Time on the Clock.

My dad and I are bilingual. We speak English and football. And on Sunday night, I cherished our conversation.

Our Tennessee Volunteers were on — and they were, for the first time in a while, dominating. We sat in my parent’s den, like I had so many times before, talking blocks, tackles, strategy and coaching.

My dad is getting older. Heck, I’m getting older. A game that I once would have taken for granted became more precious to me. For a long time I have lived far away — our time together is rare. I looked at him sitting in his big brown chair with his white hair. If one of the knick-knacks on my parent’s bookshelf was a genie’s lamp, I’d ask to go back in time 40 years.

But I can’t do that. So I just grasped onto the moment as tightly as I could. And as the final moments of the game ticked off, I wished for more time on the clock. 3…2…1…. Tennessee had won.

We sat there for a minute — and then watched a replay of Tennessee’s 1997 SEC Championship win over Auburn. Sure, we knew the outcome of the game. But the score wasn’t what mattered. It was the time on the clock.