My History with "The Game"

I grew up in a typical home as a kid. My family was moderately conservative in the upbringing of my two siblings and me, which led to the usual, safe, stable childhood. No divorces, no fights, nothing like that. All in all it was a great way to grow up.

Except in 1996.

In 1996, I was given the greatest gift that any male that grew up in Big 10 country could ever receive: a ticket to the Michigan-Ohio State game. Growing up in Cleveland, the last weekend of the regular season, always the week before Thanksgiving, was hallowed ground. I vividly remember the first game that I watched when I was 5 years old. From that moment on, I was a college football addict and dreamed of one day making it to “The Game.” I was fourteen and a freshman in high school when my friend David invited me to go with his step-dad and uncle.

This also wasn’t just any game: Ohio State was undefeated and the #2 team in the country. The game was the last obstacle for the Buckeyes to overcome to make it to their first national championship since 1970. And Ohio State was stacked that year. They had a returning QB in Joe Germaine, the pocket passer, and could also mix in the more mobile freshman, Stanley Jackson as well. They also featured Orlando Pace at left tackle, Heisman Trophy candidate Eddie George at running back, David Boston at wide receiver, and Shawn Springs at cornerback—all four of whom went on to be first round picks in the NFL draft. This was going to be the greatest game for any Buckeye state resident my age to see: the first national champion home town team in my lifetime.

This is where the story deviates from the typical path. I’m from Ohio. I’m a huge fan of Ohio sports, culture, and economics. My mom was born and raised in Columbus and still lives in Ohio. I am also a Michigan fan. My best friend growing up was from a Michigan family (his grandfather was Bo Schembechler’s Defensive Coordinator for years), and they converted me. I savored watching Cleveland natives Desmond Howard and Elvis Grbac tear the Buckeyes apart. The John Cooper coaching years were some of the best of my life. In my room growing up my old Hutch football helmet with those beautiful wings is still prominently displayed. In 1997 I made my first trip to Ann Arbor for a hockey camp and was allowed to walk into the Big House for the first time. I almost cried it was so beautiful, and only when Michigan hockey great Blake Sloan threatened to tackle me did I give up my attempt to steal grass from the stadium. When I got to go to my first game in the Big House two years ago, I could barely sleep the night before I was so excited. So yeah, I’m a fan.

But it was not just the fact that I was a fan. It was the fact that I had the opportunity to do what every true fan really wants to do: be the fan in your rival’s home stadium. I was going to be “That Guy”: decked out in Maize and Blue, screaming Hail to the Victors, single handedly willing my Wolverines and second year coach Lloyd Carr to victory with every cheer, taunt and celebration.

Unfortunately, this is where my upbringing comes in to play. My parents were scared to death about this trip. I am not necessarily the brightest or most rational person about sports today, so imagine what I was like with the hormones and ignorance of a fourteen year old. Realizing my general tendency to “that guy-ness,” my Mom made me show her what I was going to wear during the game. I showed her my blue jeans, Michigan t-shirt, Michigan sweatshirt, Michigan jacket, and Michigan hat. My mom lost it.

“Do you have any idea what you’re walking into? Do you have any idea at all? I have been to this game—they will literally beat you up if they see you dressed like that. They don’t care if you’re a kid, they’re all so drunk they will attack anyone wearing Michigan stuff. No, you can’t wear any of it!” This led to, of course, a fight that was much longer and vicious than it needed to be, ending with the “compromise” of being allowed to wear “Blue” jeans to show my pride, and then a bunch of high school athletic clothes. Words cannot describe my disappointment. My only saving grace was that I was able to sneak my Michigan pin into my bag, but was still so scared of my mother that I would only wear it underneath my jacket in Columbus (yes, my mom could somehow watch me from 140 miles away. You learn how to be a ninja at liberal arts colleges in Schenectady, NY).

The game itself is not as vivid as I wish it was, partly because of time, mostly because at that age I figured I would go to the game at least 14 other times in the next twenty years so I didn’t have to take everything in. It was back before the additions to the stadium, so the Horseshoe was still a horseshoe. I remember seeing the scoreboard light up every time George ran the ball as it welcomed everyone in the stadium to “Orlando’s House of Pancakes” to celebrate each of his blocks. I remember sitting in stunned silence throughout the first half. Ohio State dominated the clock, Lloyd Carr’s offense looked inept (phew, thank goodness he grew out of that phase, huh), but the Michigan defense paid tribute to the NFL with a great bend-don’t-break performance. Ohio State was held to 3 field goals, so 9-0 at half. That, is Big 10 offensive football. I watched Script Ohio, which growing up in Ohio you were told was on the beauty scale somewhere between the Mona Lisa and seeing the naked body of Helen of Troy, and felt completely underwhelmed. Marching bands confuse me.

The second half was completely different. Somehow, Michigan rallied around Brian Greise. Long before he was the best QB in NFL history in terms of QB Rating, and long before he signed one of the three worst contracts in Denver Broncos history, he took this team to greatness in Columbus. Field goal by Remy (really parents, that’s the name you come up with?) Hamilton cut the game to 9-3. It is at this moment my lifelong struggle with restless leg syndrome began. Believing that victory was again possible and in a beautiful rust belt late fall afternoon, my right leg started twitching non-stop for the rest of the game.

The defense held Eddie George in check in the second half, and I could feel the fans starting to change their demeanor around me. As a Cleveland fan, I now realize that I was around a fan base that could already see where this game was going. You have to remember that this game was during the John Cooper era; the era of a coach who finished his career 1-8-1 against Michigan. Everyone around me realized the Buckeyes were about to blow it, as if they had skipped to the last page of the script and saw the ending. I did not know this, but after a 69 yard touchdown pass to Tai Streets (who was drafted that spring to replace Jerry Rice in San Francisco, and we wonder why that franchise has fallen off the reservation), their fears were realized. 10-9 Wolverines.

At this point, I’m beside myself. I’m so happy I want to do nothing more than stand up and Hail to my Victors in a song-like manner. But I heard the guy behind me shout, “If I see one more Michigan fucker stand up, I’m going to kick his ass!” I fully expected the parents around me to tell the guy to cool it, cut out the profanity, remind them that this is a family environment.

Instead, I hear my chaperone—my friend’s stepdad, my protector for the day-- say, “Fuck Michigan.” Wow.

Suddenly, I’m not nearly confident enough to do anything public. However, I still had that button I snuck into game under my coat. This button was special because it not only proudly displayed my football allegiances in the nipple area, like a mother would suckle her child, but it also played the Michigan fight song. Paying homage to my forefathers of middle-class and white heritage, I decided to go passive aggressive on the Buckeyes fans. I played the fight song during the TV timeout following Streets’ TD. I played it after first downs. After defensive stops. While the teams huddled. Any chance I got, I played that song. The fans around me grew infuriated since they couldn’t figure out who had it (remember, it was hidden beneath my windbreaker). I loved every minute of it—every F bomb, every threat, every scream by a Buckeye fan.

Late in the fourth, Michigan put it away with another field goal by Hamilton, this one being arguably the ugliest kick I have ever seen. I still think the ball went between the posts sideways, and it cleared the crossbar by maybe a yard. But it went in, Michigan won 13-9. Michigan not only won the game, but they knocked Ohio State out of the National Title game. Even better was that the Athletic Department still tried to pass out roses to the Ohio State players and fans to celebrate since they were still technically going to the Rose Bowl. Nothing made the victory sweeter than watching those players look at the roses and realize that no celebration could possibly be emptier.

I have no great conclusion to this story, other than to say that this was one of the greatest sport experiences of my life. No drive back from Columbus was ever shorter, few victories in my life have even been sweeter. It gives me hope every year during this weekend. Even when Michigan was awful and Ohio State was on the cusp of greatness, the rivalry took over and the Maize and Blue showed they had more fight in them than everyone thought with a new-ish coach. It happened when I was in the stands, and it can definitely happen again on Saturday. 3-8, second to last in the Big Ten in total offense? It doesn’t matter in this game. Hear that, RichRod, now is your time! Go Blue!