An Evening with the Tennessee Titans: Bud Adams Style, Pt. 1

The below events did not happen anywhere other then the author's head (that he knows of).

Sunday, Nov. 15, 2009, not long after the Titans defeated the Bills by a 41-17 score in Nashville:

Bud Adams is feeling a level of friskiness that belies his age of 86, but not the perfect mix of whiskey and Viagra he is currently sailing on. “Yee haw!” he says. “We are back on the victory train. Nothing can stop the Adams’ Family now!”

“Shirley,” he says (Shirley is Adams' assistant), “get me Fisher on the phone, would ya, sweetie?”

Adams is dancing around his owner’s suite. “I can’t believe it took that stiff Goodell so long to get out of my box. I had the birdies in my pocket and they were screaming to get out.”

While saying this, Adams looks at himself in the mirror and draws his hands out of pockets with his middle fingers blazing, pretending to shoot like a five-year-old playing cops and robbers before blowing off the tip of each finger.

Shirley hands him the phone; as Adams grabs it, he slaps her on the ass, saying, “Thanks, sweet tits.”

“Bud,” Fisher exasperatedly replies, “how many times have I told you—you can’t call me that anymore...but you’re welcome.”

“Whoa, now, pardner, I was talking to my sweet little secretary. That girl is as limber as a dishrag.” Adams pauses long enough to watch Shirley walk over to the snack tray. “I told you—didn’t I tell you? Ol’ Uncle Bud said put in Vince and we’ll start winning.”

“You did, Bud.” Fisher couldn’t believe it, but it was working so far, and it was a little hard to admit. “The defense is coming around too. Don’t forget that.”

“Well, pardner, to celebrate the glorious turnaround my genius has created, we are going to have a mandatory party at team headquarters tonight. Nothin’ too fancy—just a good ol’ casual celebration. No skirts...they can wait for us after the party. Aint that right, Shirley?!”

“That’s right, Bud.” Shirley has no idea what she is agreeing with but goes along with it anyway. She knows when Uncle Bud is in this kind of mood, presents are sure to follow her good behavior. Shirley has an uncanny ability to use material items, like a drunk uses alcohol, to black out memories.

“Alright, Bud,” says Fisher, actually looking forward to the chance to blow off some steam. “I’ll let the guys know.”

Three hours later: Tennessee Titans headquarters is transformed into party central—complete with an open bar, steaks, DJ, and a disco ball.

Kerry Collins slumbers in. He is not looking forward to this. He feels a little jaded that everyone on the team decided to play so much better after he was benched.

There was a time in his life when it wouldn’t have mattered if his mother just died—he would have still been ready for a party. By the grace of god and AA, those reckless, loose vocabulary days were behind him. Gone are times of waking up with pain in his head where memories should be. No longer did he have to deal with broken jaws delivered by the fists of teammates angered by racist comments. But here he was, drinking a coke and hoping the night goes by fast.

Chris Johnson told his lineman ahead of time to meet him at the front door so they could carry him in. A prospect none of them necessarily were looking forward to, but as lineman they are used to that kind of thing and agreed.

Johnson arrives to finds his linemen waiting for him. “Thanks for waiting on ‘Every Lineman’s Dream,’ boys. You guys are the best.” The linemen all smiled, content, because a little positive reinforcement is a lineman’s opiate and spotlight.  

Johnson is looking forward to this and hoping he can show off his karaoke chops and inspire someone to give him the nickname he so desperately wants—“A Karaoke Machine’s Dream.” He is tired of having to coin his own nicknames.

LenDale White enters through the doors without using his arms and exclaims “I’m the juggernaut, bitch!” It had been so long since he had actually used a door handle, he wasn’t sure if remembered how they worked. He had on his favorite T-shirt (that he had trademarked) under his Titans sweatshirt and was hoping that “he” would be there to see see him in it.

Kyle Vanden Bosch announces his presence with a loud thud on the wall next to the entryway doors. “Damn, these red contacts are hard to see out of in the dark.” Making it through the second time, he yells, “I love parties!” to a room full of people already acutely aware of this fact (Bosch’s teammates like—yet are simultaneously freaked out by—their burly defensive end).

Fisher enters next. He is happy to be there, but then again he was happier doing anything now than he was a month ago. Winning is a coach's Prozac.

Fisher is greeted with a loud chorus of “Coach!” as he walks in the door. His players are happy to see him, much happier than they were a month ago. They also can’t help but notice he is looking like he has gained some weight under his stretched-thin Titan sweatshirt.

Vince Young is on his way and calls Adams, “Yo, Bud, I just wanted to know if there is going to be any booze there.”

“Shoot, son, does a stuck pig holler?”

“Um...well...” Young doesn’t like tests.

“Is a long-tailed cat nervous in a room full of rockin’ chairs?”

“Oww...I’m getting a headache. You know I don’t like answering no questions.”

“Well, I didn’t mean to turn you into a cow on AstroTurf, son. Would uncle Bud throw a bash without a bar?”

“Damn it! Stop answering my questions with a question. What are you s'posed to be—that old Chinese dude 'Confused' or something?”

“Boy, you are about as sharp as a mashed potato.”

Young could sense he was going to have to go about this a different way. “Right, so there are mashed potatoes there, but let’s say I want something to drink with them that has alcohol in it—could I get it there?”

“If you weren’t one can short of a six pack, you’d understand I already answered ya.”

Young stares at the one empty rung on the six pack resting in his passenger seat while wondering how the hell Adams could tell he was one beer under. “It takes a lot more than one beer before I don’t know when people are talking nonsense. Forget it, Bud; I’ll get my own.”

Adams likes Young, but he can’t help but screw with him a little. Young is a Hustonian, after all. “Houston, we have a problem! That’s Adams 21,548, Houston 0.” Adams clicked another notch on his score tracker and tucked it back into his pocket.

Young makes a quick stop at the liquor store and enters the party. There were days when stupid questions or comments that may have questioned his intelligence (sometimes it was hard to tell), like the ones Adams just gave him, would have sent him off into depression-fueled drinking binges, but now that Young can again fall back on his football skills to boost his confidence, his drinking binges carry a much more positive attitude. So the fact that the first thing he sees when he walks in the door is a bar doesn’t faze him. “Bud, you crazy old fool,” he says to himself while smiling and greeting his teammates.

Adams is the last to arrive. He gets out of the new Mercedes he has just purchased for Shirley. “Don’t wait up, little darlin’; Uncle Bud is feelin’ frisky.”

Shirley drives off, not even missing the last three hours she can’t remember.

Bursting through the door, Adams yells “Yee haw!” and lets off a round from his gun into the ceiling. This, of course, sends everyone ducking and covering, except for Fisher, who is frantically searching the room with his eyes.

“Vince?” Fisher yells.

“I am fine, coach.” Young responds in a voice that doesn’t hide how tired he is of answering his coach's concerns.

“Hang on, buddy! I am calling the hot line. Don’t do anything until you talk to them.”

“Coach, I am fine, really. Don’t sweat it.”

“Shoot, Fish,” chimes in Adams, “Relax. I am just getting the party started.” He flips off Fisher and heads over to the bar.

Adams hands the bartender a $100 bill, saying, “Son, this here is a celebration—anyone ordering anything without liquor in it, you put some in.” Adams looks over at Collins and White, who he knows have quit drinking and suspects it is making them a little light in the loafers, and smiles.

He then walks up to the DJ and grabs the mic. “Boys, this season was looking rough as a cob 'til Uncle Bud stepped in and told y’all that winnin’ would be as easy as slidin’ off a greased log if Vince is startin’ because Ol’ Bud knows that a whistling woman and a crowing hen never comes to a very good end.”

“I am not trying to count my chickens before they hatch. I know we still have to talk to a man about a cow, but I expect you all to get Ol’ Uncle Bud a ring before I go to the big pigsty in the sky.” Adams flips off god to emphasize his point. “I am feeling too good tonight and we are going to have some fun! 'Cause Ol’ Bud knows soon we will be in high cotton!”  

Most everyone in the room glances at each other with confused looks then shrugs and smiles. They were not exactly sure what Adams had just said, but they did know the old man knew how to throw a party.

For An Evening with the Titans, Pt. 2 click Here.