Nichols: Why Five Minutes with Johnny Majors Are Worth a Lifetime of Memories
KNOXVILLE, Tenn. — In April of 2017, I had a chance to meet Johnny Majors.
The interaction was brief, as I was but one in a line of dozens of people who snaked around and out of the Tailgate clothing store in Knoxville’s Market Square for just a glimpse at a college football legend.
But those few minutes with Coach Majors — no matter how quickly they passed — hold memories I’ll cherish forever.
With this week evoking so much nostalgia leading into Saturday’s inaugural Johnny Majors Classic between Tennessee and Pittsburgh (12 p.m. ET, ESPN), I thought I would share a few recollections from that day.
Stomach in knots
The first thing I remember is the way my stomach felt while standing in line.
You can probably guess from the header, but I was a ball of nerves as I waited my turn to greet Coach Majors.
What would I say? What would I tell him? What would I have time to tell him, from the myriad of stories passed down through my orange-tinted family lineage?
By the time I shuffled close to the front, I remember settling on one topic of conversation: “The Miracle at South Bend.”
A large portion of my family had attended the game, which Majors and the Vols won 35-34 when they stormed back for an iconic win against the Irish.
I still have pictures of my late mom, grandparents and great-grandparents from that day at Notre Dame Stadium. Naturally, I thought this game would be the perfect topic choice to convey how much meeting Coach Majors meant to me, but also how much it would mean for my family members who were there that November day in 1991.
A firm handshake, with history behind it
After the person in front of me thanked Coach Majors for his time, I took a breath and stepped forward before introducing myself.
I knelt down to shake his hand, as he was seated in the middle of the store to enable those who wanted pictures before moving out of the way.
That handshake is one I’ll always remember.
At the time, Coach Majors was just under a month shy of his 82nd birthday, so it’s no surprise that his hand was wrinkled and gnarled.
But the grip felt as young and strong as ever, as Coach Majors clasped my hand with a strength far more impressive than his years would suggest.
That grip, I knew, contained more history than I may ever understand.
Because the hand I shook that day in Knoxville was no typical right hand.
It was the hand that Majors used to meet General Robert Neyland in 1953, when Majors made the 170-mile trip from his hometown of Lynchburg after playing for his father, Shirley Majors, at Huntland High School.
It was the hand that Majors used to carry the football for Tennessee when he became a two-time All-American, and the hand that he would have used to loft the 1956 Heisman Trophy — had it not been for Paul Hornung from Notre Dame.
It was the hand that Majors used to greet Frank Broyles at Arkansas, that he used to gesture to defensive backs at Mississippi State, and that he used to accept his first head coaching job at Iowa State before he hoisted a national championship trophy at Pittsburgh.
And after Majors “marched home” to Tennessee, that hand was the same one that gripped Dale Jones’ shoulder pad, and slapped Carl Pickens on the helmet, and comforted Bear Bryant after Majors’ team defeated the Crimson Tide.
Finally, as it pertains to my topic of conversation that day, the hand I shook was the same one that Majors used to console Lou Holtz on that fateful, freezing afternoon in South Bend.
Steely blue with sharpness and a smile
As I recounted the story of that game from my grandparents’ perspective, I could see the memories flashing in Coach Majors’ eyes.
Deep in those azure embers, I could see a fire that came roaring back when Majors remembered the Irish’s 21-0 lead at the end of the first quarter. I could still see his passion for that game 26 years after the fact, as Tennessee staged an incredible comeback before Notre Dame’s winning field goal sailed wide to cue an iconic call from John Ward.
And I could see the smile that stretched from Majors’ mouth to form wrinkles around his eyelids when I reiterated how that game became one of my family’s most cherished memories.
Then, what I heard from Majors confirmed what I could see already: the quiet pride he held from a comeback that Tennessee fans remember to this day.
“Lou Holtz told me,” Majors said with a wistful smile, “that that was the biggest loss of his entire career.”
And that was that.
We exchanged a few more pleasantries, and I posed with Coach Majors for a picture.
I heard him ask former Tennessee quarterback Erik Ainge — who was on hand to promote the event — to fetch him a tuna sandwich and some milk from the Subway next door, and I chuckled as I left, wondering how such a legendary figure could consume something as mundane as tunafish with milk.
But that’s how Majors was.
No frills, no gimmicks, “no B.S.,” as Ryan McGee told me earlier this week.
Just a man who was humbled and heartfelt from a playing career that placed him rightfully in the College Football Hall of Fame (although he should be inducted as a coach, too), and a kind soul who possessed a generous willingness to talk with others about his many achievements.
I consider myself fortunate to be one of the people Majors spoke to that day in 2017.
On Saturday, I’ll certainly keep the conversation in mind when I enter the Neyland Stadium press box to watch the Vols — clad specifically in all orange in Majors’ honor — go to battle with Pitt.
To echo what Ryan said, it’s truly a shame that Coach Majors will not be there in person to witness a battle between his two beloved teams.
But I have a feeling he’ll still be around.
