The Game
The Michigan-Ohio State game has always been a big deal in my life. No game was bigger, no stakes were higher, no tension greater. My mother came from a line of Ohio State graduates. Her father went to Ohio State at the same time Jesse Owens was there. My mother went. My uncle went and swam there. They had season football tickets. I have relatives that I have never met that live and love in Columbus, having gone to OSU and decided never to leave. That what makes my mother's decision so puzzling.
She and my dad got married in the late 60's. Earlier that decade, my father played as guard for U of M. He went to the 1964 Rose Bowl, although he wasn't in the starting lineup that year. To hear him tell, that just freed up his time so he could go to the Whiskey A Go Go in LA. They got an early version of gift bags, with a commemorative bowl, some binoculars, a watch (if I remember correctly) and some other stuff that I'm sure I was never privy to.
At the time of their marriage, my mother was working at a department store for, to hear her tell it, Adolf Hitler's young cousin. The man wouldn't let her out of work to get married and go on a honeymoon, so she had to do everything on the one weekend she had off: the weekend of the game.
So my father and his ushers and the priest and the minister sat around the television until halftime, at which point the wedding could take place. I don't know if my mother's family was speaking to him at that point, but OSU won that year and my father got a wife out of the deal, so I guess that called that year good.
In the years following, we had special family rituals we had to follow. Dad would put on the "Best College Fight Songs" record and play it at full blast, singing along to "The Victors" while my mother rolled her eyes and made cheese spreads and deli trays for parties that they would habitually throw. Then we'd have the following exchange:
"You know what today is?"
"No, Dad. What?"
"It's another Big Ten football weekend!"
And they'd play the game. We had the Schembechler years, that went on forever. We had the Earl Bruce years. I even vaguely remember Woody Hayes coaching when I was young, back when my uncle was still trying to recruit my loyalty for OSU by buying t-shirts for me on the sly that said "Muck Fichigan." My Dad would always point at Woody whenever they showed him and related the story of when Woody came to recruit him and said he'd be betraying the Great State of Ohio if he went anywhere but OSU. I don't think that pitch worked really well, the way things turned out.
After each game, there was the obligatory phone call. The gloat. Depending on who won, that team's supporter got to make the call. Either Grandpa calling Dad, or the other way around. The glee that would arise from a Michigan victory was truly a glory to behold, no matter if their record was 7-2 or 2-7 at that point. The rest of the season didn't really matter. And it was even worse for OSU fans, according to my father. That's why the OSU teams that beat Michigan got what was called the "golden pants" award. My Dad always said they had to make a special occasion out of beating U of M, because it happened so rarely. Michigan, of course, had no such award.
We eventually moved back in the vicinity of the games after a long period living in the south, where people mistakenly worshipped between the hedges, rather than in the Big House. And that meant actually going to games. I think we went to a few at Michigan. And one at OSU. In my grandfather's seats. Dressed in our Michigan gear. In 2000, the last year Drew played before that evil OSU grad running the Yankees lured him away to a life of obscurity. In direct contrast to most accounts of games in Columbus, no one urinated in front of us, no one threw buckeyes at us, no one poured beer on us, and no one spit on us or vandalized our car. I think that was actually why my father took me--to act as a potential deterrent.
I always rooted for Michigan because I didn't want my father to be outnumbered. Then I rooted for Michigan because they were winners. Now I root for them because they were important to my dad and it is important for me to remember that now.
My dad died a year and a half ago. Looking at U of M's record last season, he may very well have preferred not to have been around to witness it. This year, however, I'll be thinking of him and hoping he'll get to gloat in front of my grandfather in that big house in the sky.
Me? I went to Indiana. No delusions of grandeur during football seasons there. However, from December until April, I absolutely hate Michigan.
She and my dad got married in the late 60's. Earlier that decade, my father played as guard for U of M. He went to the 1964 Rose Bowl, although he wasn't in the starting lineup that year. To hear him tell, that just freed up his time so he could go to the Whiskey A Go Go in LA. They got an early version of gift bags, with a commemorative bowl, some binoculars, a watch (if I remember correctly) and some other stuff that I'm sure I was never privy to.
At the time of their marriage, my mother was working at a department store for, to hear her tell it, Adolf Hitler's young cousin. The man wouldn't let her out of work to get married and go on a honeymoon, so she had to do everything on the one weekend she had off: the weekend of the game.
So my father and his ushers and the priest and the minister sat around the television until halftime, at which point the wedding could take place. I don't know if my mother's family was speaking to him at that point, but OSU won that year and my father got a wife out of the deal, so I guess that called that year good.
In the years following, we had special family rituals we had to follow. Dad would put on the "Best College Fight Songs" record and play it at full blast, singing along to "The Victors" while my mother rolled her eyes and made cheese spreads and deli trays for parties that they would habitually throw. Then we'd have the following exchange:
"You know what today is?"
"No, Dad. What?"
"It's another Big Ten football weekend!"
And they'd play the game. We had the Schembechler years, that went on forever. We had the Earl Bruce years. I even vaguely remember Woody Hayes coaching when I was young, back when my uncle was still trying to recruit my loyalty for OSU by buying t-shirts for me on the sly that said "Muck Fichigan." My Dad would always point at Woody whenever they showed him and related the story of when Woody came to recruit him and said he'd be betraying the Great State of Ohio if he went anywhere but OSU. I don't think that pitch worked really well, the way things turned out.
After each game, there was the obligatory phone call. The gloat. Depending on who won, that team's supporter got to make the call. Either Grandpa calling Dad, or the other way around. The glee that would arise from a Michigan victory was truly a glory to behold, no matter if their record was 7-2 or 2-7 at that point. The rest of the season didn't really matter. And it was even worse for OSU fans, according to my father. That's why the OSU teams that beat Michigan got what was called the "golden pants" award. My Dad always said they had to make a special occasion out of beating U of M, because it happened so rarely. Michigan, of course, had no such award.
We eventually moved back in the vicinity of the games after a long period living in the south, where people mistakenly worshipped between the hedges, rather than in the Big House. And that meant actually going to games. I think we went to a few at Michigan. And one at OSU. In my grandfather's seats. Dressed in our Michigan gear. In 2000, the last year Drew played before that evil OSU grad running the Yankees lured him away to a life of obscurity. In direct contrast to most accounts of games in Columbus, no one urinated in front of us, no one threw buckeyes at us, no one poured beer on us, and no one spit on us or vandalized our car. I think that was actually why my father took me--to act as a potential deterrent.
I always rooted for Michigan because I didn't want my father to be outnumbered. Then I rooted for Michigan because they were winners. Now I root for them because they were important to my dad and it is important for me to remember that now.
My dad died a year and a half ago. Looking at U of M's record last season, he may very well have preferred not to have been around to witness it. This year, however, I'll be thinking of him and hoping he'll get to gloat in front of my grandfather in that big house in the sky.
Me? I went to Indiana. No delusions of grandeur during football seasons there. However, from December until April, I absolutely hate Michigan.
posted by Miss Head at
4:39 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home