On a Saturday evening before Halloween, many years ago, I lay quietly in bed. Silently I lay, listening for the sound — the sound of a "Sandstorm."
"There is no 'Sandstorm,'" my friends insisted. I knew they were wrong.
I did hear sounds, but not the "Sandstorm." A ghostly echo of a train whistle pierced the night. The sound of wheels grinding against rails reverberated against the foundation of my home. A shroud of steam enveloped a train that had magically appeared at my door.
Could it be?
I tiptoed down my steps in slippers and pajamas out to the platform.
"All aboard!"
The conductor was but a teen. He had the powerful sloping shoulders of a man, but the cherubic face of a babe. His cheeks were flushed. In gold threads, the name "Bentley" was embodied across his chest.
"Well, are you coming?" he asked with an outstretched arm.
"Where are you going?" I asked.
"Why to the bowl of course, this is the Bentley Express," the conductor asked as he glanced at the silver band of his watch.
All aboard.
Up mountains we soared, climbing higher and higher. We nearly scraped the moon. The Bentley Express went faster and faster. Never slowing down.
The flickering lights of Memorial glistened in the distance. Thousands of jolly elves clad head to toe in garnet cheered from the tailgate of their sleighs. Carols boomed from their speakers. Joy filled the night. They chugged excessive amounts of ... hot cocoa.
Like a missile, the Bentley Express careened down George Rogers Blvd. Visions of Big George, Marcus Lattimore and Connor Shaw danced like sugarplums in my head. I even dared to believe in Ole' Saint Steve again.
In the distance, ESPN's lone caboose rattled along in the night. Kirk Herbstreit and Paul Finebaum pleaded for spots on the train. Too late.
I heard it first. Like the roar of a waterfall, the "Sandstorm" cascaded over me. The Bentley Express finally drew to a stop. We poured out of the train into Williams-Brice Stadium, leaving Rocky Top in the cold shadows of the night.
The conductor was waiting for us. On that night, we all believed. With his nimble feet and his powerful arm, he gave us our first gift. The first gift of Bentley!
Tearing away orange-and-white-checkered wrapping paper, we beheld the win together. We heard the Sandstorm. A sound we had long forgotten since Saint Steve left. We believed.
In the morning I woke with a start — it must have been a dream. It couldn't possibly be real. But into the pocket of my pajamas, I reached. My fingers nestled around a single slip of paper.
It was ticket stub dated Oct. 29, 2016. The conductor had punched a single word into the stub: "Believe."
As I grew older, many of my friends would lose their hope. Maybe a loss to Missouri or Florida would dash their spirits. But not me. I would always have my ticket. "Sandstorm" would always play for me.
All aboard.