By Tom Mattingly
Since I retired from the athletic department in 2005 and the president’s office in 2006, I rarely get back to campus. When I do, I find that things have markedly changed. The memories linger, however, and among the fondest are those that happened on the corner of Lake Loudoun Boulevard and Volunteer Boulevard.
There was always a special ambience around the William B. Stokely Athletics Center with Haywood Harris, Bud Ford, Gus Manning and John Ward. Many of us who worked there had walked the rolling hills of campus, had sat in the classrooms, and had a personal investment in the growth and development of the University of Tennessee.
Over the years, Haywood and Bud ran a very spit-and-polish publicity operation. They were respected by their colleagues within the SEC and nationwide. They were each professionals in every sense of the word, whether Haywood was writing copy for a media release or Bud was assembling all the myriad details that went into assembling and publishing a football media guide.
When Haywood died June 2, 2010, I wrote a p. 2 News Sentinel sports section story (“Memories of a ‘Vols’ legend, good man”). It concluded as follows: “They say a man needs six friends, so his wife won’t have to hire pallbearers. In Haywood’s case, that shouldn’t be a problem. The line stretches out the door, down the street, and as far as the eye can see. Haywood Harris’ friends were everybody he ever knew.”
Gus and Haywood were two of the last links to Gen. Neyland. At one point in his career, Gus was nearly a one-man athletic department, overseeing the ticket, concessions, and business operations and having a hand in nearly everything else that went on.
A 1961 memorandum from Neyland listed 31 specific responsibilities for Gus and concluded with, “Accept and carry out any extra duties assigned by Athletic Director and Assistant Athletic Director, as they see fit.” History records that Gus always did exactly that.
There was the day in June 1998 when Ward announced that the 1998-99 sports season would be his and Bill Anderson’s last in football, his last in hoops. “I have a prepared statement, and I’m going to read it… verbatim. It’s time.”
Knowing that I would be transcribing John’s remarks, Haywood said cogently, “Make sure you transcribe that correctly.” A year later, I wrote a tribute to Ward for the 1999 Volunteer Athletic Scholarship Fund Donor Brochure (“John Ward: Portrait of a Volunteer”).
When John died on June 20, 2018, memories flowed like rushing waters… of a man who influenced all of us greatly, much the same way Haywood, Bud and Gus had. His broadcast style was light years ahead of its time. He brought home the story of Tennessee athletics in a manner that could never be duplicated.
At Edwin Huster’s request, I spotted for Ward on the Vol Network and also worked with Bob Bell and Randy Smith on the Comcast Television delayed broadcasts. I also spotted for NBC’s Charley Jones at the 1992 Fiesta Bowl and Tom Hammond at the 2001 Notre Dame game. That was the ultimate “niche market,” complete with all kinds of special memories.
There’s the ever-present memory of an ashen-faced Bill Walsh, then the analyst for NBC telecasts of Notre Dame football, leaving the broadcast area after Tennessee had stolen a 35-34 victory in 1991, rallying from a 31-7 deficit.
As he did so, Tennessee fans were celebrating on the field while the Notre Dame band was playing the Notre Dame “Victory March.” On the Vol Network, Ward said, “You could not write this script.”
My time at Tennessee was about the people, my colleagues. There were numerous breakfasts with Ken Duncan, one of the department’s computer gurus, Varsity Inn manager Gene McCarter, and the one and only A. P. Porter, called “Mr. Porter” by nearly everybody. He and Gene now belong to the ages.
There were, however, several days when time seemed to stand still. In August 1992, we mourned the sudden death of Tim Kerin, the trainer who had come to Tennessee with John Majors and was one of his closest confidants. Several days later, we found out that Majors was undergoing open-heart surgery and would miss the first three games of the season.
In November 1992, Majors resigned at a media conference in Memphis the night before the Memphis State game. In September 2001, the news that the twin towers in New York City and other venues on the East Coast had been the site of terrorist attacks stopped us all in our tracks. In 2004, Huster died suddenly the day before the Tennessee-Louisville basketball game.
What Lindsey Nelson wrote after leaving Shea Stadium for the last time was never more appropriate than the day Stokely Center became nothing but a memory.
“As the limousine moved along the service road leading out to Roosevelt Avenue, I looked out the back window to the huge stadium, casting its shadow in the late afternoon sun.”
It was a moment to be remembered… and savored.
“And I realized I had left a lot of my life there.”
For its part, Stokely Center holds a great many memories for all of us, all of us who realized we had also left a lot of our lives there.
