you're not playing more."

It could be asserted, from your perspective, that Andrew's schooling is off-limits. A "private" matter to be kept out of the papers. But that would overlook that, the very night before, your husband patrolled the sidelines of his HS football game like Retired Ray Lewis, doing everything possible to embellish his presence under heavy local media coverage for Catholic's game against Rhea County.

There is a scene, in the opening of Goodfellas, where Karen has been led through the belly of a club by its back stairwell and kitchen, into a specially-set white tablecloth round table. She asks Henry what he does for a living and he says construction. Rubbing his hands, she looks in his eyes and tells Henry Hill the Irish Gangster: "They don't feel like you're in construction."

I might ask if, when proposing marriage in 1991 at Mountain Jack's in Grand Rapids, your husband's hands had the feel of a career in higher education. But that seems rhetorical to someone who's watched him host a press conference.

Because, while Lyle Jones' speaking skills don't fit the bill of an educator, his possum mitts much less fit the bill of a football instructor.

SEC football isn't math.

It isn't science.

It isn't art.

It isn't a business.

It is a green canvas on which people prove if they've got it.

When your oldest son tried out for football at Tennessee, he did not have it. Two seasons later, your family acknowledged that and the State of Tennessee was forced to employ him because your husband decided to name him a member of its University football staff.

Rather than reserve, for family privacy reasons, the basis for Alex’s transition from "Walk-on holder" to "Student assistant with the team", your family released through the media intimate details of your son's "cardiac condition".

An excerpt from Knoxville coverage of this very public transition reads as follows:

“After the seventh grade, Alex Jones was told to give up football by a doctor after being diagnosed with an abnormal heart condition described as a bicuspid aortic valve. Along with football, the condition ended his basketball playing days as well.

“Thereafter, Alex spend more time with his father watching video and learning about coaching. That was until he took his father’s suggestion and tried kicking for his senior season at Catholic High. After six months of intense preparation, Alex made 55 of 57 extra points for the Irish in 2014 and 2 of 4 field goal attempts.”

Your son, Mam, doesn't have it. I was sure to add "Mam" because this week's ESPN article emphasized that your youngest son is a "throwback in a lot ways", littering conversations with sir and Mr/Mrs.

We have something in common, as first-generation southerners of Michigan parents. My parents moved South by choice. For weather and economy. Not work and publicity.

It must have been hard to rub your son's medical charts and know that, in his heart, he didn't have what it took to play football.

It must be even harder to rub your press pass and know that neither does your husband.

Safe travels, Mrs. Jones, and be sure to keep a lid on your Chip Dip at the next stop. It has passed its expiration here and we're tired of reading about it.