I’ve always yelled at them. I yell, because I’m a yeller. I’m a yeller, and so I yell. My voice gets so hoarse it sounds like tires crunching over gravel. During the season, I go through economy-sized packages of throat lozenges.
Last week I watched Tennessee look like it was going to be blown out by Rutgers in a womens’ basketball game. I wanted to hide when faced with the mere thought of what Pat Summitt would sound like in the locker room at halftime. Later in the week, as I read the foregoing quote in her book Raise the Roof, I learned I was probably right.