i often knock Joe Buck for being a terrible sports announcer.

He is. Perhaps the worst of all time.

In listening to commentators for the major league playoffs, i have realized they all are pretty close to awful.

Tonight, as the Atlanta Braves were within a pitch of closing out a 9-2 win against the buy-any-thing-we want-so-our-“fans”-can-show-up-late-expecting-us-to-win-and-leave-in-the-seventh-or-eighth-inning-or-earlier-if-we-are-behind-Dodgers, either Jeff Francoeur or Ron Darling, the former players turned color commentators said, “If the Dodgers had scored two runs earlier, this would have been a different ball game.”

Duh.

And we are listening to this?

i was going to entitle this “Disgusted,” but that seemed unbecoming to me.

i’m sad.

From sometime in the late 40’s until 1969, i was a UT Vols football fan. i attended enough games to fall in love with the game they played in orange jerseys with white numerals, white pants, white helmets, ankle top black shoes and not a sign of anybody’s name. They ran the single wing and had magic names, most notably for me, Johnny “The Drum” Major, and the Canale brothers. I was such a fan when Vanderbilt beat the Vols, 7-0 in 1964 in Nashville, my fraternity would not let me and several other hardcore Vol fans back into our fraternity house.

In November 1969, i took an extra liberty day from my ship, the USS Hawkins (DD 873) in Norfolk to fly to Knoxville where other Vandy friends picked me up to attend the Commodore-Vol  game. One of my best friends was a Vandy defensive back. At the time, even though UT had given up the single wing, high top black shoes, and came up with a bunch of different uniform color combinations with players names on the back of the jerseys, i still had mixed emotions. i rooted for both but would root for Vandy in head to head matches.

There were about a dozen of my friends and i sitting in the east end zone of Neyland Stadium, named after a football hero of mine. Having little time, i was still in my Navy service dress blue officer uniform. Shortly after the game began, Vol fans behind us began to yell obscenities at us and then began throwing stuff at us. In the second half, these “fans” began to throw drinks at us, colas, beers, and whiskey including the paper cups or cans. And i was in my Navy uniform. It was soaked and reeked of beer and whiskey.

i quit being a Vol fan.

Then i came out west. i wanted all three of my Tennessee teams, Vandy, UT, and MTSU to do well in football — there are other stories about basketball and other Tennessee schools for later posts — Again, i rooted for both the Commodores and the Vols until they played each other.

i have many good friends who are big Vol fans who are gracious people.

But last night, when a correct spot of a tackle didn’t go the Vols way against Ole Miss, idiot fans threw golf balls — and anyone who brought a golf ball into the stadium with the intention of throwing it at somebody has become unbalanced — water bottles, and trash at Ole Miss players and coaches. The Vols lost. And their fans lost my respect for them and their team. Sure, other college nuts could do it. But those other out of control fanatics aren’t the team i once loved. The Majors and the Canales are probably crying now at such a terrible representation of their school and their state.

i know i am.

Sad.

i have three posts partially written. My book’s photo selection requires some work before inclusion in the layout.  Another manuscript edit is staring me in the face. So when i’m at this infernal machine, i’m working mostly on the book — Bob Lisi, i haven’t forgotten, the SYMLOG input you requested will be there in the next couple of days…sorry. But i thought the below should be put out now:

Golf yesterday at Admiral Baker North Course was delightful in spite of my terrible game. We teed off about 6:50, sunny and 50 degrees. The young man below was undaunted as we walked down the hill from the first tee, a bit skittish but undaunted, approaching within ten yards of us. The bunker on the second green initially looked like someone had not raked after hitting out, a major pet peeve of mine along with folks not repairing their ball marks and at least one other on the green (golfers need to understand they are stewards of the courses they play). On closer inspection, Rod Stark and i realized the bunker had been visited by several deer, not golfers. When we finished our round around 10:30 a.m., it was 85 degrees. We had gone from wind shirts and sweaters not being enough and shorts being inappropriate dress to a bit of a sweat. The deer and coyote had disappeared into the woods.

Last night, i relaxed and watched the school i am rooting for more and more: the San Diego Aztecs who have a terrific football program for a mid-major, a superb basketball program, solid men and women’s golf, and an excellent baseball team. My friend, Sarah’s dog, Billie Holiday, enjoyed the game together:

This morning, i turned the page on my “Non Sequitur” daily desk calendar and once again, decided Wiley Miller was somehow teleporting my life into his potential subject files for his comics. i am not sure of the copyright regulations on this, but i’m hoping many of you will check out his desk calendars and his comics on gocomics.com so someone won’t sue me. This one nailed me and our home improvement efforts. Thus far, i have defied death.

More stuff later.

Big Joe Haynes

Big Joe Haynes,
’bout 6-4, 300 pounds of Texan
with a big voice and roaring laugh,
came out of the farmhouse in Razor, Texas
greeting me with a hug that took my breath away
before he ushered me to the screened-in side porch
of that farmhouse in February chill
where i would cling to the Old English Sheepdog pup
under the homemade quilts and blankets
before awaking to hoar frost on the farmyard.

Big Joe Haynes
(who to my knowledge was never called “Big”
by anyone but me)
later asked me to ride over the bridge
in the vintage unknown, faded gray pickup,
across the Red River
to the honky tonks and liquor stores
of Oklahoma because
’bout 100 square miles of northeast Texas
was dry
while Oklahoma across the Red River
was wet,
including the honky tonk where
the older, somewhat worn waitress
flirted with Big Joe Haynes
while we sipped our Pearl beers
until they brought out the case,
which we took across the bridge
to drink into the dark of night
followed by the next morning
while i huddled with the sheepdog
once again under the quilts and blankets
on the cold, cold February porch,
he nudged his granddaughter, my fiancé, awake
to inform her that sailor boy of hers could drink.

Big Joe Haynes asked me if i would help
seine a pond on the south side of the farm;
on the next day, we headed out in the old pickup
while Big Joe Haynes took his right hand off the wheel
to reach back and retrieve the vodka bottle
from behind his side of the bench seat,
holding it between his legs to screw off the cap
before taking a swig and passing it to me
several times before we bounced
across the fields to the pond,
where we took the big seine and swiped
across the pond about a dozen times
in the Texas summer heat,
producing about a dozen medium size crappie
Big Joe Haynes had stocked there
before we took the lively lads to the weeds
to produce a clean pond for the cattle’s water,
leaving to bounce across the farm’s terrain
swigging from the vodka bottle,
laughing a lot on the ride back to the farmhouse.

Big Joe Haynes got too old to work the farm;
i was not there to help him out;
so he and Nannie Kat moved
to a comfortable small house in Paris, Texas,
just south a bit,
which did not fit well with Big Joe Haynes
who, with no farm to work, no ponds to seine,
began to take naps,
getting to be longer and more frequent enough
to put his day bed in the front room of the small house
where he just kept sleeping more
until he died.

i am about the same age as Big Joe Haynes
when he passed to the other side;
i take longer and more frequent naps now
to dream of riding over the Red River
in a beat up faded gray pickup
to drink a Pearl beer with Big Joe Haynes,
to seine a pond and swap swigs out of a vodka bottle
with Big Joe Haynes.