Recalling a Storied Vols Victory—From the Vantage Point of a VW Beetle

In Restless Native by Chris Wohlwendleave a COMMENT

In the fall of 1964, the year after Georgia Tech had departed the Southeastern Conference and the football rivalry between the Yellow Jackets and Tennessee was still fierce, two friends and I decided to make the trip to Atlanta to attend the game. We did not have tickets, but figured we could get into the game using our smarts, or, as a last resort, buying from a scalper just before kickoff, when the prices were bound to come down.

Atlanta, of course, was a great place to visit—especially for three sophisticated college men like ourselves. We would go on Friday so we could soak up the pre-game atmosphere, check out the action both downtown and around the campus, grab something to eat from the famous Varsity drive-in. The game, like most during that time, was scheduled for early Saturday afternoon.

So we loaded up Britton’s Volkswagen and headed south. The third member of the party was Mac, who was 6 foot 2 and used his height as excuse to claim shotgun in the Beetle. The trip down was uneventful, dominated by my grousing about being stuck in the cramped back seat. We had no trouble finding a cheap motel room on the northern outskirts. Then it was on to the Five Points area, the heart of downtown, where we mingled with orange-clad revelers at a bar called the Alibi and where Mac got into trouble with the police—for jaywalking.

After he talked his way out of that, we found a poolroom that had what to our eyes appeared to be a hundred tables. In the front room beer and chili dogs were available. The rest of the evening is a blur, but somehow we didn’t put much effort into finding tickets for the next day’s game.

Saturday morning, feeling the after-effects of Friday night, we headed toward the Tech campus and Grant Field. Soon we found ourselves in the same kind of game-day mess that we regularly encountered in Knoxville: crowds of people creating impossible traffic, both vehicular and pedestrian. And we saw no one trying to hawk tickets.

We managed to get into the Varsity, but found ourselves unable to stomach the idea of substantial food after the poolroom chili dogs of the night before, and settled on milkshakes. As it got closer to game time we started debating whether we really wanted to try to get into the stadium.

Couldn’t be much of a game, we reasoned, given that Georgia Tech was undefeated, ranked sixth in the country, and a nine-point favorite. Tennessee, which had just switched from the single-wing offense to the T, boasted a strong defense but had been unable to find a player who could effectively handle quarterback duties.

Finally, after some debate, we decided to skip the game and head back to Knoxville. The contest was not on television (few games were back then), but we were sure we could find it on the radio.

So, as we reached Marietta, we caught the kickoff and, heading north, listened as Tech built up a 7 to 3 halftime lead, with Tennessee’s defense keeping the Vols in the game. Then, as we neared the state line, and the fourth quarter began with the Jackets ahead 14 to 3, the third-team quarterback, David Leake, was inserted into the fray.

Leake, whose primary contribution to the team heretofore had been as a kicker, promptly threw a TD pass to Al Tanara. He then led the Vols to another score and suddenly the Orange faithful saw their team take the lead. We, of course, saw nothing as we Beetled up U.S. 411 into Tennessee. Radio coverage was spotty, with Mac having to constantly work the dial as we moved north. Sometimes we were listening to the work of Knoxville broadcasters, sometimes to Atlanta stations.

But we managed to hear the final minutes as the Vols held on to win 22 to 14, with Doug Archibald returning an interception for the insurance touchdown. After our excitement died down, we realized we could not tell our friends that we had not been cheering for the Orange from our seats in Grant Field, that we had not been present for such an historic upset.

So on Sunday morning we read the newspaper stories, familiarizing ourselves with the pertinent game details, inventing celebratory anecdotes, and then spent the rest of the week gloating in our good fortune at having been at a memorable Tennessee victory over a hated rival. We were obnoxious enough so that our friends quickly tired of hearing about The Game. Besides, campus attention was now focused on the upcoming contest.

So we congratulated ourselves for pulling off our own great play—and a trick one at that. And we never revealed the true story. Until now.

Chris Wohlwend's Restless Native addresses the characters and absurdities of Knoxville, as well as the lessons learned pursuing the newspaper trade during the tumult that was the 1960s. He spent 35 years working for newspapers and magazines in Miami, Charlotte, Louisville, Dallas, Kansas City, and Atlanta. As an editor, he was involved in winning several national awards. He returned to Knoxville in the late 1990s and now teaches journalism part-time at the University of Tennessee. His freelance pieces have appeared in The New York Times, The Boston Globe, The Philadelphia Inquirer, and numerous other publications.

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