Well, it finally happened. The man who turned Tennessee Baseball from an SEC middle child into a full blown frat house of swagger, eye black, and walk-off bat flips has packed up his short sleeve hoodies and headed west.
Tony Vitello is leaving Knoxville for San Francisco. Yes, that San Francisco. The one where a vegan burrito costs $22.
Vitello didn’t just win baseball games. He built a personality cult with better branding than most Silicon Valley tech startups.
He turned a sleepy college ballpark into something resembling an SEC tailgate hosted by Pat McAfee. There were umpire chest bumps and middle fingers, and even a 45 second stare down where he didn’t blink once.
Tennessee fans loved it because, deep down, they knew Tony was one ejection away from starting his own pro wrestling league. You can only be the most entertaining man in college sports for so long before the big leagues come calling.
He’s leaving a fanbase that thinks “analytics” means looking at an exit velocity leaderboard and saying, “That ball was crushed,” for a city that probably has Google Glasses that can analyze swing planes and spin rates in real time.
In Knoxville, Vitello could yell at an umpire until his neck veins formed a new state highway. Then the crowd would erupt in applause. In San Francisco, he might get written up in The Atlantic for exhibiting “toxic competitiveness.” Let’s be honest, he is now entering a city where the police have to ask permission before raising their voices.
Vitello wasn’t just a coach, he was a lifestyle brand. He turned Lindsey Nelson Stadium into a rock concert with foul poles. He made Tennessee Baseball fun.
So here’s to Tony Vitello, the man who made Tennessee Baseball must-watch TV (no pun intended).
Back in Knoxville, Tennessee fans are currently moving through the five stages of grief. Denial, anger, whiskey, Zyn’s, and Googling “how to make a burner account on Twitter and not be caught?”
Twitter is burning. Someone’s Photoshopping him into an Arkansas hat just to see how it feels. Others are coping by insisting he will hate the city’s traffic and come home by spring.
Spoiler: he won’t. Not yet, anyways
Because, of course, everyone with a functioning brain stem knows this is just the buffer job before he marries his true love.
San Francisco is the nice, respectable girl who reads The Economist and does hot yoga. While Arkansas is the wild ex who still texts ‘you up?’ after Super Regionals. Vitello’s just using the Bay Area to emotionally distance himself before inevitably taking over the Razorbacks once Coach Dave Van Horn retires.
Tennessee fans shouldn’t be mad, they should be grateful. The Giants gig is the perfect soft landing before he returns to the SEC to haunt them in conference play wearing red instead of orange.
Vitello is a walking energy drink who turned Tennessee into a baseball empire. Now he’s off to test that same energy in a city that prefers Oat milk to Red Bull.
If he wins, he’ll be a legend. And if he loses, he’ll probably still get a Lululemon sponsorship and a free plane ticket to Fayetteville, AR.
Either way, San Francisco, brace yourself because the fog is about to get loud.
Well, it finally happened. The man who turned Tennessee Baseball from an SEC middle child into a full blown frat house of swagger, eye black, and walk-off bat flips has packed up his short sleeve hoodies and headed west.
Tony Vitello is leaving Knoxville for San Francisco. Yes, that San Francisco. The one where a vegan burrito costs $22.
Vitello didn’t just win baseball games. He built a personality cult with better branding than most Silicon Valley tech startups.
He turned a sleepy college ballpark into something resembling an SEC tailgate hosted by Pat McAfee. There were umpire chest bumps and middle fingers, and even a 45 second stare down where he didn’t blink once.
Tennessee fans loved it because, deep down, they knew Tony was one ejection away from starting his own pro wrestling league. You can only be the most entertaining man in college sports for so long before the big leagues come calling.
He’s leaving a fanbase that thinks “analytics” means looking at an exit velocity leaderboard and saying, “That ball was crushed,” for a city that probably has Google Glasses that can analyze swing planes and spin rates in real time.
In Knoxville, Vitello could yell at an umpire until his neck veins formed a new state highway. Then the crowd would erupt in applause. In San Francisco, he might get written up in The Atlantic for exhibiting “toxic competitiveness.” Let’s be honest, he is now entering a city where the police have to ask permission before raising their voices.
Vitello wasn’t just a coach, he was a lifestyle brand. He turned Lindsey Nelson Stadium into a rock concert with foul poles. He made Tennessee Baseball fun.
So here’s to Tony Vitello, the man who made Tennessee Baseball must-watch TV (no pun intended).
Back in Knoxville, Tennessee fans are currently moving through the five stages of grief. Denial, anger, whiskey, Zyn’s, and Googling “how to make a burner account on Twitter and not be caught?”
Twitter is burning. Someone’s Photoshopping him into an Arkansas hat just to see how it feels. Others are coping by insisting he will hate the city’s traffic and come home by spring.
Spoiler: he won’t. Not yet, anyways
Because, of course, everyone with a functioning brain stem knows this is just the buffer job before he marries his true love.
San Francisco is the nice, respectable girl who reads The Economist and does hot yoga. While Arkansas is the wild ex who still texts ‘you up?’ after Super Regionals. Vitello’s just using the Bay Area to emotionally distance himself before inevitably taking over the Razorbacks once Coach Dave Van Horn retires.
Tennessee fans shouldn’t be mad, they should be grateful. The Giants gig is the perfect soft landing before he returns to the SEC to haunt them in conference play wearing red instead of orange.
Vitello is a walking energy drink who turned Tennessee into a baseball empire. Now he’s off to test that same energy in a city that prefers Oat milk to Red Bull.
If he wins, he’ll be a legend. And if he loses, he’ll probably still get a Lululemon sponsorship and a free plane ticket to Fayetteville, AR.
Either way, San Francisco, brace yourself because the fog is about to get loud.
