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| Emmon Love and Coach Dooley |
LSU week started with such terrible news that the game seemed inconsequential. I got a call, early Monday morning, that Emmon Love had died suddenly of a heart attack in his office. He was 58.
He was not only a great on the field Vol, but also a great father, philanthropist and friend to my family. I feel like I knew Emmon rather well. I saw him every Friday while stocking the Skyboxes( his box is next door to my uncle’s) and his sons are both close personal friends of mine.
I remember the first time I met him. I was in the Skybox, circa 2000. His oldest son, Mark, was coming through rush at Tennessee. I was the Rush Chairman for Sigma Chi at the time, and after talking briefly to the young rushee, Mark, I sauntered over to Emmon and said, “Hello, Mr. Love. I’m Chris Howard, and l am rushing your son’s balls off!”
“Hi Chris... Emmon Love. It’s great to meet you. Can I get you a drink?”
“Yessir, thank you.” I said. He handed me a cold beer and we proceeded to shoot the shit about football, college, and the general goodness of all things Tennessee.
Emmon never asked me my name again. That was the kind of man he was. If you shook his hand, he knew your name. Always.
Emmon’s death was a shock that resonated through Knoxville like a terrible thunder clasp of sick reality. His funeral and the subsequent gatherings in his honor reminded everyone of mortality and the sheer randomness of death. We drank lots of Scotch, embraced his family, and did our best to try and understand the unfairness that God deals us all. The entire town of Knoxville, it felt, was under a dark cloud after his passing. It wasn’t just those of us that knew him that were affected. It was the entire Vol Nation. The outpouring of sympathy, and even more so, respect, was evident by not only the discussions of those of us that knew him, but by the comments in the Knoxville News Sentinel, VolQuest and even USA Today. Emmon Love was a great Vol and an even better human being. His legacy will be felt in this part of the country for generations to come and I feel very privileged to have known him.
There is no need to discuss the other things that went down during that awful week. Let’s just say that it was a very dark time for all Vols. The football team will pull it together, but the program lost a great friend. Godspeed, Emmon. You are loved more than you know.
The Friday before LSU was a ridiculous example of extreme drunkenness as always. Normally, the OCI lunch is reserved for home games. Not the case this week. I got three calls about our Swamp lunch, and I couldn’t deny my public. I went to OCI and met friends, all of whom are not on the usual roster of decadence. I met D-BO, Harry and Watt in the back booth and we all ordered very large vodka drinks. Harry and Watt left after lunch, while D-Bo and I bunkered in. I had to be talked out of getting violent with our waitress, Hard Jess. She owes me money for a bag of “seasoning,” but seems to feel that her financial woes are an excuse for not paying me. Apparently, because of our friendly patron/help relationship, she thinks that this is acceptable. It is not.
Which brings me to another point of contention...
I love the Old College Inn. My friends also love the Old College Inn. We have all been eating and drinking there for longer than anyone on staff has even known of the place. It is a Knoxville institution, and it is rapidly going to the fucking birds. The fucking birds of laziness, distain and overall apathy.
The decline started a few years ago when it was purchased by what I can only imagine is a band of buffoonish gypsies. The new regime wasted little time in overtaking the neighboring space(a tanning salon,) and adding large televisions, more seating and more tables. By doing so, the new owners doubled the size of our beloved campus haven. However, the expansion was not met with more staff or kitchen space. Essentially, they doubled the seating, while leaving the capabilities of service the same. Little did they know that by expansion, they killed the brilliant aura of what was once one of the most renowned college bars of the SEC. In no time, the service and general ambiance was destroyed. With expansion in mind, the bar expanded even further to take over the last bastion of Big Orange “hole-intha-wall” bar by swallowing the Tap Room. The service and general quality of all things has declined at such a rapid pace that long time patrons, such as myself, have decided to draft a letter to the owners. This letter will address the fact that, though we know the staff, love the bar, and will continue to patronize the establishment, the state of things in the Godfather booth are unacceptable. Not to mention the fact that our usual waitress, Hard Jess, still owes me money for pot. I am not a drug dealer by any means, but when you owe me money and don’t pay.....well, you may have to fall. WWOD?( what would Omar do?)
After the OCI lunch, D-Bo eyed me from across the copper table.
“Fat, what’s the plan? I kinda want to go re-fuel on my couch for a bit.”
“That is unacceptable, D. We both have large glasses of vodka and sweet tea. If we rest, we die.” I told him.
“ Then what do we do, Fat?” his hesitancy was palpable.
“Shit, dude. It’s beautiful out. Let’s go to Aubrey’s and suck back some pints on the patio.” I told him with peer-pressure-esque suggestivity.
Thirty minutes later, we were on the porch at Aubrey’s. After several vodkas, beers and jeers about the stinky girl that we both fucked, we decide to go to Roosters for Happy Hour.
I don’t remember the next two hours. Fast forward to Nama, where, after meeting/dancing with the child of friends, I was driven home by Will at 11.30.
I came crashing into my house, fed the dogs(dumped the bag of dog food on the floor) and proceeded to pass out on the couch. All before midnight. On a Friday.
I slept soundly. Briefly.
Wake up motherfucker!!!!!!! What are you talking about? Where am I? You’re on your couch you fucking idiot. Where the fuck did you come from? Fuck you man, wake up. But I don’t want to. I’m on the moon, I mean my couch. Here, eat these. What? WhatishtisImeanwhatarethese??? Open up bitch. Just put em on your tongue. OkI’m gottapissanddrinksomewaterandpee. Cool, man. Let’s go. You’re coming with me. Let’s ride. Wherearewegoing? We’re going downtown. Wasthatacid?ittastedlikeacidwasthatacid? Yes.
I soon found myself in the front seat of a tinted window Cavalier, barreling through Sequoyah Hills, Camel Light betwixt my lips, Natural Light between my shivering, khaki clad knees. We pulled into an apartment complex that I was unaware of even existing. One quarter mile from the most wealthy family homes in Knoxville, I sat down on a couch and looked towards the TV. It took me a bit to realize that the TV was nothing more than a flat computer monitor, and I also realized that my hosts were all very pale, with deep, purple eyes, and rings on their pointer fingers and around their hollow eyes. The only girl had a color of red hair that has never appeared in nature and her eyes belayed an agony that could only be brought on by self disgust and horrible addictions. I needed to pee, but after realizing that the only bathroom probably held syringes, spoons, and rubber tubing, I decided to step outside for a smoke. The acid was in full effect by this point, but the idea of people actually doing heroin, here in my hometown, was too much for me to handle. I went to the car and waited on my friend to come out. It wasn’t a long wait, as he too was rattled by the opiated scene inside. We smoked the last of a joint and for headed the Preservation Pub.
My fear soon turned to aggressive wanting as we made our way downtown. I did cartwheels through the parking garage on Market Square, and charged into the Pub with the fervor of a badger doing battle with a room full of rabid coons.
I went to the bar, where I was handed a cold High Life without ordering. I love knowing my bartenders. Especially when they are beautiful blondes, with which I have eaten disgusting Tri-City fast food burgers with and openly mocked JC-er’s at a wedding. The band was a folksy group that made my intense tripping brain feel at home. As I mentally spun about the narrow bar, I ran into a beautiful girl with whom I’d shared a great week, 18 months prior. She and I danced about in front of the stage and her Polish accent once again made my trousers lift. After the band concluded with a Merle Haggard song, I invited her back to the house.
The drunken crew from the bar was at my house when I returned. We listened to a lot of loud music and eventually burned all of the beer boxes that had accumulated at my house. After several drinks and bong hits, I was pulled into a kiss from my Pollack beauty. “I am going to get in your bed and go to sleep.” she told me.
“Perfect. I’m right behind you.” I said with decadence on my mind.
“We are not going to have sex, by the way.” she said with a coy, formerly communist grin. As it turned out she was right. Her beautiful back tattoo was not splattered with my drunken orgasm on this particular night much to my chagrin.
I slept late on Saturday and watched the first half of the game on my back porch. At halftime, I was overcome by violent nausea and crawled into my bed to listen to the second half on the radio. I got up to watch the final plays, and after the game’s sickening conclusion, I returned to bed where I stayed until Monday morning.
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