At the onset of autumn, man's ancient instincts to leave the cave and to hunt begin to stir.

That inherent genetic code produces a beckoning from our ancestors to kill and gather our food.

Today we enjoy venison, elk, and moose steaks.

Not too much different than early North American tribes enjoyed a good mammoth or giant slothed tenderloin over a fire built at the side of the kill.

Hunting is part of who we are.

Sporting goods sales skyrocket as men of this era spend absurd amounts of money

on anything from a bottle of dough urine to a $90,000 pickup truck to be able to get to the woods and hunt on a $10,000 per year lease,

spend a few restless and freezing hours in a tree stand to finally utter the words to their wives upon their return.

I got one.

She rolls her eyes but remains silent as her husband tracks mud onto their kitchen floor

while holding several pieces of an unprofessionally butchered deer that leaves a blood trail

from the garage door to the sink, at which point the man states in his best Clint Eastwood impersonation,

I'm feeding my family. The wife rolls her eyes, looks at the refrigerator full of food

that she had just returned from the grocery store, and walks into the living room to watch

American Idol. She knows to let Tarzan have his moment.

This story is about one of those men.

His name is Frank Tucker, Frank the Tank Tucker.

Frank played football for a small Mississippi Town High School, and he was good at it.

Frank was an offensive lineman. He was and is

six foot five inches tall, and in high school he weighed just under 300 pounds. No one made a tackle

on Frank's side of the line. The coach installed a play that called for Frank to pull from the right of the line to clear

the way for a left end sweep.

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