The plans had been made weeks in advance. Thanks to Delta Airlines, discounts at various Marriot hotels, and mainly my father's wallet and credit cards, we were making the cross country trip to follow the Vols.

Over the summer the game was moved to a Labor Day matchup in front of a national television audience to cap off the opening weekend of the college football season.

With the prestige of the Tennessee and UCLA football programs, a season opening game is one thing. Make the backdrop the Rose Bowl in prime time on a holiday, and it's a completely different thing. Needless to say, this was not your regular season opener.

So, my father, my brother, a family friend and I set out on a Clark W. Griswold-like road trip to the cities of Los Angeles and Las Vegas for a celebratory six day vacation to ring in the opening of the new college football season.

By the time Monday - in this case, game day - had rolled around we had logged over 1,000 miles on our Dodge rental car. Taking in all the tourist ‘must-do's' we had made the rounds to the Grand Canyon, hoarded the penny slots in the casinos of Vegas, taken part in the gluttony-like sin of the MGM Grand buffet, visited the lights of Hollywood and even dipped our toes in the Pacific ocean.

After getting to Pasadena, we ate breakfast at a tailgating-atmosphere IHOP with roughly 35 other football fans clad in orange.

There we were, 3,000 miles from home, going out of our way (way out of our way) to show up at the Rose Bowl, and the Volunteers couldn't return the favor of showing up themselves.

Pasadena seemed to me to be a very residential suburb of Los Angeles, and not just where we were staying. Driving to the Rose Bowl was pretty much just turning through residential areas until you finally hit traffic and realized that you're close to the stadium itself.

The surroundings of the Rose Bowl were similar to what you would find outside of most stadiums, a relaxed pre-game tailgate atmosphere with fans taking in the festivities in a civil manner; the exact opposite of the hostility that feels the air when two SEC rivals take to the field.

One particular point of ridicule I took was from a crowded line of maybe 200 or so UCLA students, who I assumed had dipped into the sauce a bit early. They made comments that I will refrain from printing here and I responded to their words to no one in particular with words that I also shouldn't print (partially because I was thinking to myself, ‘Hey, what do we have to worry about? At least we have a football program.' I would regret this during my post-game depression).

We made it to Gate A in time to greet the Vols as they were getting off the bus and heading into the stadium. It didn't take long for the surrounding UT fans to burst into song, singing the first of only a few joyful versions of Rocky Top, accompanied by the Pride of the Southland pep band.

Somehow we managed to stumble upon Rick Neuheisel as he was mingling with what seemed to be some kind of alumni or booster club. We got his attention and he made his way over to shake our hands and sign autographs, but come to find out neither of us had a pen handy.

I found it odd that two things happened in this exchange. He came out of his way, literally 10 feet out of his way, to greet people wearing orange and he didn't even have a Sharpie. Not only that, it was a mere 90 minutes until kickoff. Shouldn't he have been giving his Knute Rockne speech at this point? (I came to find out that me underestimating Neuheisel's pre-game coaching decision, or his coaching ability, was far from intelligent.)

We got to our section through a tunnel about 30 yards long that leads you inside the stadium from the outdoor concourse. Emerging from the tunnel was possibly the best part of the entire five day trip. Following the light at the end of the tunnel, we exited the tunnel to a full view of the Rose Bowl in all its glory.

Our seats were right around the middle of the giant UT section that took up one corner of the stadium.The seats were good enough for Pat Summitt and Holly Warlick's approval, as they sat directly in front of us on the next row. Summit was very hospitable during the game to all the fans wanting pictures and autographs, but having 10 or 15 fans asking for pictures and autographs in an already packed section got old quickly (except for the point in the second quarter when Isaiah Thomas, that's right, a member of the late 80's ‘Bad Boy' Detroit Pistons came to sit and talk with Summitt).

The game was, well, what it was. The first half was good with what seemed to be a defensive struggle. The atmosphere in the stadium was rather relaxed as you could tell the Bruin fans did not expect too much from their team. And so the nerves were soothed and I was ready for the Vols to land the knockout punch in the second half.

Tennessee was ready to put the game away early in the half, or so it seemed. Arian Foster's fumble inside the five-yard line turned the game around and you could feel the intensity of the home fans rise.

At one point in the fourth quarter, I believe it was after a UCLA completion to around the Volunteer five-yard line, I began to feel like Tennessee could lose this game. And that's when the aforementioned post-game depression began to set in. Something just didn't feel right.

That feeling held true when Daniel Lincoln's field goal sailed wide left and missed ending the game. And as the UCLA student section began an ‘overrated' chant, we Tennessee fans filed out of the grand stadium quietly with our heads hung low, our pride severely damaged, a feeling we have become all too accustomed to.

The depression was in full force as we made our way to the car. All the symptoms were present: nausea, upset stomach, thoughts of what could have been, text messages from my non-UT friends, looks of dismay from other UT fans as well as looks of mockery from the opposing team's faithful.

That was it. Our hopes of national glory seemingly dashed in three hours - after waiting eight months. There we were, 3,000 miles from home, going out of our way (way out of our way) to show up at the Rose Bowl, and the Volunteers couldn't return the favor of showing up themselves.

But I once again put to use a lesson the Vols had taught me since the tender age of two: There's always next year.