I was Expecting to Grow Antennas When I Turned 30...

I turned 30 today. 30 years old. I thought there would be more to it. It sounds like such an ominous number. 30. If I was an athlete, analysts would have conversations about if I’d lost a step or if my body would hold up much longer. It’s the number that hangs over youth, waiting to pounce with the yolk of adulthood.

My life looks very different than I envisioned the day I turned 20. Back then, you might have heard me say words like “stoked” or a sentence like, “Lawn Boy is Phish’s sell out album”. You might’ve heard me say something about my strong opinions concerning the war in Iraq, or my plans to move out west, or that I didn’t go to Wal-Mart because they were “corporate”. Really, you would’ve just heard me say whatever I thought might make me look cool.

I was this way because the only thing I’ve ever aspired for was to be liked. For other people to believe I was strong. Capable. Significant. That my words carried weight. That I was important. 

I worked very hard at this. So much so that I created versions of myself to fit any possible setting to gain the affirmation I wanted. In college, I bought books simply because they would impress girls who saw them on my bookshelf. I once had a conversation with a girl about our favorite Ernest Hemingway novels, having not read a single word of an Ernest Hemingway novel. I once bought a Sigur Ros album, and lit candles while I listened to it in my apartment. I even majored in English.

This need to create an image has hung with me throughout my twenties. After college, I was ashamed to tell people I worked in my dad’s business because I didn’t want them to think I wasn’t capable of having my own career. I wanted so badly to have grand achievements that left people awestruck, and we could talk about how much the (insert cool career field) world was changing.

So much wasted time.

Now jump ahead to today...

Today, on my thirtieth birthday, my wife threw me a party. So many people that I love were there. I spent the rest of the day with five of my closest friends, who don’t give a damn about my acheivments or the books I’ve read. At this moment, I’m sitting at my dining room table. My daughters are asleep in their rooms. My dog is curled up in her spot. My wife is asleep in our bed. My entire world is under my roof, and they don’t give a damn about my achievements either.

While I was trying so hard to make people believe I was something I wasn’t, God gave me a life full of people who love me deeply and profoundly for the man I am. No image necessary.

Cuonzo Martin, Perspective, and Why I Stopped Caring Who Our Coach Is

I have two ways of feeling about Cuonzo Martin.

Feeling 1: Cuonzo Martin is boring. His style is boring. The games are boring. The players are boring. I miss Bruce Pearl. I miss his sweaty orange jacket. I miss his veiled trash talk. I miss how badly I wanted to be his friend. I wish Dave Hart would make UT the rebellious school that told Mark Emmert to f*** off and hire back our coach that got screwed over because the NCAA wanted to make an example of him.

Feeling 2: We are delusional and acting entitled if we want Cuonzo gone. If not Martin, then who? Who are we, Tennessee, going to lure away to our mediocre basketball program? Some other mid-major guy looking for a pay raise? Are we really going to roll the dice on someone else, hoping for Bruce Pearl again? This really shouldn’t matter so much.

Fans are impossible to please. We come to sports as an unapologetic consumer, devouring everything our athletes and coaches throw out at us. The more wins, the more we gorge ourselves. When those wins don’t come, then the we’re up in arms because our plate is not quite as full as it once was.

Such is the state of Tennessee basketball. Bruce Pearl gave me something. I want it back. FireCuonzoMartin.com.

I go back and forth on this like a teenage girl picking out clothes for a first date. Feeling number two, however, made a strong push Tuesday night against Florida. I sat in the 300 section with my 20-month-old daughter, Ayda, in my lap. This was her second game at Thompson-Boling, but her first men’s game with the arena at a near sell out. Normally, she’s firecracker who rarely stops moving, but the game action and crowd noise had her wide-eyed in stimulation overload. She barely made a sound, or even moved. She got restless only when someone in front of her stood up and she couldn’t see.

In that moment, I stopped caring who our coach was, and started caring that she would be entertained enough to make it at least through the first half. I started caring about laying the foundation that we’ll enjoy sports together as she grows older. That going to games will, at the very least, be something that we share together. Everything else about the game was extra.

A family of Florida fans were sitting behind us (I say it like they’re a species being observed in National Geographic), and their two boys, not older than seven or eight, kept telling their dad who their favorite players were. I’m pretty sure this changed as the game went on because they probably named off six different numbers. (They didn’t know their names.) They yelled basketball terms they didn’t understand, like, “Pressure! Pressure!” and asked questions about nearly every aspect of the game.

That kind of interaction is all I want from UT basketball. I want her to be that excited to tell me who her favorite player is as those little boys were about Scottie Wilbekin. Excuse me, I mean number five. If you want an argument for or against Cuonzo, RockyTopTalk.com has a great post comparing him to previous, non Pearl coaches at Tennessee. But for me, it just doesn't seem that important anymore.

Don't Blame Peyton. The Broncos Loss was a Team Effort.

It took me a long time before I finally gave up hope. Even after Percy Harvin’s kick return, I still believed Peyton could do it. That he could bring them back. When he threw the touchdown to Demaryius Thomas, I thought, “Now here comes the comeback.” 

But it never happened. It was like waiting for a date to show. Every near miss from a receiver. Every missed tackle. Someone was supposed to show up. Something was supposed to happen and it never did. The game was there’s for the taking and Denver never even lifted a finger. Not because they weren’t capable, but because they played not to lose. When two teams make it to the super bowl, one is never significantly better than the other. Denver had the best offense in history. These were professional athletes. They were all prepared. All capable.Yet Denver might as well have been a star struck college team while Seattle played like they knew who they were. This is why the game was so frustrating to watch. Seattle did whatever they wanted. 

The Broncos O-line allowed Seattle to push them back the entire game. Peyton was constantly under pressure. They played on their heels. The defense never looked aggressive. Denver’s corners were never physical and kept giving soft coverage that gave Seattle all the room they wanted across the field. Even when they were down four touchdowns, Denver still played conservative. Played safe. Didn’t blitz. Didn’t play press coverage. Just played on their heels while Wilson threw wherever he wanted. He hadn’t played that well all season. The Broncos defense gave Seattle’s receivers so much space they were asking them to please not score. While Jack Del Rio and the Denver D clearly spent the entire two weeks planning to stop Marshawn Lynch, Seattle created plays that allowed Russell Wilson to be the confident quarterback he has become. His throws on the run will gain the attention, but his precision throwing across the middle will most incredible. While labeled the “other quarterback”, Wilson affirmed that the Super Bowl is not won or lost squarely on the shoulders of the man under center. It‘s won as a team. Seattle kicked Denver’s ass as a complete team.

As a Manning fan and therefore a Denver fan, watching that game was maddening. Not because they lost. Losing happens. But losing shouldn’t happen the way it did last night.  

When Manning was asked if it was embarrassing, he replied, “It’s not embarrassing... Embarrassing is an insulting word.” The truth is, though, it was embarrassing. Not for Manning, but for the men around him. The ridiculous legacy talk will swirl around him but his teammates should feel embarrassed for letting their leader down. Peyton had a record setting performance last night to cap off a record setting season. But football is a team game. It’s the ultimate team game. No other sport even comes close. One player is only as good as the others around him.