A TENNESSEE TALE
“Interception,” the announcer screamed from the radio. I dipped my head into my hands and grimaced. Again. The first-year quarterback had just thrown his fifth interception of the game. My mom offered a slice of hot pound cake, a dollop of butter shimmering on top, but I waved it away. Which I never did. She glanced at me in concern as she placed it in front of me anyway. I rose, took a nervous lap around the kitchen and then collapsed back into the chair, a deep sigh the only sound.
After being one of the dominant teams in the SEC in the late fifties and early sixties, Ole Miss had experienced a drop-off in talent and an unsettling malaise had spread over the program. Just as I had reached my teens.
Had the game passed by the legendary Johnny Vaught? Did he relate to athletes of the late sixties? Was he just getting old? Why had the team become a middle of the conference team? All of these questions lingered in barber shops, mechanic’s garages or over beers after work at the local bars.
And then came 1968. Even before the season began, speculation swirled about the play of a sophomore quarterback in summer camp. Anecdotal reports seeped out about the prowess of this red-headed boy from the small delta town of Drew Mississippi named Archie Manning.
The season began with three straight wins including a slug-out victory over a good Alabama team. My dad took me to that game where I watched Bear Bryant, hounds-tooth hat laid low over an inscrutable, implacable, crevice-lined face as he leaned against a goalpost, a cigarette held laconically between two fingers, watching the Crimson Tide go through pre-game drills. Ole Miss won 10-8 behind the stellar play of the sophomore quarterback, though the score was closer than the game. Ole Miss had been up 10-0 with less than two minutes left before Alabama blocked a punt for a touchdown then successfully went for two and unsuccessfully attempted an onside kick. Hate them all you want but Alabama never quits.
And then, behind the electric play of the clearly maturing, Archie Manning, LSU was upended in a come-from-behind major upset in Baton Rouge. I had stood for three hours, pacing to and fro around the kitchen, tuned in to the upset unfolding on the radio, piercing the air alternately with screams of agony and despair and then of joy as Ole Miss escaped with a thrilling 27-24 victory over the heavily favored Tigers.
“Interception,” the announcer screamed again. My mom looked up from cleaning the kitchen, a look of alarm in her eyes. I muted myself, rose, took the slice of cake and went outside to play football in the front yard with some friends, my anger taken out on them.
Tennessee intercepted Archie Manning six times that day and then once more on his back-up and went on to win 31-0. The All-American linebacker, Steve Kiner joked afterward that “Manning threw an easy pass to catch.” Ole Miss went on to finish 7-3-1 with a victory over Virginia Tech in the Liberty Bowl, a somewhat successful season, but that loss in Knoxville left a bad taste which only worsened with time. When Kiner was asked by a writer prior to the 1969 season whether Ole Miss had the horses to compete he replied that “they played more like mules up here last year.”
In the summer of 1968, I went to an All-Sports camp on the campus of Tennessee for three weeks where, somewhat serendipitously, Kiner was my head counselor. I was 14 and it was the first time I had seen any extended time away from home.
Everyone called me “Ole Miss” because of the ‘Ole Miss’ shirts I wore every day. Kiner was cocky and tough, not in any way nice, and had an especial disregard for me, sneering the words “Ole Miss” when addressing me. He also made me and some other campers run Neyland Stadium until we dropped for a minor indiscretion that he deemed a violation of camp rules. It was a harsh punishment for what I considered a gray area but I did it. It was 1968 and adults, especially All-Americans, were to be obeyed.
The last day of camp I boarded the elevator to go down to the lobby where I knew my parents were waiting. Before the doors closed Kiner slipped in and we descended in silence. Just before we reached the ground and timing it as, again, I knew my parents were seconds away, I turned to Kiner and in a deliberate, steady voice said, “We’re going to kick your ass in Jackson this year.”
All-Americans were not used to being talked to like that by 14 year-old snot-nosed kids in 1968. He took an instinctive step toward me, his lip curled up in anger and then the doors opened and my parents surged forward and embraced me. He stared at me for a long moment, his body soft-twitching as I turned from my parents and said, “I’ll see you in Jackson after the game.”
“You do that, Ole Miss,” he uttered in a half snarl.
The 1969 season was full of expectations and hope for an Ole Miss fanbase starved for success. Favored to win the Southeastern Conference, the season began in a disappointing fashion. I listened in dismay as Ole Miss lost 10-9 to a not very good Kentucky squad and then watched Ole Miss lose to Alabama in a 33-32 shootout; the first college game shown nationally at night. Archie Manning was introduced to the world that night gaining more than 500 yards passing and rushing but it was still a defeat and a team some thought might contend nationally now stood at 1-2.
Ole Miss then won four of the next five games including a defeat of number 6 Georgia and delivering the only loss of the season to LSU but their record still stood at a disappointing 5-3 and they looked to be headed to a minor bowl.
Into Jackson Ms. on November 15th, strode mighty Tennessee, undefeated and ranked number 3 in the nation, lead by their tandem All-American linebackers, Steve Kiner and Jack (Hacksaw) Reynolds. Tennessee fans wore “Archie Who?” buttons, a taunting response to the red and blue “Archie” buttons affixed to the clothing of Rebel fans. The Ole Miss cheerleaders led a mule around the perimeter of the stadium to the whiskey-borne cheers of a packed crowd that could not have included one more soul.
My entire family went to the game, never even casting a second glance at the line of persons holding signs offering unheard of, at that time, sums of money for tickets; prices that would have gotten you a first row seat at a Beatles concert. We never sat the entire game as never seemingly did the Ole Miss offense. By half time Ole Miss led 24-0. By the end it was 38-0, an extra touchdown added on as good measure, interest payment on a year of disrespect. Though it was Tennessee’s only loss, and Ole Miss stood 7-3-1 at the end of the year, the victory over Tennessee propelled Ole Miss into the Sugar Bowl where they dispatched the number 2 team in the nation, Arkansas.
Tennessee, hopes of a national title dashed, ended up in the Gator Bowl. Rarely have the Gods of Irony and Football coalesced so precisely and delivered such a deserved, devastating blow. Hacksaw Reynolds carved up a jeep with a hacksaw after returning to Knoxville, earning the moniker that would follow him the rest of his life. Someone pinned a song to the tune of Johnny Cash’s Folsom Prison Blues and called it “The Ballad of Archie Who. It enshrined Archie Manning as a folk hero in a Mississippi that needed one and instantly vilified “Hee-Haw Kiner" while mocking Tennessee fans for their arrogance. The game became known as “The Jackson Massacre.
After the game, I waited beside the Tennessee team bus for Kiner. Finally he approached, limping sightly, looking battered and beaten. “You remember me?” I asked.
He exhaled slightly and nodded. “Yeah.”
“Well,” I hesitated as I looked him him over, “good game.” And I meant it.
“Thanks,” he uttered , the words barely escaping his mouth. I stood watching him for a moment and then dipped my head and looked away as he struggled to put a foot onto the first step of the bus.
I turned and made my way through the waves of screaming, jubilant, celebrating hoards, searching for my Dad, the warm joy I felt, suddenly dissipating and I began to feel a little sad inside. The nemesis, the villain I had pointed so much visceral dislike toward, had become, in someway, diminished. I thought, maybe for the first time that it really was, in the end, just a game.
My dad put a hand on my shoulder. “Did you get to talk to him?”
“Yes Sir.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him he played a good game.”
My dad didn’t say anything but simply smiled, gripped my shoulder tighter and gave me a nod of approval.
I never saw Kiner again. But each time I hear his name or when we play Tennessee, I think of the All-Sports camp and of running Neyland, my body in agony and about that elevator opening and the look on his face then and then again as he stood by the bus that day after the Jackson Massacre.
“Interception,” the announcer screamed from the radio. I dipped my head into my hands and grimaced. Again. The first-year quarterback had just thrown his fifth interception of the game. My mom offered a slice of hot pound cake, a dollop of butter shimmering on top, but I waved it away. Which I never did. She glanced at me in concern as she placed it in front of me anyway. I rose, took a nervous lap around the kitchen and then collapsed back into the chair, a deep sigh the only sound.
After being one of the dominant teams in the SEC in the late fifties and early sixties, Ole Miss had experienced a drop-off in talent and an unsettling malaise had spread over the program. Just as I had reached my teens.
Had the game passed by the legendary Johnny Vaught? Did he relate to athletes of the late sixties? Was he just getting old? Why had the team become a middle of the conference team? All of these questions lingered in barber shops, mechanic’s garages or over beers after work at the local bars.
And then came 1968. Even before the season began, speculation swirled about the play of a sophomore quarterback in summer camp. Anecdotal reports seeped out about the prowess of this red-headed boy from the small delta town of Drew Mississippi named Archie Manning.
The season began with three straight wins including a slug-out victory over a good Alabama team. My dad took me to that game where I watched Bear Bryant, hounds-tooth hat laid low over an inscrutable, implacable, crevice-lined face as he leaned against a goalpost, a cigarette held laconically between two fingers, watching the Crimson Tide go through pre-game drills. Ole Miss won 10-8 behind the stellar play of the sophomore quarterback, though the score was closer than the game. Ole Miss had been up 10-0 with less than two minutes left before Alabama blocked a punt for a touchdown then successfully went for two and unsuccessfully attempted an onside kick. Hate them all you want but Alabama never quits.
And then, behind the electric play of the clearly maturing, Archie Manning, LSU was upended in a come-from-behind major upset in Baton Rouge. I had stood for three hours, pacing to and fro around the kitchen, tuned in to the upset unfolding on the radio, piercing the air alternately with screams of agony and despair and then of joy as Ole Miss escaped with a thrilling 27-24 victory over the heavily favored Tigers.
“Interception,” the announcer screamed again. My mom looked up from cleaning the kitchen, a look of alarm in her eyes. I muted myself, rose, took the slice of cake and went outside to play football in the front yard with some friends, my anger taken out on them.
Tennessee intercepted Archie Manning six times that day and then once more on his back-up and went on to win 31-0. The All-American linebacker, Steve Kiner joked afterward that “Manning threw an easy pass to catch.” Ole Miss went on to finish 7-3-1 with a victory over Virginia Tech in the Liberty Bowl, a somewhat successful season, but that loss in Knoxville left a bad taste which only worsened with time. When Kiner was asked by a writer prior to the 1969 season whether Ole Miss had the horses to compete he replied that “they played more like mules up here last year.”
In the summer of 1968, I went to an All-Sports camp on the campus of Tennessee for three weeks where, somewhat serendipitously, Kiner was my head counselor. I was 14 and it was the first time I had seen any extended time away from home.
Everyone called me “Ole Miss” because of the ‘Ole Miss’ shirts I wore every day. Kiner was cocky and tough, not in any way nice, and had an especial disregard for me, sneering the words “Ole Miss” when addressing me. He also made me and some other campers run Neyland Stadium until we dropped for a minor indiscretion that he deemed a violation of camp rules. It was a harsh punishment for what I considered a gray area but I did it. It was 1968 and adults, especially All-Americans, were to be obeyed.
The last day of camp I boarded the elevator to go down to the lobby where I knew my parents were waiting. Before the doors closed Kiner slipped in and we descended in silence. Just before we reached the ground and timing it as, again, I knew my parents were seconds away, I turned to Kiner and in a deliberate, steady voice said, “We’re going to kick your ass in Jackson this year.”
All-Americans were not used to being talked to like that by 14 year-old snot-nosed kids in 1968. He took an instinctive step toward me, his lip curled up in anger and then the doors opened and my parents surged forward and embraced me. He stared at me for a long moment, his body soft-twitching as I turned from my parents and said, “I’ll see you in Jackson after the game.”
“You do that, Ole Miss,” he uttered in a half snarl.
The 1969 season was full of expectations and hope for an Ole Miss fanbase starved for success. Favored to win the Southeastern Conference, the season began in a disappointing fashion. I listened in dismay as Ole Miss lost 10-9 to a not very good Kentucky squad and then watched Ole Miss lose to Alabama in a 33-32 shootout; the first college game shown nationally at night. Archie Manning was introduced to the world that night gaining more than 500 yards passing and rushing but it was still a defeat and a team some thought might contend nationally now stood at 1-2.
Ole Miss then won four of the next five games including a defeat of number 6 Georgia and delivering the only loss of the season to LSU but their record still stood at a disappointing 5-3 and they looked to be headed to a minor bowl.
Into Jackson Ms. on November 15th, strode mighty Tennessee, undefeated and ranked number 3 in the nation, lead by their tandem All-American linebackers, Steve Kiner and Jack (Hacksaw) Reynolds. Tennessee fans wore “Archie Who?” buttons, a taunting response to the red and blue “Archie” buttons affixed to the clothing of Rebel fans. The Ole Miss cheerleaders led a mule around the perimeter of the stadium to the whiskey-borne cheers of a packed crowd that could not have included one more soul.
My entire family went to the game, never even casting a second glance at the line of persons holding signs offering unheard of, at that time, sums of money for tickets; prices that would have gotten you a first row seat at a Beatles concert. We never sat the entire game as never seemingly did the Ole Miss offense. By half time Ole Miss led 24-0. By the end it was 38-0, an extra touchdown added on as good measure, interest payment on a year of disrespect. Though it was Tennessee’s only loss, and Ole Miss stood 7-3-1 at the end of the year, the victory over Tennessee propelled Ole Miss into the Sugar Bowl where they dispatched the number 2 team in the nation, Arkansas.
Tennessee, hopes of a national title dashed, ended up in the Gator Bowl. Rarely have the Gods of Irony and Football coalesced so precisely and delivered such a deserved, devastating blow. Hacksaw Reynolds carved up a jeep with a hacksaw after returning to Knoxville, earning the moniker that would follow him the rest of his life. Someone pinned a song to the tune of Johnny Cash’s Folsom Prison Blues and called it “The Ballad of Archie Who. It enshrined Archie Manning as a folk hero in a Mississippi that needed one and instantly vilified “Hee-Haw Kiner" while mocking Tennessee fans for their arrogance. The game became known as “The Jackson Massacre.
After the game, I waited beside the Tennessee team bus for Kiner. Finally he approached, limping sightly, looking battered and beaten. “You remember me?” I asked.
He exhaled slightly and nodded. “Yeah.”
“Well,” I hesitated as I looked him him over, “good game.” And I meant it.
“Thanks,” he uttered , the words barely escaping his mouth. I stood watching him for a moment and then dipped my head and looked away as he struggled to put a foot onto the first step of the bus.
I turned and made my way through the waves of screaming, jubilant, celebrating hoards, searching for my Dad, the warm joy I felt, suddenly dissipating and I began to feel a little sad inside. The nemesis, the villain I had pointed so much visceral dislike toward, had become, in someway, diminished. I thought, maybe for the first time that it really was, in the end, just a game.
My dad put a hand on my shoulder. “Did you get to talk to him?”
“Yes Sir.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him he played a good game.”
My dad didn’t say anything but simply smiled, gripped my shoulder tighter and gave me a nod of approval.
I never saw Kiner again. But each time I hear his name or when we play Tennessee, I think of the All-Sports camp and of running Neyland, my body in agony and about that elevator opening and the look on his face then and then again as he stood by the bus that day after the Jackson Massacre.
