Big Time College Football, the Culture of Thugs and My Plan for Fixing the Whole Stinking Mess

Anyone who’s ever read Here in Franklin knows that I am an unabashed fan of  the University of Tennessee athletics. Volleyball, basketball, tiddly-winks–if the Vols are playing, I’m rooting for them.  But of all the sports played in Knoxville, there’s one that is king of the hill and that’s football. Millions and millions of dollars are made at EVERY HOME GAME. Millions more everytime they’re on tv. Millions more in concessions, donations and loose change found under the seat cushions in the luxury boxes.

Not a dime of that money goes to the players. Sure, they’re on scholarship and they’re getting a free education. But who are we kidding here. UT is a great school. It is also a football factory.  And every year there are players on the team who could care less about class and school. They’re there for one reason only–as a stepping stone to the NFL.

Making the NFL is a long shot for sure. But if you’re a starter on a football factory team in the Southeastern Conference, you have a better than average shot of making it in the pros. Of course, there are pro prospects who excel at school. The poster child for that is Peyton Manning. But there’s a difference between Manning and most of the other players aiming to go pro–Manning is from a rich family. He could afford to stay in school. He didn’t need to buy his mama a house.

Wednesday night three UT players were arrested for armed robbery. The weapon in question was a pellet gun and no one was hurt. But these three freshmen have screwed up monumentally. Their future is in doubt, but I hope they are kicked off the team and out of school. That sounds harsh, but it’s not their first time in trouble. And I’m guessing that anyone who was out cruising around at 2 a.m. probably wasn’t going to make it to their first class anyhow.

So, here’s my plan. (NCAA, if you’re reading, just e-mail and we can discuss this further.)

Each school has the right to designate 10 players as being “Pro Track.” This means that these ten players are declaring that they have no interest in sitting in art history classes. They have one goal–the NFL. The criteria for choosing these players is not unlike the NFL combine…they take a series of physical and mental tests to determine if they’re eligible for the Pro Track. If they are selected, they don’t attend regular classes. However, they are prepared for living the life of a millionaire professional player–how to handle money, how to choose an agent, how to make sure that you have the right people around you.

At most schools–certainly most public schools–the idea of the “student athlete” is somewhat laughable. The Peyton Mannings of the world come along once in a generation. More common is the underprivileged kid who is blessed with one thing only–incredible athletic ability. We all know why they’re in school–it’s time we admitted it.

I don’t know if a system like this would’ve kept those three young men at home Wednesday instead of out looking for trouble. But it’s definitely time for a change.

Wherein I Am the Turnip

I don’t know who first coined the expression “you can’t get blood out of a turnip,” but I suspect that that person had veins just like mine.

Veins the size of the filament in a lightbulb.

Veins the size of a single strand of hair.

Veins that make a cat’s whisker look like thick and robust in comparison.

In short, veins with as much blood in them as, well, your average turnip.

Last week I had my annual visit to the oncologist. If you read last year’s account, you know that my yearly bloodletting is not pleasant. However, to make sure that my little white blood cells and my little red blood cells are still playing nicely with one another, my blood must be drawn.

I walked into the room of needles and took my seat. The phlebotomist laughed when she saw me.

This is a woman who does nothing but draw blood out of current or post-cancer patients all day long. It’s gotta be at least 65 a week. At least 3,000 a year. And after looking at all that blood and searching for all those veins, mine are the ones she remembers.

“Oh, we had to poke you in the knuckles last year.”

“Yes,” I tell her. “I’m just now getting over that trauma.”

She wraps the giant rubber tourniquet around my arm and starts tap tap tapping on my inner elbow. Tap tap tap. She doesn’t look for long. She turns my arm over and starts look along the oh-so-tender, oh-so-white underside of my arm. She moves down to my hand.

Another phlebotomist comes in and starts checking out my other arm. A third woman joins us and now I have three technicians searching for veins.

Tap, tap, tap.

The doctor comes in, no doubt wondering why a good part of his staff is gathered around one patient.

They finally think they’ve found a winner.

You know, the pain that comes from having blood drawn isn’t in the actual insertion of the needle…it’s the poking around once the needle is under the skin. Finally she gets a little blood to flow. She orders me to relax and coaxes the red goodness from my body. Then she sighs and withdraws the needle. She had, what appeared to me, to be plenty of blood in the little tube, but she just tossed it in the toxic waste container.

And then, when I wasn’t looking, she grabbed my finger and jabbed a giant staple in it and started squeezing.

Yes, they actually had to SQUEEZE the blood out of my finger and scrape each precious drop into a tube.

Squeeze. Scrape. Squeeze. Scrape.

I heard that leeches are making a comeback. I might need some this time next year.

There’s a Huge, Giant, Dragon-like Lizard at the Foot of My Garage Stairs.

Right now…it’s down there. I just saw it.

I had to go down and close the cat door and lock her in for the night.

I saw it as I was going down the stairs. I yelled at it to move. It didn’t.

I stomped on the stairs to scare it. I didn’t.

It just laid there. Mocking me. Daring me to come down the stairs to close the cat door. (I wonder if that’s how it got in?)

I went down the stairs and sort of leapt over it…sideways.

I closed the cat door and leapt over it … sideways…to get back up the stairs.

Here’s the bad part–the cat is down there with it. You see, we have two cat doors. One that goes from the garage to the outside and one that goes from the garage into the house. So there’s nothing to stop the cat from catching the giant lizard and bringing it into the house.

Yes, I could close the door into the house, but it seems a little cruel to banish the cat to the cold garage for the night.

OK…cat just came in…alone.

I’m going to see if the lizard is still there.

I’m back. I looked. I didn’t see it.

I hope it didn’t crawl in my car.

Kitty Churchill Is My Stripper Name

No, I’m not moonlighting down at Th’ Catch (a real strip joint in Knoxville) or the Boobie Bungalow ( a real strip joint between here and the Alabama line). But I do have a stripper name.

So do you.

You’re supposed to take the name of your pet and the name of the street you live on. I fudge the rules a little and allow any combination of pet and street name.

I think Kitty Churchill would be kind of a high-end stipper, maybe more of a Las Vegas showgirl with a huge headdress of ostrich feathers. It would also be a good name for a Bond girl.

I went through several combinations before I landed on this one. At my age, there are a lot of pet names and a lot of streets to choose from.

For instance….

Spice Breckinridge is a possibility, but I think that sounds more porn star than stripper.

Or, I could be Smoky White, it has a nice juxtaposition of light and dark.  Smoky White is probably only stripping to pay her way through Harvard–that’s why she knows words like juxtaposition.

Zoe Lake Park is Asian and makes a mean moo shu.

These were all names that I considered.

There is one name though, that, while legitimate, didn’t make the cut. It would only be my stripper name if I worked in a German stalag:

Brunella Hen Peck Lane.

Not too many Deutsche Marks tucked in that g-string.

 

Pass the Soup

Last week, when I wasn’t paying attention, this crawled up my nose.

 It’s a rhinovirus molecule and evidently it has found a new home because it–and all its little friends–have put down roots and seem to be dug in for the duration.

And why not? I’m sure that as far as noses go, mine is a fine dwelling. Sure, there’s not a lot of space, but that just means there’s less to clean, right? There’s plenty to eat and drink. Plus, it’s a nice neighborhood and, aside from the occasional sneeze, no violence or crime to speak of.

In fact, I’d have to say that this little molecule is 100 percent safe in its new home because none of the THREE PERSCRIPTIONS the doctor at the walk-in clinic wrote for me last Sunday have budged it one inch.

He said I had bronchitis and strep and prescribed an antibiotic, an antihistamine and a capsule for my cough. It’s Friday now and I’m still coughing, still have a head full of mucus soup and still feel like death on a cracker.  Husband, who is leaving on a two week trip out of the country next week, won’t even be in the same room with me.

Neither will the cat.

Guide to Trashy Books

So yesterday I was over at Rassle’s place reading about her upcoming Cancun beach vacation. Lay on the beach, sip umbrella drinks, read trashy novels. Only Rass says she doesn’t read trashy novels, so I thought I’d help her out with my Personal Guide to Trashy Novels.

1. Vintage Trash–this includes anything by Jacqueline Susann or Judith Krantz–Valley of the Dolls or Princess Daisy are classic examples of Vintage Trash.

2. Historical Trash–The Wolf and the Dove is the gold standard here. Basically any book where a nobleman’s daughter is captured by the rival clan and held against her will until she subcombs to the captor’s wishes is Historical Trash. There’s really only one plot, they just move the characters around from country to country.

3. High Trash–this is trash with a bit of literary cred. Dominick Dunne perfected High Trash with The Two Mrs. Grenvilles and An Inconvenient Woman. You don’t have to feel completely guilty when reading High Trash.

4. Working Girl Trash–The Devil Wears Prada and The Nanny Diaries exemplify Working Girl Trash. Young middle class girls go to work for rich monsters in New York City. Girls win. Monsters lose.

5. Pink Rubbish (British trash)–Bridget Jones’ Diary is the uber Pink Rubbish and spawned an entire legion of pink-jacketed books about good women, evil men and righteous gay best friends.

6. Prehistoric Trash–anything by Jean Auel…Clan of the Cave Bear in particular.

Don’t get the impression that I’m bashing these books…not in the least. I’ve read them all…some of them several times. Seen most of the movies too. (But not Clan of the Cave Bear.) These books are entertaining, and, bottom line, isn’t that why we read in the first place? To be entertained.

The Flu Shot

One benefit of working where I do is that we get free flu shots every year. They set up little flu shot stations all around campus and you can just walk in, show your employee ID and walk away theoretically protected from whatever seasonal virus is out there.

At some point, they’ll have H1N1 vaccine available too, but they’re a little iffy on exactly when.

I walked across the street with two other colleagues this morning for my shot. I had even remembered to wear a top with easily rolled up sleeves. We three were the only ones there…no waiting.

Some of you may remember my fondness for needles. Actually, I’ve been poked and prodded so many times they don’t really bother me any more. That was not the case when I was younger.

Once when I was really young (so young that I don’t remember this, and it might not even be true but I think it is so I’m telling it anyhow*) my mother took me to the doctor. There was a shot involved. I took one look at the needle, started screaming and ran from the examination room back out into the waiting room. Somebody caught me and picked me up. That’s when it was discovered that I didn’t have any underwear on–I must’ve tried to dress myself and just forgot that particular item under my dress.

I also remember that the only downside to the beginning of summer meant shots–tetanus shots had to be taken before swimming, camp or any fun summer activities. I would literally dread them for days. I can still remember the horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach at the thought of getting a shot.

But now, getting a flu shot is just no big deal. And that brings us back to today.

I rolled up my sleeve and looked away while the nurse started the injection.

“Oh my,” I heard her say.

“What?” I say.

“Oh, nothing…the plunger just sort of broke off.”

“Is the needle in my arm? Like, is it STUCK in my arm?”

“Mmmmmm…no, not really” she says. “Let me just reach right over here…” as she fumbles around on the table with the one hand that’s NOT holding the needle that’s stuck in my arm.

I look over at one friend whose eyes are the size of saucers. I look at the other one who has gone a little pale and decided that she’d get her shot sitting down.

“Can you get the needle out?”

“Mmmmmm…ahhh….now the medicine is going in…” she says. She removes the previously stuck needle and gives me a Halloween bandaid.

As we’re walking back to the office, I ask my friend what had happened. He told me that the plunger part of the syringe just broke and dropped right to the floor. And that the needle was indeed stuck in my arm.

So the moral of the story is this: the nurse lied. But, in all honesty, the shot didn’t hurt a bit.

*I tried to call Mother for confirmation, but she didn’t answer. Let’s just assume it’s true.

The Help–If You Haven’t Read This Book, You Should.

A few months back, while digging in the ground for yet another new Franklin developement, workers unearthed some old bones. Activity ceased and experts were called in who determined that the bones belonged to a soldier who died during the Battle of Franklin, November 30, 1864. They couldn’t tell which side he fought on–Confederate or Union–and there was no clue about his identity. Close to 2,000 soldiers were killed on that day, and many more times that were wounded. It was one of the bloodiest days in American history, and, when you think about it, it’s not surprising that this body was found.

Yesterday there was a big ceremony in town. There was a funeral for the soldier at one of the old churches that was built long before the battle. It was packed with re-enactors and others dressed in period costume. There there was a procession to a cemetery, with a horse-drawn caisson bearing the hand-built casket. Thousands watched–they came here from 4 countries and 29 states.

I had told someone the day before that I didn’t think it would be a very big deal. Man, was I ever wrong. NBC News was even there taping the event to show during tonight’s (Oct. 11) Titans/Colts football game.

All this is to say that sometimes I wonder if it’s easier to be from Idaho or Nebraska or anywhere else  other than a once-small Southern town whose history is forever entwined with violence and slavery? Our beautiful dry stack stone fences are known as slave walls. Our beautiful old homes were built with slave labor. The native African-Americans are descendants of slaves, including some that were owned by my family.

I’m not here to apologise for what happened 200 years ago. I have to worry about how I treat people today.

Hmmmm…wasn’t this post supposed to be about a book?

 

The Help is set in Jackson, Miss., in the early 1960s and it is about the relationships between black maids and the white women who employee them. There are three main characters (two older maids and a young, white Junior Leaguer). The girl is a budding author and wants to write about the lives of the maids. She has a hard time convincing them to participate–they are understandably afraid for their jobs. But when the young girl’s best friend launches a campaign aimed to put a “colored only” bathroom in every home that employs a maid, the women decide to talk.

I’ve done a poor job of describing this wonderful book. But what comes through loud and clear is the fear and sense of defeat that these women bear. They live in complete segregation–they can’t even shop in certain grocery stores unless they’re wearing their maid’s uniforms–a sign that they’re there on white business. Even though the book is set a century after slavery is outlawed, you wonder just how much has changed.

Which brings me back to Franklin.

I’m all about tradition and I’m glad that I’m able to live in this place that’s nurtured my family’s roots for generations. I just wish we didn’t rush celebrate a day when thousands died and thousands more were wounded and maimed–all in an effort to enslave our fellow humans.

Today tourists come here to see where the battle was fought and to tour the homes that have been turned into museums. The money they leave has filled our coffers nicely.

So it’s complicated. We celebrate the Confederate soldiers who fought and died here. But we conveniently forget what they were fighting for.

Franklin Goes Down Under

A few days ago Chris, otherwise known as A Free Man, asked me to write a guest post at his blog. I’m sure many of you are already regular readers, but if you’re not, a brief introduction.

Chris lives with his wife and 2 sons in Austrailia. He’s a college professor and an unabashed fan of the University of Georgia. (See where this is going?)

In anticipation of the Vols clash with the Dawgs in a couple of days, Chris asked me to write a post–not so much about football, but about my love for my school.

Hop on down to Adelaide and have a look.

Dōmo arigatō, Mr. Roboto

Despite my distrust of cultures that have no cheese, I am going to Japan in November. We will stay in Tokyo and make day trips by bullet train (and others) to Kyoto and Hakone.

More on all this later…but, if any of you out there have tips or recommendations, send them my way. Husband has been to Japan several times, but this will be my first trip and it will be the first truly “foreign” place I’ve been to in years.

I might come back looking like this:

or this:

Or, if I have too much sushi, like this:

Sayonara.