The following is an open letter to Josh Malone from a member of our website. Enjoy.
Dear Josh (or are you Joshua, too?):
You know that Willie Nelson song, Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain? No? Not a Willie fan? That's okay, he always hated your hometown.
What's that? Nashville isn't your hometown? Oh, sorry. Gallatin. Yeah, I bet you're a country boy at heart. Johnny Cash would be proud of your persistence on that point. Although he would have no clue where the fuck Station Camp High School is. And this is probably a bad time to point out that, according to all his biographies, he really only went to Gallatin for detox.
But ok, so good, you at least know who Johnny Cash is. His good friend, Willie Nelson, wrote Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain. It's what I'd call an undeniably good song. And maybe you don't have blue eyes. (Ok, I know you don't, as I've memorized your Rivals & 247sports.com pages). And maybe you've never loved a blue-eyed girl. But your coy approach to recruitment shows how desperately you want to make blue eyes cry.
Today is your high point. After tomorrow, you’re hated by 3-4 fanbases the size of Metropolitan Nashville. You’re forgotten by recruiting “analysts” until NSD when they read your name off the ticker. And you’re just counting the days until you walk down a hill, into Neyland or Clemson’s version of Death Valley, and realize that the only people who get in line to study players walking into stadiums 5 hours before kickoff are sad people like the one who’s taking time to type this up.
Your high point is making blue eyes cry in December. So keep in mind, as you stare into the camera tomorrow, that the only people watching are fans of Willie Nelson. And the occasional lesbian. There's lots of fat dikes in the Appalachian boundary of the schools you're picking between.
Maybe we didn't love you quite as much as we should have. Oh no nevermind, you're the only thing we've talked about for the last 4 months.
Maybe the Vols are like a dying ember. Oh wait, you're picking between us and Clemson.
Your brown eyes will never turn to blue. But one day, as the song predicts, your hair will turn to silver. When it does, don't let your grandkids make fun of you for playing in the ACC. Let them look up when your left hip is debilitated by a catch across the middle during an Andre Ware broadcast when he called you Karl Malone, and let those heirs to your throne smile because they can see Saint Peter set down his Solo cup and get to gettin on arrangin' your star in that checkerboard endzone in the sky.