Well, this wasn't quite a sacrifice, but it came pretty damn close to being one. This is a bit of a story but here goes.
The year was 1998. As an aspiring theatre major, I spent my college years participating in all the major department shows. Being cast in those shows meant participating in everything -- read throughs, technical rehearsals, dress rehearsals, and finally, show nights -- and I greatly enjoyed all of that stuff. But what I did not enjoy was having to kiss some Saturdays goodbye. Or at least, kissing the ability to watch the games on TV goodbye, as there was no such thing as cell phones or internet video in 1998 and no television in the theatre studio. Now, as it so happened, there was one other serious Vol fan in the cast for our major fall show, and we were a desperate duo at times. Some Saturdays you could find us hovering around a radio in the costume studio buried beneath the theatre space, taking shifts between scenes to keep each other informed. If either of us had a scene, the first thing we'd ask the other after hitting the curtains and heading downstairs- "What's the score?" If both of us were in the same scenes, we'd peel out first thing and get downstairs to keep on top of things.
Alright, so that's the general setting. Now let's get to the gamble.
November 14th, 1998. You know -- that game. The game. #1 Tennessee vs #10 Arkansas, so of course it's at night, which is also when theatres like to put on performances. In theatre, actors and crew are always called well in advance of showtime, so we found ourselves pacing pregame and hovering around the radio for kickoff. Stoerner made that first TD. Ok. We could handle that. Stoerner hit Lucas for the second TD. Pacing intensified. Everyone around us was getting into character, focused on the show, but us two? Nervous wrecks. Probably lucky we didn't miss any of our cues, especially once Stoerner found Lucas again to make it 21-3. It felt like every time we came back downstairs we'd heard John Ward say "Chukwuma" (or whatever his name was) or "Stoerner to Lucas." More scenes. More football. And then it was halftime.
For whatever reason, I had started telling my friend "we just have to believe. You have to believe. They can do this." I think I was talking to myself as much as I was to him, but I kept on saying it. Second half starts, and Tee made that touchdown pass. I got more into it. "You just have to believe!" And my friend started saying it back to me. "You just have to believe!" "I believe!" "I believe!" So we're bouncing off the studio walls, hoping Tennessee can make the comeback real. More scenes upstairs. Run back down to get the score. Hall made that field goal to make it 24-20. End of the third.
Ah, that's right - the gamble.
Fourth quarter. I forget now if I was the one who proposed this, or if my friend proposed it to me, but I prefer to think that we each hit upon the same idea at the same time. We entered that quarter knowing three things for certain. First, we knew there was a student dormitory not four hundred yards away from our theatre, with a TV on the second floor commons room that would have the game on. Second, we knew our play's intermission, all ten to fifteen minutes of it, was pretty close to overlapping the last minutes of the fourth quarter. And third, we knew that come hell or high water we were determined to see Tennessee make a comeback win on a television.
In other words, we knew we were going to run over to that dorm and watch the end of the game on a TV.
Now in theatre, you do NOT leave for any reason during a show. It's unprofessional, especially when people are counting on you to do your job, and you just don't do it. S'naughty. Had I caught anyone sneaking out during my many shows there (or later), I would have chastised them for acting so immaturely and putting the show at risk. All very good points. Fortunately, we didn't have to hear any of those points, because no one caught us sneaking out the side entrance to the theatre just before intermission. We sprinted across the soccer field, caromed off the stairwell walls, and blasted into the commons room so forcefully that the door slammed against the wall. And as it turned out, we'd made it just in time to watch the Arkansas drive that sent the ball through the back of the endzone. 24-22.
Being a southern college, the room had Vols, Bammers, Tigers (both kinds), Arkansas fans, and more. Everyone was talking trash -- lotta hollerin, if you will. My friend and I were still yelling "Believe!" at each other between every gasp for air. Tennessee turned the ball over on downs, but I shook my friend and shouted louder - "You have to believe!" "I believe!" he shouted back. The chatter intensified. "IT'S NOT OVER!" I roared. To this day I don't know why I said that, but then Ratliff blew Bulsworth off the line. Stoerner fumbled. My friend and I (and the other Vols) starting jumping all over the room. "YOU HAVE TO BELIEVE!" "I BELIEVE!" Henry drove that ball for fifteen yards. "BELIEVE!" Other Vols in the room started yelling it with us. Fifteen more yards. People were going nuts. Up and over, touchdown Tennessee! The room was bedlam. High fives between all the Vol fans. The Arkansas fans, inconsolable. Gator fans? Irritated.
And then my friend and I realized the intermission ended five minutes ago and lit out like our asses were on fire to get back to the theatre before anyone noticed our absence. We survived, and thankfully only a handful of people had any notion we'd been missing. Our next cue was ten to fifteen minutes out, so we even had time to compose ourselves. Pfew! Granted, we knew we had the time to spare, but all the same - pfew. What a night. What a game.
Did it cost us in the end? Thankfully no. It sure could have, though -- could have cost us both quite a bit. But we didn't care. We were all in. And when Tennessee mounted that comeback, we knew what we had to do.