Miracle

In 1998, I was 7 years old and upset. I got the last pick of Tennessee football games from my Dee Daw's season tickets. With my brothers and cousin picking before me and only 6 games to choose from, I needed a miracle.

Jon David took Florida. The biggest game of the year in the 90s, an obvious choice. Nat took Kentucky. They had a promising quarterback named Tim Couch, and Nat wanted to see him. My cousin Drew had become a reprobate Bama fan, so he picked the Bama game. I got stuck with a clunker: Arkansas. I'm sure I cried (but don't tell my older brothers. That would be embarrassing).

On game day, November 14th, 1998, Tennessee had just become an undefeated #1 in the nation, and out of nowhere, Coach Houston Nutt had led the Razorbacks to an undefeated #8. What luck! This game could be great! Nothing better than a top-ten matchup on a beautiful day at Neyland Stadium.

But in November in East Tennessee, winter likes to show up with cold, gray skies and rain. And on game day, a great deluge had opened on Knoxville.

Don't get me wrong, I was excited about the game, but I clutched my cheap orange poncho tightly as my grandmother put another sweatshirt on me. "Don't want you catchin' a cold, now." Dee Daw parked in the same place for every Vols football game: a small lot behind the Attorney General’s office between Henley and Locust.

The spot was over a half-mile walk from the stadium, but you need to know something about my Dee Daw: sitting in traffic after football games is a sin to him. You'd more likely hear a cuss word on his Baptist lips before he'd willingly sit in it. From here, he could pop onto Henley Street and the on-ramp for I-40 and be out of Knoxville before the call-in show started.

It was a 3:30 PM kickoff, but the stadium lights were already on due to the rain, the cloud cover, and the ever-approaching winter shortening the days. We could see the bright whites of the stadium beckoning from the warmth of Dee Daw's F-350.

Nana offered us one more peanut butter and banana sandwich as we hopped out of the truck and joined the never-ending flow of orange and yellow ponchos heading up the Hill past Ayers Hall to the stadium. Nana began her patient toil, knitting hats for the newborns at the hospital where she volunteered — she was happy to stay in the warmth and listen to John Ward call the game on the radio, 107.7 WIVK.

Dee Daw's seats were the best in the entire stadium. They were halfway up section Y8 in the North Endzone — perfectly centered behind the T formed by the Pride of the Southland Marching Band as Tennessee took the field. They ran out just for you as the band played Rocky Top, and the people sang.

But once the game started, Rocky Top and the singing stopped. Arkansas whipped us. I was 7 and don't remember much other than we were getting beat 21-3, the stadium was quiet, and Dee Daw crossed his arms and had a glare on his face under his bucket hat and poncho hood.

We eventually mounted a comeback, cutting the score to 24-22. Still, it fell short when Tee Martin missed Peerless Price on a 4th and 9 with under two minutes to play. UT had no timeouts. Ball game.

"Let's go," Dee Daw said as my heart sank. I didn't want to leave. 7-year-olds have this stubborn optimism for their sports teams. They just can't believe they will lose. Especially not this Tennessee team. They did the impossible: they beat Steve Spurrier.

I was tugging on Dee Daw's poncho, clinging to the cheap plastic, begging him to stay.

"Nope. Traffic."

We got down to the concourse entrance just behind the handicapped section. "One more play," I was still tugging. "Please, one more play." I was crying again (don't tell my brothers).

And then I saw a miracle: Dee Daw stopped and leaned on the rain-beaded railing to watch one more play. The Arkansas quarterback, Clint Stoerner, handed the ball to the back, who lost two yards.

My heart dropped through my guts and down into my rain-soaked shoes. I turned to leave. And then, another miracle — Dee Daw didn't move.

You're not supposed to stand there if you're not handicapped. But the usher in the green shirt was too busy watching the game, so he left us alone. And we watched, hoping something crazy would happen.

Clint Stoerner took the next snap and turned to fake a handoff. But he clipped the right guard's foot in the process and instinctively reached out to steady himself with the hand the ball was in — then he fell over, leaving the ball just sitting there. The Tennessee nose guard, Billy Ratliff, smacked on top of it like an eagle on a lame mouse. Poor Clint Stoerner stumbled and fumbled. And Billy Ratliff recovered.

The whole place exploded, erupted, and revolted in revival.

Tennessee running back Travis Henry gashed the Razorbacks before finally leaping into the end zone. 100,000 soaking-wet Vol fans screamed, cheered, sang, and some surely wept. Tennessee won 28-24. And we watched the whole thing from the handicap stand below section Y8. I'm pretty sure I cried (you can tell my brothers that one: the Vols do that to all of us sometimes).

The walk back to Clinch Avenue was sopping wet with soaked shoes, but we didn't care. John Ward had filled Nana in on every detail; she was happy. And then I saw one more miracle: Dee Daw sitting in traffic with a smile on his face.