Outside My Office Window

OUTSIDE MY OFFICE WINDOW By: Robbie Pryor

Pryor, Priest & Harber

A DAY TO REMEMBER

October 15, 2022. Everyone has a story. Here is mine.

I stood alone in Section U looking down on Shields-Watkins Field as the goal posts fell. It was difficult to find any grass as the entire length of the field was covered in human beings in various stages of delirium. The crowd’s collective voice, cigar smoke and celebratory music filled the air as people at every stage of life sang Dixieland Delight. This, I thought, must be what heaven feels like.

To say the Alabama game is special to Tennessee fans is a bit of an understatement. It has heightened significance to the Pryor family. In 1982, I was in Neyland at age 13 when we ended the streak. It was Bear Bryant’s last visit to Knoxville. On the third weekend of October in 1995, I learned I passed the bar exam and that my wife was pregnant with our first child (yes - same weekend). On that occasion, Peyton beat the Tide in Birmingham “on play number one.” What a weekend. That first child, Shelby, rode on my shoulders to many games and has grown into a vigilant fan. And, then, I watched us beat Bama with Cheryl, Andy (18 months) and Shelby (4 years) just one day before Cheryl’s sudden death in 2000. With all that it is, Alabama weekend is also a weekend of remembrance. My children have come of age during a time of poor results against our rival, the Vols maintaining a 3-19 record since 2000, and yet they have become the most dedicated and optimistic fans I know.

Five hours before the goal posts were thrown into the Tennessee River this past October, I’d taken my seat in the great coliseum, our cathedral, next to my wife (Nancy), son (Andy), and his girlfriend (Lizzie). Shelby, who was married in July, was biting her fingernails in Walla Walla, Washington, where she lives with her husband. The empty seat to my left was soon filled by a young man wearing a burnt orange designer shirt, crisp jeans and flawlessly white running shoes. A Tennessee fan would call his shirt “the wrong orange.” He was alone and sporting a clean, tight haircut and perfectly shaved face. Young money. For those who know me, what followed was predictable. I began my examination of the witness at approximately 2:52 p.m. It was a thorough examination, perhaps a bit more probing than usual due to the fact I’d entered the stadium directly from a substantial tailgate gathering with about 100 of my closest friends. Though this man (Let’s call him Neal, because that is his name) was caught a bit off guard by the questions, he slowly acquiesced and revealed the following information:

Neal was raised in Los Angeles, educated at an Ivy League school, and currently residing in Miami. He works in the “Finance World.” Neal loves sports, college football in particular. He revealed that, once a year, he travels to a marquee game somewhere in this great country. He’s been to Tuscaloosa, South Bend, Ann Arbor, etc. He flies in on game day (private) flies out the next morning. Neal, who is in his early 30’s, has been to games all over the country, but this was his first time in Knoxville and inside the confines of our unrivaled stadium. He had no idea what was coming. Before the Pride of the Southland stepped out onto the playing surface, we were well into each other’s story. Neal has a girlfriend. Probably going to marry her and have kids. He appears to have made a good deal of money before starting his family. Is that allowed? I further educated him on the finest traditions of our remarkable university; the Pride of the Southland, The “T,” the Vol Walk, and our hatred for Alabama. He asked me questions in kind, and I explained my history with the big game and introduced him to Nancy, Andy and Lizzie. Andy is now 23. Before kickoff, everyone on row 23 was invested in the Vols, but more importantly, we were invested in each other.

I will not offer many words on the game itself. You should know what happened and how it happened. If you don’t, I have no need for you. With every Hooker to Hyatt touchdown I was tackled from each side. Hyatt’s 4th touchdown of the day resulted in my son being flagged for targeting after leading with his head into my ribs. My hands burned from high-fives and my voice began to take leave halfway thru the third quarter. It was the most physical fan experience I’ve had in 54 years of life, and Neal was a big part of it. I suspect Neal has never put on a football helmet. He is more likely to understand the “Queen to Rook 5” than “Ineligible man downfield” but boy can the guy hit you. Neal started buying us beer and somewhere in the third quarter began promising his unborn children that they would come to Neyland together for every Alabama game. My memories are filled with jumps, punches and arms around shoulders. I’m not pointing fingers, but at the time of this writing (two months after the game), I’m scheduled for an MRI for a suspected rotator cuff tear. I’m not kidding. When all hope seemed lost in the fourth quarter, down a touchdown after a Bama fumble- recovery touchdown, I announced to the entire section that we would score in the last two possessions and win the game. I didn’t just believe. I knew. How? Was it the collective energy of our row, Section U, or Neyland Stadium? Was it the angel on our shoulder? Was it Neal and the promises to his future children? Or was it the vision of my newly married baby girl, in Walla Walla, Washington, praying to the television? Surely, I thought, she felt the connective bolt of lighting linking her to those of us on row 23. Perhaps it was a bit of it all. When Chase McGrath (our place kicker) trotted onto the field for the final play of the game, I already knew. So did Neal. People around us began praying. Some were crying. I felt like I was at a Baptist revival. Neal pulled his phone from his pocket. “I need your number, Robbie…” I smiled and looked at him as he finished his sentence. “…because when this goes in, I’m storming the field.” I put my arm around his shoulders and said, “you are one of us now.” When the referees jointly raised their hands signaling the end of the game, seats 19-23 became one pile of humanity. My son and I embraced, our history and love of the Vols culminating in one moment. Neal wrapped his arms around us both. Lizzie backed up a smidge to capture it all on film. Then Neal embraced Andy as they continued to jump up and down like a 5-year-old AYSO team after scoring their first goal. “I have to go to the field, Dad.” Andy said. “Absolutely you do. Go!” I replied. I watched as he, Neal and Lizzie stepped over bleachers, cushioned seats and stadium trash in a rush to join the unforgettable party.

This is football in the SEC. It is life. It is death. It is family and friends - old and new. It is the lifeblood of our community and culture. And it is beautiful.

Neal and I have stayed in touch. We’ve texted throughout the season and even made plans to potentially meet up for the bowl game. Go Vols! Happy New Year!