Recently, something happened that I found quite funny in my usual mundane life.  My mom used to say, sarcastically to me, “Well, if they can put a man on the moon, they can do this.”  “This,’ could have been anything in the world, she just loved saying that all the time.  It drove me crazy but she knew what she was doing. In a span of three days, I heard that phrase seven times from seven different people. 

Now, probably it has happened before but not when I was thinking about my mom saying that all the time and within the next few days, I hear it seven times.  Then, I got to thinking, what if we never landed on the moon, what would people say then about impossible tasks?  What would my sweet mom had done?

I pondered this way longer than I should have and really came up with a few things.  “We can put Bagel Bites in an Air Fryer in two minutes, they are done!”  “We can ask Google for a diagnosis on my headache and get an answer in five seconds, but we can’t do this?” It goes on and on and on.  Play a fun game with your mind and think about things that would take that place.  It will drive you crazy but I think that is the purpose.

Now this is supposed to make us laugh and you get a small glimpse into my mind, which can be scary.  This will probably last for a few weeks and then my brain will seize on something else that will drive me crazy.   Such as why red lights hate me.  They do. 

For those of us who grew up in middle Tennessee, the idea that a NFL team would come to Nashville was simply preposterous.  No way could Nashville ever get that big or important that the NFL would put a team in Music City.   We may have a moniker of a bunch of hillbillies but a doubting Thomas would have been more apropos. 

Fast forward all those years and on September 13th, the Tennessee Titans will begin their 30th season in Nashville.  28 years as the Titans and two as the Tennessee Oilers.  1997, a team from Houston moved to Nashville and played in Memphis for the home games.  But, they were based here and the preseason games were also here so we count that. 

Thirty years or a generation to some that Nashville has had an NFL team.  Now we are about to knock down the first NFL stadium and will open a new one in 2027.  The Super Bowl, the dang Super Bowl, will be played here in February of 2030. 

Nashville has become a global city and not only because of country music.  So many corporations have moved their headquarters here and there is no doubt that it was because Nashville had an NFL team and became that sports destination. 

I often think about my grandpa when things such as this pop up.  He passed away in 1987 and was a native and a huge football fan and a bigger fan of Nashville.  His city with a NFL team, an NHL team, and a MLS team would have made him so happy in every way possible.  Now his beloved city will begin their 30th year as a home to an NFL team with a massive new stadium literally across from the river where he worked.  

One generation and counting.  

“I would rather go to a high school football game, than an NFL game.”
“What?  Are you crazy?  That is so dumb!  So dumb!?”

Then I explain why and their reaction always is, “I see your point now.”

High school football to me is more than 100 yards and 22 players on the field.  It is the band.  It is the parents.  It is the grandparents.  It is tradition.  It is the bus ride with your teammates over to the school where you are playing.  A hot bus where you have half of your equipment on, sweating, but you couldn’t care less. It is about you and your buddies, getting ready to head into battle, on a field that is more like a mall parking lot.

But you don’t care.

Further for me, it is beyond special.  See when my mother passed away three years ago, my brother showed me a foot locker my mother had, that I didn’t know existed, full of all kinds of things.  As I went through her memories, I found a folder, titled ‘Joe.’  I opened it up and inside, was every single article about me playing high school football.

Every. Single. Article. Nothing about me in college.  Nothing about me working in TV.  All high school football.  Articles that I had not seen or remembered in 25 plus years. My mother never mentioned it to me.  But there it was.

Before every home game at McGavock and on the road, I would spot her first.  She took immense pride in me playing high school football. She loved the direction it gave me.  She loved the feeling of family it gave me with coaches and friends.

She loved me playing football.

So every fall Friday night, around the country and middle Tennessee, there will be a kid, who will run out onto that football field and the first thing he will do, is spot his mom. Then he will buckle up, get his mind right, and go play football.

These kids.  These coaches. The parents.  The band.  The band parents.  All have been pointing to Friday nights since the calendar turned to 2026.  And when I hear the drums in the band, for me, it is Christmas in August.

Countless pics of all the kids going back to college and for the incoming freshmen, mom and dad moving them into their dorm rooms.

Or should I say their “4-star Ritz-Carlton” dorm room.

Have you seen these pictures?  I might be slow in my assessment of the rooms because if there is a higher level of 4-star, these kids have it.

Huge and expansive beds.  Dressers that have 18 drawers in them.  Wi-fi that is faster than a Japanese bullet train.  Carpet.  Carpet!  And what stands out the most, the rooms are clean.  Spotless.  It is amazing.

Now, take a little trip with me, will you, back to August of 1986 when I moved into junior college to play football.

My room was next to the bathroom and the only thing separated us was a wall so thin, it should have been a model.

“Excuse me, where is the closet?”  Yes, I asked that to the coach who was moving us in and with greatest shrug of shoulders, mumbled, “Hmm.”  There was no closet.  “I guess you can just pile everything on top of your foot locker.”  Lord, I wish my mother would have heard him say that since she had spent the previous 17 years trying to get me to not to do that.

After a home game, mom came to my room and almost had a heart attack.  She immediately started trying to clean up the room before I told her I was unsure what was exactly under all the clothes.  The next home game, she came by and dropped off cans, yes, cans, of Lysol.

Oh, the room?  Thanks for asking.  It was smaller than you could have possibly imagined.  The astronauts from Apollo 13 had a bigger area to float around in.  We had bunk beds that I swear came over on the Mayflower.  Our desk were we did our homework was so small that when we put our chairs together, we pretended that we were on a Southwest flight because we sat that close to each other.

“Well Joe, at least you had air conditioning.”  Hahaha!  Oh man, let me tell you about our AC.  We didn’t have it.  I would walk in from practice and knew exactly how an overcooked hot pocket felt coming out of the microwave.  I had my awesome box fan but even on the highest setting, Concorde, it provided little comfort.

Here is the thing, though.  I miss that little cramped awful smelly room.  I miss my roommate, miss that small desk, miss my ’13 black and white TV that picked up only two channels coming out of Knoxville.  I miss that pile of humanity on top of the foot locker.

I do not miss the closet though, because you can’t miss what you didn’t have.

I re-post this again for anyone that was in the same situation I was.  Just about everyone told me how to feel, and said I should do this or do that, when it came to forgiving him or anything.   As you will see at the end, it is all how you look at things.  I chose to focus on what God gave me and I thank Him for that every single day.  I hope this helps.

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My father passed away the other day, and sadly, I don’t feel a thing.  Perhaps it is because I had not talked to, or seen him, in more than 30 years.

I don’t know.

Perhaps it is because when I was 10, he left me in a pool hall for hours on the weekend he was supposed to pick me up, although I did learn how to properly hold the stick from a guy who reeked of regret and whiskey.

I don’t know.

Perhaps it is because he, with the exception of the weekend above, missed picking me up for months and months until my mother said, enough is enough.

I don’t know.

Perhaps it is because when I was 13, he showed up at my basketball game, drunk, and cussed at me for not rebounding properly.  I did yell back at him, using all 7 words George Carlin said we cannot say on television.

I don’t know.

Perhaps it is because I got my name on the front page and picture of the Nashville Banner sports section one time and he called and left a message saying how proud he was of me, yet never attended a football game and couldn’t name a single one of my friends.

I don’t know.

Perhaps it is because he never looked into his grand kids eyes and saw what life is truly about.  My daughter resembles his sister in a lot of ways and he never saw her big brown beautiful eyes.  He never saw that my son looked like him in ways that are both fascinating and uncanny.

I don’t know.

In return for him, God gave me something beautiful and wonderful.  A woman.  A woman I was blessed to call Mom my whole life.

A lady who when I cracked my sternum in a football game, stayed all night at a hospital to make sure I wasn’t going to die, I wasn’t, and then drove back in the morning for work.

A woman that when I ruined my first marriage, read me the riot act up and down and made me change my life.

A woman that when my daughter was born, I looked through the glass and at my little girl and I said, “Mom, I have no idea what to do.”  She grabbed my hand and said, “We never do, but we will all do it together.”

A woman, who had just broken her hip, came to the hospital in intense pain to see my son when he was born and held him and cried.

A woman, who before she got sick, came to my son’s first birthday party and calmed down a crying baby boy.

A woman I kissed when she passed away and whispered into her ear, that every good thing I have in my body, came from her.

A woman who would sit with me and go over offensive and defensive plays so I would know what to do.

A woman who taught me how to tie a tie. A woman who taught me what a man could and should be.

I hope along the way that my father became a Christ-loving, God-Fearing man and found peace at the end.

I don’t know.

People have told me the last few days, how I am supposed to feel and act after the death of a parent.  I got a text from a dear friend that said, “Your feelings are yours.  There is no right or wrong.  People can guess but they can’t know or tell you how to feel.  After that, right and wrong comes from obedience to God alone, but you know that.”

I do know that and I do know this, in return, God gave me a beautiful and strong woman.  Miss you, Mom.

13 years old and a freshman.  I had a late birthday, October, so my mother started me in school early. She said I was ready. I always argued she wanted me out of the house. She had no reply to that.

13 years old, at one of, if not the, biggest high school in the southeast.

3,000 students, from 13 to 30. Yes, 30. There were some guys that had to be 30 back in those early McGavock days because the teachers were too scared to tell them to leave.

I walk in this massive school and luckily, I see my old friend, Bruce Clark, from junior high at a table in the cafe. We sit down and don’t say a word for the next 15 mins.

I was somewhere, just not sure where.

I saw grown women who belonged in Duran Duran videos. Men with beards. It was like I was stuck in a MTV video and I wanted to get out but couldn’t. (By the way, kids, MTV back in the day, used to play videos. Like, all day long. I know, crazy huh.)

I had never seen the likes of these people before. And I was amazed.

And scared to death.

I got my schedule and off I went. If you have never seen McGavock high school, it is like a small college. Most schools you have 5 minutes between periods to get to your next class. At McGavock, we had hours to get to our next class. Yes, the school was that big.

And I made the mistake of asking someone where one of my classes was located. I should have known better.
‘Spanish? Oh yes, third floor, literally right next to the swimming pool.’
Third floor? Odd, but McGavock only has two floors I thought. Well, he is older, he has a beard and kids, he knows better than I do.

I walked around forever looking for the swimming pool. The damn swimming pool. On the third floor. I went up every stairway, in every hall, to find this third floor. It hit me. There was no swimming pool and there was no third floor. They got me.

Ah yes, good times.

4 years later, when I graduated, I cried. I had the best time, thanks to a bevy of friends who were just as scared as I was, although they will never admit it.

And yes, I used the same swimming pool prank when I was a junior and senior.  It worked every time.

Homesick?  Dear God, yes.  As my sweet beautiful mother dropped me off at campus on that blazing hot August day, I walked over to hug her and to tell her goodbye.  She said to me, “Don’t come home.  You can obviously, but stay here and don’t worry about us.  You will do great and if for some reason things don’t work out, you can always find your way home.”

Fast forward to August of 2026 and I was listening to a press conference from the Tennessee Titans head coach Robert Saleh.  He was talking on how sometimes the defensive players need to be agitators against the offense, to the point where a flag is almost called but not.  He then said something that sent a chill down my spine that I can’t get out of my head.  “When all is said and done, find your way back to the huddle.”  

Chills.  

Find your way back to the huddle.  How amazing that this is truly a metaphor for life?  Find your way back to the huddle.  I heard Saleh say that and I cannot stop thinking about my mom telling me to find my way home if it is not working.  Find your way back to the huddle is the sports equivalent of that.  On the field, if you get lost or things aren’t going as planned, find your way back to the huddle. 

I am telling you that this is absolutely powerful.  We are all going to make mistakes and screw up and Lord knows I have done my share.  I realized that it is okay, we all make mistakes but we learn and move on.  A big part of that is finding our way back home, or to the huddle, or better yet, to the Father.  

When that storm comes and the wind is tossing you every which way, just remind yourself to find your way back to the huddle where someone is always waiting for you.  A line forty years ago that I had almost forgotten came to me today by the way of a hard nosed coach who understands the power of finding your way back.  

Whew!  Thank you, Robert Saleh.

With that, many seniors will be putting those helmets and shoulder pads on for the last time.  Ever.

Reflection will come and they will ask themselves, and others might as well, was all of it worth it?

Let me tell you that every single second was worth it.

Walking into that locker room and getting ready for practice and talking with your buddies while getting dressed—-Worth every single second.

Heading out to the practice field on a Monday when it is raining and others are at home—–Worth every single second.

Sweating through two-a-days when the temperature hovers around 100 degrees and you are not sure you are going to make it—-Worth every single second.

Sitting on a hot school bus with zero air coming through, heading to a school for a scrimmage in August—–Worth every single second.

Coming back home on that same bus when you just whipped a team that no one thought y’all could, except you and your teammates—Worth every single second.

Getting blocked and put on your butt and vowing that would never happen again—-Worth every single second.

Walking off that practice field on a Thursday as you get ready for a big Friday night game—-Worth every single second.

Going to those summer workouts while your friends are at the lake or the pool—–Worth every single second.

Walking back into that locker room after a big win at home and all of those friends cheering you on from the stands—–Worth every single second.

Holding your teammates hand after their dad just passed away and they know you are there for them—-Worth every single second.

Getting absolutely blasted by your coach for a missed assignment and you think he hates you—–Worth every single second, and he doesn’t.

That same coach hugging you as if you are the only thing that matters in the world after a big win—-Worth every single second.

Every moment preparing, every moment working out, every moment wearing that jersey around school or around town, every moment sweating, crying, celebrating and loving your teammates, it was worth every single second.

You went through every single emotion one goes through in a lifetime, and you had it all by the time you were 18.

Thank you for playing the greatest sport the good Lord put on planet earth.

I know, and trust me, because it was worth every single second.

I never met him, neither did any of the grandchildren.

But that picture, always there. In every family portrait, you can see it in the background.

It wasn’t until years later that my brother pointed it out to me.

Every picture, there he is.

One July morning, back in 1950, my uncle, Kenneth G. Eller, along with 30 Guardsmen, were wrapping up a two week training exercise in Myrtle Beach.  All were in high school.  And they were coming back home to Nashville to finish out the summer before school began.

They were ready to take on life.

They never made it home.

From the  NASHVILLE BANNER, July 24, 1950:

“The 30 young men, many still in their teens, died when the Air Force reserve C-46 transport plane in which they were to have been brought home after two weeks of summer maneuvers, plunged to earth, exploded and burned in a dense pine thicket 10 miles west of Myrtle Beach, seven minutes after take-off.”

(Headline as it appeared in the Nashville Banner that day.)

He was 18.

He was survived by his mom and dad, 2 brothers and one sister.  That sister was my mom.

She never talked much about him as I was growing up.

I came to find out later, he was her best friend.  They were closest in age.  Mom was 12 when he died.  The other two brothers were already in their 20’s and in the military too.

I cannot begin to imagine.

I remember mom saying, when the body came back, my grandmother asked the military if the casket could be placed in the living room, the night before the burial.

“I want him to spend one more night at home, before I say goodbye.”  The casket, along with 2 soldiers who stood at attention all night long, was at the house, per my grandmother’s wishes.

That next day, from all reports, thousands lined the streets of what is now Hillsboro Village to pay respects to him.

Mom said Nana and Papa would not talk about Kenneth, nor what happened, for years. My mom wouldn’t either.  Except towards the end of her life.

She told me she always wanted to go to Myrtle Beach but couldn’t bring herself to do it.  She never mentioned going there, until the end.

In July of 2011, just two weeks after she passed, I took my daughter to Myrtle Beach. In the backseat, my mom’s ashes.  We spread her ashes off the pier, into the Atlantic Ocean on an absolutely beautiful night.

Perhaps the same kind of night my uncle enjoyed before he would leave this place.

He is buried in Woodlawn cemetery, right next to my mom. Next to them,  my grandparents. His marker is worn and weary, it has been there for 75 years.

Now, I will not pretend that his dying affected me in any way.  I never met him, obviously, but as I have gotten older, I have a deep appreciation for him and others who have sacrificed so much.

There is a plaque in War Memorial Plaza in downtown Nashville. It reads, “In Honored Memory of The Tennessee Air National Guardsmen Who Lost Their Lives July 23, 1950, In The Service Of Their Country.”

7 names down, it says, ‘Kenneth G. Eller.’

I read somewhere that we die twice.

Once, when we physically die. Second, when our stories are stopped being told.

I pray for our country, that those who have laid down their lives, their stories, never get stopped being told.

Then I mention that my daughter got married on a Saturday in November and my co-workers just flipped out.  From “How could you do that?” to “I would never do that,” to “Oh no, she will pick a spring or summer wedding.  I will not let my daughter get married in the fall.”

I laughed and one said, “What is so funny?”  I ask, “Do you have any kids?”  The answer is usually no since most are in their 20’s.  I then told them–“If you are lucky enough to have kids and especially a daughter, you will understand.  Whatever day your little girl wants to get married on, you will absolutely make sure that day is the best ever.  Football Saturday or not, whatever your daughter wants, trust me, you will move heaven and earth to make it happen.”

They all just looked at me and then we had several people call in, all dads, who backed up what I had to say.  “Yes.  Joe is correct. You will walk your little girl down the aisle on whatever day she wants.”  Enough said. 

My daughter got married on November 6th and the last thing I did was look at the college football schedule and see who is playing.  All I cared about was not tripping over my feet and ruining the wedding. 

Enjoy whatever day she chooses, you will thank me later.