The Third Saturday in October is one of those rare conventions of Southern gridiron culture that simply cannot be replicated in modern times. People from other locales not steeped in the potency of this rivalry simply don’t understand it. They don’t get the seething hate based solely on a century of happenings between 18 to 22-year-old men on a lime-lined grassy knoll of 100-by-50-yard dimension. It is foreign for those who have not lived it: for those souls who didn’t grow up in either state (or elsewhere, at the knees of members of the Southern diaspora) it is difficult to understand the unadulterated disdain the two teams and their supporters hold for one another.
Hope for the Best: Tennessee edition
