Marcus Fitzsimmons

“We really haven’t grown enough to be a championship team. We still have some time to get that going, but obviously we’re running out of time.” Tennessee coach Bruce Pearl Monday following the Vols’ 77-55 lost to Southern Cal and former UT coach Kevin O’Neill. It was the worst loss in Pearl’s five seasons at Tennessee.

Despite UT’s 99-78 win over North Carolina A&T Wednesday night, many of the Volunteer faithful are obviously restless about the team’s lack of enthusiasm headed into a New Year’s Eve date with Memphis.

So with all due apology to Clement Clark Moore …

 

’Twas the eve before Christmas, and throughout Big Orange land

The faithful were nervous, a big week was at hand.

Game tickets had been stuffed into stockings with care,

A victory in Memphis? Could Pearl get them there?

 

The Vols were nestled, all snug at their homes,

Ready for stuffing and another nap soon to come.

With Wayne in his kerchief, and Tyler in a sprawl,

The Volunteers looked lazy, not ready to ball.

 

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

They moseyed from their beds to see what was the matter.

Away to the window they moved like little snails

None prepared for the sight to assail

 

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow

Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.

When, what to their tired, drooping eyes should appear,

But Coach Pearl and a goal and a bag labelled ‘fear.’

 

With a rod for a driver, and a whistle to his mouth

He let out a cry that rattled the South.

Frustrated and frazzled, his patience undone

He sweated through his shirt, screaming ‘boys, get it won.’

 

“Now J.P.!, Now Bobby! Now Scotty and Tatum!

Get out here Brian and someone wake Chism!

To the ends of this court, to the top of the hill,

You want motivation, I’ll run you I will!”

 

“Till you dry heave and pant and collapse in your sweat

Inspired you will be, I’ll get the best from you yet.”

So up and down the bleachers the players they flew

Shedding pounds and excuses and a mild curse or two.

 

And then, in a moment they fell to the floor

Their energy gone, they could run on no more.

With a shake of his head and a look of near hurt,

Pearl broke loose in rage and tore off his shirt.

 

Painted in orange from his head to his toe

He asked them all quietly “where’s this season to go?”

“Rank means nothing but a target on your back

You boys coasted to Cali, you didn’t even pack!”

 

The guys looked around, heads down in shame,

It was all true, they’d played down, no spirit, no game.

With a small quiet sigh and a look in the eye

One player shifted, then bounced up quite spry.

 

He ran to his coach and put up his hands,

‘I’ll defend them like this, you jolly little man.”

A smile on his face and fire in his gut

Pearl smiled and said, “Go earn your strut.”

 

Then another big arm joined the first to its right,

And one, then another, the Vols found their fight.

A leader had emerged and with a twitch of his head,

Tennessee was a team, and one again to dread.

 

“Run us and teach us, you maker of men,

Mold us the to be a top-seed again!

Bring on the Tigers, the Wildcats and Gators

The Gamecocks and Jayhawks and all UT haters!”

 

Pride back in their step and game on their ball

They loaded up for Memphis and the cross-state haul

And the fans heard them exclaim as they drove out of sight,

“Merry Christmas to y’all, you can sleep well tonight!”

 

Marcus Fitzsimmons is a sportwriter for The Daily Times and just a bit too festive for the staff to tolerate any more this week. Please posts any witticisms or critisims to the online version of this column on www.thedailytimes.com

 

 

After the Maryville Christmas Tree Lighting

 

The ghost of Christmas future came to visit last night.

 

Probably it was just a dream brought on by a peppermint shake that didn’t settle very well as I fell asleep to a Christmas Carol rerun on television, but let me share.

The spirit appeared not as the shadow of death, but appeared more like veteran Daily Times editor Dean Stone and spoke with the voice of James Earl Jones.

“See what may be,” he told me and whisked me away.

 

We stood atop the stands looking down on a long field under the lights of a dome.

 

“Where are, spirit?” I inquired. “What is this place?”

 

The spirit said nothing as a voice boomed forward, “Welcome to George Quarles Memorial Sports Dome on the campus of Maryville High School. Tonight, the Red Rebels welcome our visitors from Don Sundquist High in Bolivar for this sixth-round, TSSAA semifinal playoff game. The winner advances to the state finals played on Christmas Day on the campus of Lincoln Memorial University.”

 

My brain swirled and blocked out the rest as I digested what I’d heard and took in a field that looked a good 40 yards longer than the football field I saw 15 Friday nights a year.

 

Only when a group of angels rose from midfield, could I refocus my amazement. Looking closer I realized it was a choir and that they were on a floating platform of some sort. Only when I looked towards the immense scoreboard screen that also hovered free above the field did I see the choir surrounded a priest.

 

The voice boomed again. I recognized it was speaking Spanish but I could not understand it until it repeated in English.

 

“Would you please rise for the greeting, Penitential Rite, Kyrie, Gloria and Opening Prayer to be presented by Bishop Norberto Rivera Carrera to be followed by the National Anthem.”

 

My confusion deepened as I watched the crowd rise and heard “The Lord be with You” spoken first in one language then the other.

 

“Spirit, what is this?” I asked. “What has happened?”

 

He handed me a cup of coffee and smiled in amusement at my reaction as the cup disappeared as I drank, apparently self bio-degrading at the rate that I sipped.

 

“This is what may be,” he finally said as we watched Maryville return the opening kickoff 73 yards to set up a first-and-20 at Sundquist’s 65-yard line.

And the scene faded away shimmering as another shimmered in to focus.

 

We were in a school cafeteria, judging by the tables and chairs and children, but something seemed wrong.

 

A student walked right through me to a table, apparently I wasn’t really here. As I gathered myself from this unnerving experience I took in the sign, “Alcoa High School: Talley Cafeteria” and still could not place my finger on what was odd. True there were no books and most seemed to be using a little flat screen box or a projection coming out of one, but that wasn’t it.

 

Then it hit me. No one was eating. 

 

I looked around for the little girl, who’d walked through me. She sat outside eating with a small group.

 

“It’s the ninth day of Dhul Hijja on the lunar Islamic Calendar,” said the spirit. “The Day of Arafat. This place serves no food on a day of general fasting, but they allow those, who believe otherwise the freedom to eat by themselves, just somewhere else from the faithful.”

 

I had no chance to ask any of the million questions flooding my mind before we were gone once more.

 

Sitting on a roof top looking down on something I knew, a Christmas tree in a Maryville park with a crowd gathered.

 

“What may be, didn’t begin here, but was made possible here,” the spirit said as the tree came on in a glow of lights. “Events great and small, over time they change the majority and alter the traditions. What was done by one, can then be done justly done by another citing their example against those who object.”

 

We sat there together. I pondering what had been said and trying to find explanations to what events could have taken place. I grew cold sitting there as I decided the how’s didn’t matter. The result mattered to me though. I certainly didn’t want my grandchildren, or however many greats it might be, to experience what I’d seen as either the Catholic or Muslim majority or as one of those children eating in a corner as an outcast.

 

“This is the other side of the coin isn’t it?” I asked the spirit. “This is what could happen if we don’t monitor ourselves and how we mingle our faith in God with our politics and government.”

 

“Nothing is as easy and innocent as it appears,” said the spirit, then paused and faded a bit.

 

“I find you’re lack of faith disturbing,” the spirit said in its darkest version of that voice.

 

“I hold my faith,” I replied, angry I had been challenged. “I believe. I’m not a perfect Christian, I can’t be. But I do try. I don’t know how to resolve this conflict between honoring what I believe and honoring the rights of my neighbors to believe as they wish.”

 

“As you wish,” the spirit said.

 

The anger rose in my throat and I sat in my bed. The television still flickered and Star Wars plowed through the original Episode IV, a Christmas Carol apparently over.

I sat there mulling over the night so far, and reaching no answers, no plan of action.

 

Just maybe, a little more aware of my world and my actions.

 

Marcus Fitzsimmons is a web and copy editor for The Daily Times who enjoys wisely considered and crafted responses as well as snide remarks posted to this blog.

 

 

NOTES: In the first visit I presumed both a continued influx of immigration from Spanish speaking, predominately Catholic nations to the United States and in the second that either war or environmental conditions had forced a mass migration from the Middle East.

The final scene was from the roof of The Daily Times building looking down on the City of Maryville Christmas tree lighting in 2008, when an official prayer was included in the tree lighting ceremony.

On the six-hour drive back from USA South football media day Monday I couldn’t help but wonder why.

Why did everyone drive all that way for a few hours of hand shaking?

The coaches and SIDs had the chance to see each other and iron out details for the new season over an hour or so but the ‘media’ part of the day was a step back.

The media present amounted to five for eight schools. As much as colleges are hurting, let’s face it newspapers have been hurting even during the ‘good times’ and travel budgets are smaller where they exist at all. Just having the staff to afford to send somebody away for a full day is a lot more challenging these days.

But for the ones who made the effort and had the circumstance, the usual rah rah speeches were fine but no one was hanging around for long. The unoffical question and answer time during lunch suffered as people ate and headed out.

Maybe it is time for the conference to consider something different. If the goal is to reach the media then a pdf file of the media guide and a conference call with coaches where a lot wider group could ask questions might be more benefitial.