As a little kid, I was warned about several things. I was warned about drinking and driving. I was warned about substance abuse as well, and now, as a college student, I've been warned several times about texting and driving.
I'll admit, I've almost been in wrecks. I've almost been blindsided by an oncoming car. I've almost run red lights into traffic that would crush into smithereens the Jeep that now sits in a student parking garage, seemingly invincible as it towers over smaller vehicles. I've tried to put the phone down, and I have. I've helped myself overcome this problem, step by step, text by text (or lack thereof).
The same can't be said with my problem with college football.
I understand very well that the group of people on which I so greatly place my faith every Saturday is in fact no more than a bigger, faster, taller, stronger collection of the peers with which I regularly interact. Some of them I have classes with. Some of them I've eaten lunch with. And yet, when the second field goal sails ever so slightly to the right and blue and orange-filled bedlam ensues, I curse to high heaven and practically run myself into the brick wall of the house where I've watched Tennessee drop an 11th straight game to the Florida Gators, blowing the second fourth quarter lead in as many weeks in the process.
I care too much, and most SEC football fans can say the same. You know those "Sad Fans Are Sad" pictures you see on Saturday Down South? Those are real. They're very real, and even if the picture might be funny, they make me hurt for my fellow fans because I too have been there. I am there.
The emotional connections we have with our teams are completely separate from the rational ones, as shown by the fact that I was strangely angry at a player who I know to be a very hard worker and one who I know will be much more angry at himself than I ever could be.
His reasoning is logical. Mine is not.
Yet, when Monday arrives, we all must pick ourselves up and dust ourselves off and go to class, work, or practice, telling ourselves along the way to trust the process and not rely purely on emotional standards, but instead to look back at the progress that's been built and compare this to where we (newly) began. This is Tennessee football. We will be back. At some point, we have to be back. Butch's chart telling him to kick the extra point on Saturday may have lied, but the charts showing the resurgence of this program sure aren't.
Yes, it still shows up as an L in the column that matters most. But think about it. The players in whom we put such great faith to finally, finally end a losing streak or bat down a last-minute heave are more tired, sore, and mentally and physically battered than we could imagine. So cut them some slack, build up morale once more via message boards or whichever Internet-based avenue you choose, realize that the coaches are in fact trying to produce a winning product that will last through the decades as it once did, and know that the time will come when your team and mine can finish a football game.
I know people are calling for coaches' heads. I know people are questioning calls. I know that doubt exists.
But in order for the wins to start happening, that doubt can't exist on Saturday against Arkansas. It can't exist against Georgia. It can't even exist against South Carolina.
If it creeps quietly into Neyland Stadium and plants itself in the minds of all 102,455 like a rare football-based virus, this season is in jeopardy, and the best coach Tennessee has seen in a significant period of years will be sitting on a seat over hot coals that will be stoked by the disbelief of the Volunteer faithful.
