In this third week of October, of this my fifty-eighth year, when the trees of the Blue Ridge are starting to see their first blazes of color, I embarked on what I believed would be my grand debut in the world of sports journalism. Little did I know that this journey would lead me not to glory, but to a comedy of errors that would haunt me for years to come, set against the backdrop of Nashville’s cacophonous country music scene.
Currently, I am sitting and writing this to you from a bar in the airport of The ATL as they call it, having just deplaned from the first leg of my journey, accompanied by the sounds of a screaming baby who made me dream of inventing noise-cancelling duct tape.
I, of course, was doing this for The CBBB – the Cutting-Edge Bulletin of Big Ballers – a sports website of dubious reputation that was, and still is, the only outlet willing to employ me (for free).
Patrick, our editor-in-chief, a man whose cynicism was matched only by his fondness for cheap scotch, had assigned me to cover the Tennessee Titans vs. Buffalo Bills game.
This, he assured me, could be my “breakout moment.”
It’s worth noting here that Patrick’s idea of a “breakout moment” had once involved sending Little Luke Cole to interview a retired sumo wrestler at a hot dog eating contest. The poor boy was never the same after that, and neither were the hot dogs.
So naturally, on Tuesday, I boarded a series of flights to get to Nashville, Tennessee. The city greeted me with its characteristic Southern charm, a facade that poorly concealed the underlying sadness of a thousand aspiring country music stars and the quiet despair of those who had already failed.
As I wandered the streets of Nashville, gorging myself on Goo Goo Clusters the size of footballs, I found myself swept up in a tide of humanity that seemed to defy all logic and reason. It also made me hum “Iris.”
Something felt slightly like a recipe for disaster.
Everywhere I turned, I was confronted by roving bands of bachelorette parties, their matching sashes proclaiming such dubious honors as “Bride’s Bitches” and “Last Rodeo Before the I Do.” These packs of women, fueled by an unholy mixture of alcohol and desperation, careened from bar to bar like pinballs in a machine designed by a sadistic, yet fashionably inept, god.
(Years from now, long after I have left the world of sports journalism behind, I will recall these bachelorette parties with a mixture of awe and terror. In my dreams then, I am sure, they will morph into a single, multi-headed hydra, each head adorned with a different plastic tiara or faux-leather cowgirl hat, shrieking the lyrics of “Man! I Feel Like a Woman” as the creaturette pursues me through endless honky-tonk bars.)
The soundtrack to this bacchanalia was provided by an army of singer-songwriters, each more earnest than the last, their guitars serving as both instruments and shields against the harsh realities of the music industry… and sometimes their talent.
On every street corner, in every bar, and even in the restrooms of my hotel, these troubadours poured out their hearts in songs that all seemed to blend into one endless ode to broken hearts, pick-up trucks, and the dubious joys of small-town life…with beer and whiskey.ç>
I am sure I passed by some still “promising” singer-songwriters on the streets who have the potential to not survive past “Hollywood Week” on American Idol.
But it was in reality all the “Nashvegas Crap,” as I came to think of it, that fueled my premonitions of demise. This unholy offspring of country music and pop, with its auto-tuned twangs and lyrics that seemed generated by an AI programmed solely with country music clichés, was om
nipresent. It blared from every speaker, its relentless cheerfulness a stark contrast to the quiet desperation I saw in the eyes of the locals. Shit, I see it now in the eyes of Beyoncé.
On the day when I planned for my interviews, I arrived at the Titans’ practice facility, my notebook clutched in sweaty palms, my heart pounding with anticipation.
The emptiness of the parking lot should have been my first clue, but in my eagerness, I dismissed it as a quirk of timing.
It wasn’t until I encountered the solitary figure of a worker, sweeping the deserted lot with the dedication of Sisyphus rolling his boulder, that the truth began to dawn on me (Aside from the obvious truth that Nashville is fairly flat and rolling a boulder should be… should be… somewhat easy.).
“Excuse me,” I called out, my voice echoing in the empty space. “I’m here to interview the Titans.”
That employee, a man who looked as if he had seen every folly humanity had to offer and found them all worthy of a giggle, fixed me with a gaze that seemed to penetrate my soul like Dolly Parton after I said her boobs were adequate.
“Son,” he said, his voice gravelly with years of cigarettes and parking lot dust, “the Titans ain’t here. They’re in Buffalo.”
In that moment, as the full weight of my mistake crashed down upon me, I felt as if I had been cast adrift in a vast and uncaring universe. Some of you might know this terrible feeling as it is sort of like living in Roanoke, while ignoring the junkies.
With trembling fingers, I dialed (Are we still dialing? Or are we pecking now? Or just asking Siri?) Patrick’s number, dreading the conversation to come.
“Patrick,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper, sounding out phrases like a spy, “I’m in Nashville. The chicken is hot.”
The silence that followed was so profound that I could hear the blood rushing in my bad ear, the steady tick of my Apple Watch marching and marking the seconds of my almost professional demise… even though it made no sound.
“Why Brian,” Patrick asked, his voice dangerously calm, “are you in Nashville?”
“Because,” I replied, the words tasting like the ashes of Johnny Cash in my mouth, “you said the game was with the Tennessee Titans.”
Patrick’s laughter, when it came, was not the jovial sound of shared amusement, but the bitter cackle of a man confronted with the depths of… well, me.
“They’re the Tennessee Titans,” he said, each word a dagger to my pride, “but they’re playing in Buffalo, you ass.”
As I stood there, phone pressed to my ear, surrounded by the emptiness of my own making, I was struck by a profound realization: in the grand tapestry of life, we are all, in our own ways, lost. Some of us are just more lost than others.
I owned that. I was lost like a hiker with no legs heading up to Humpback Rocks. (Note to self: This will be the basis for my first country song. I will call it “You Gots Yer Unsure Footing from Mama Cousin.”)
In the days that shall follow, as I am about to embark on my ignominious return to Charlottesville right now, I look forward to the sounds of The Bills at South Street (especially this Sunday at 1 PM for that…ahem…Titans game). I look forward to the seeing our Mafia members trying to buy tickets to win gift cards and signed Thurman Thomas rookie cards (all while having that money paying for my trip… oops. I mean paying for “our charity,” of course.). I look forward to wings that don’t taste of humbleness (but of a Tex-Mex blend this week)… or Nashvegas Hot Chicken.
Hell, I am looking forward to UVA basketball season and maybe getting to prove my sports reporter chops by interviewing Coach Bennett after a win…
Debootedly,
BRIAN
PS: Yes. I took all these photos in Nashville this week. It was my part of my “other, real work” trip. Thanks for playing along with my penchant of including real life into these diatribes.
PSS: Seriously. What the hell was I going to do trying provide insight on the Titans? They are poop. Am I right? Or what?
PSSS: Did I just curse the Bills?
