I‘m a hopeless optimist. Ask anyone who knows me well. I stay to the bitter end, hoping against hope things will get better: my jobs, relationships, food. You name it.

Don’t fault me for wearing orange. I have no more say in the matter than I do over my skin or eye color. It’s game day Saturday? Bet your best watch Amy’s wearing orange. It’s almost indeliberate and automatic. If we’re not in attendance, we’re watching from wherever we are (including the Walking Horse Celebration and a bar in Florida) and looking for the checkerboard with every play. 

Sure, I’ve lost hope several times this season. It’s depressing. I’ve said for a long time-it’s hard work to be a true fan. Anybody can root for a winning team. But to support a program when they’re down and out takes a special kind of loyalty. Some may call it stupidity. But Rocky Top does something to me. And orange is never wrong. Additionally, you can always cheer on whoever is playing Alabama or Florida. Lots of ways to keep occupied as a Vol fan. 

If nothing else, I can be proud of our band. Pride of the Southland never makes a false step. They’re the majority of the pageantry: the Power T that the team runs through, the people that keep the crowd alive, the ones who lead the chants.

I sing the National Anthem with my hand over my heart till the last two lines when I’m crying too hard to sing another word. I’ve always been this way. It just stirs something in me. Roothog or die. 

When you enter our stadium, there are lots of officials welcoming you to Rocky Top. My stomach still churns from the excitement and I’m swept along, up the concrete ramps, surrounded by similar orange-donned spectators smelling of Jack Daniels and barbeque. (I’ll never understand how people can drink all day then go sit in the sun with 100,000 other sardine packed fans). You’ll feel the thunder. Expectations are high, the energy is palpable. All the seats at Neyland are good. If you’re long legged you may be a bit uncomfortable, but you’re liable to forget about it once all the action gets underway. Your hind end won’t get numb because you’ll constantly be on your feet screaming for one reason or another. Usually the drunks are under control due to all the ushers mingling. And the language is toned down. I hear way worse in my living room.

…out of my own mouth.

We don’t call them the Heart Attack Kids for nothin’. 

I did drive out of the road a couple of years ago when I was listening to the radio: “7 to zero, Tennessee, & the Vols are driving.” I get goosebumps. When it’s followed by, “They’re playing fast, already lined up. Dobbs fires, ball is caught at the ten, turns, at the five. Checkerboard.” Those are some of my favorite words. I screech and take momentary leave of my senses. 

My family is weird, no doubt about it. We are also die hard Tennessee Volunteer fans. Quite literally, as demonstrated here.

My grandmother, gone nine years, was ready for the age old rivalry with Alabama, thanks to my momma. Who also ain’t right. She has done this every year for quite some time. Even Grandmother’s tombstone boasts a football with “Go Vols!” etched on it. She’s eternally resting about nine miles as a crow flies from the stadium. 

So there are my feelings about the Vols in a nutshell. I’ll always root for them, I don’t have a choice. You live here, you cheer for Tennessee no matter how bad they get. It’s in your blood. You can say they suck when they do, but you still care, you still hope, and you still put on your orange and holler your guts out.