This is very long. It only deals with the Red Sox peripherally. Still, I think it's a decent read. It concerns events in Evanston, Illinois on the night of October 2nd, 2004.
*****
Yesterday, my friends and I went out to Deering Field to play some football. The topic of discussion, between all the missed tackles and bobbled catches, was the Northwestern-Ohio State game we were going to that night.
"Thirty-three years, right? That's how long it's been since we beat OSU?"
We may not be particularly good at football here at Northwestern, but we do love it, and with that love comes a surplus of knowledge. We know all the players, and given the small size of the school, sometimes we actually
do know the players. We know their weaknesses, their strengths, and their style of play much better than they do. Or, at least, we think we know better than they do.
So, when four guys from Ohio State joined our poor imitation of a football game, there was almost a tacit agreement in place. There was no point taunting one another, because the outcome of the game was, dare I say it, a
foregone conclusion. This is what happens when you root for the hapless. Losing, onec commonplace, is easier to swallow.
And besides. Thirty-three years? You can't overcome history like that.
When the game finally broke up, as the OSU guys were walking away, I shouted to them before joining my friends on the walk back to our dorm:
"Nice game guys, and good luck tonight. I don't think you'll need it, though."
*****
There is one Ohio State fan in our dorm: Steve, from Ohio. He's taking the ribbing good-naturedly as we ride the shuttle up to Ryan Field (which used to be called Dyke Stadium, but was renamed for obvious reasons).
"I hear we're playing the Overrated State University tonight."
"Staaaate School. Staaaaate School. Staaaate School."
"Hey, if football's all you got, you'd better be good at it."
...and so on, and so on. Steve is the only Northwestern student wearing scarlet and gray on the bus, and he'll be called on it a bunch of times during the night, but for now, he's content yelling support to the legions of Ohio State tailgaters. Since Northwestern's such a small school compared to the rest of the Big Ten, we're routinely outnumbered at home games.
This is spelled out very clearly to me as soon as I get to the stadium.
Red. Red in the parking lot, red in the ticket lines, Red everywhere. I start seeing red.
*****
I've despised Ohio State ever since my short stint on Northwestern's fencing team. At the time, Ohio State was ranked very highly in men's fencing, and Northwestern's men's team was a respectable club team. As a comparison, talent-wise, it would be like me lining up against Richard Seymour and expecting to come out on top.
Anyhow, they were bastards. With few exceptions, they were cocky and boorish, screaming incoherently after every touch and making a scene out of winning a bout. Their coach was an evil old Russian guy who made a habit of working the referees at every match, cajoling them into giving his fencers a few calls.
I spent most of my first bout frantically failing to defend myself, and most of the second pondering ways to injure the jackass I was facing.
Needless to say, I don't like them. This extends to their bloody football team as well. They remind me of a certain other team, only with scarlet and gray replaced by paralell lines of black and white. No pinstripes on these guys, but the feeling when facing them is similar.
*****
Brian Huffman jogs out onto the field, and the student section begins to cheer him. This is unusual for two reasons. The first is that Northwestern's student section is notoriously apathetic, save for a few diehards and obsessive frat boys. In retrospect, this should have been what clued me in to what was about to happen that night, because I've never seen Ryan Field that alive. Fenway Park maybe, but never Ryan Field.
The second reason is that Brian Huffman is largely responsible for Northwestern losing its first game of the year to TCU. In that game, Huffman missed five field goals, any one of which would have won or tied it. We ended up losing in double overtime. I still haven't quite forgiven him for this.
"I can't believe we're cheering Huffman," I tell Joy.
She agrees. "Huffman sucks, Joe. Ohio's kicker doesn't."
Mike Nugent is Ohio State's kicker. He has missed one field goal all year.
One of these men will figure quite prominently in tonight's game. The other won't. Can you guess which? Neither could I.
As the opposite end of the stadium begins to fill with red, like blood in a basin, my friend Matt laughs as the crowd starts cheering the Northwestern squad, who have chosen this moment to run out onto the field.
"Better do this while we still outnumber them!"
"Or we could just kill all of them right now," I suggest. "Localized superiority, man. It's what it's all about."
This suggestion rapidly loses steam as the Ohio faithful fill up a full two thirds of the stadium, including the balcony far above us. We give them the finger. They respond in kind. It's a very fair understanding, I think.
*****
A few signs I saw in the student section:
"Q: How many Ohio State players does it take to change a lightbulb?
A: Only 1, but he gets four hours' credit and it counts as a lab science course"
"You think you're excited? FEEL MY NIPPLES!"
"The Overrated State University."
"WTF"
My friend Dave is in the front row wearing a purple pimp hat, a purple cloak, and purple body paint. He will later be a candidate for the "Wildcat Fan of the Game, but will lose to a girl wearing a purple wig.
WTF. Indeed.
*****
Earlier in the week, NU defensive lineman Luis Castillo described OSU's offense as "mediocre". That's not to say ours isn't, but so far, we're making OSU play right down to our level. Huffman and Nugent have both made field goals, and OSU's offense has struggled. I'm vaguely enthused about this as Brett Basanez, a quarterback who last year had three touchdowns to fourteen interceptions, lines up behind center. We're fourteen yards away from the end zone. We're
driving.
Basanez takes the snap, drops back, and fires to Noah Herron. Herron, a dreadlocked power back, was part of a one-two punch with the immensely talented Jason Wright last year, but now, with Wright on the '49ers, Herron is the featured runner.
He proves this by taking the ball past two diving OSU linebackers and into the endzone. A wild cheer ensues, the yip of a small dog who's bitten a Doberman on the lip. I don't expect it to last, really.
It's starting to become apparent to me, however, that OSU isn't doing
anything. They have less than 100 offensive yards in the first half, and their lone touchdown comes on a punt return in the second quarter. Still, we're only leading them by three, as Brian Huffman decides to ignore the TCU game completely and drills another one through the uprights. He doesn't know it as he and the rest of the team run off the field, but as far as field goals go, he is done for the night.
The score at halftime is as follows:
Northwestern: 13
Ohio State: 10
*****
A large mass of people always seems to have motion to it. There are too many appendages, jaws, and eyelids fluttering for a mob to seem like anything other than a living, breathing animal.
And yet, as I look at the OSU fans on the opposite sideline, they are absolutely still. The marching band plays, and they are frozen.
I've seen this look before. It's not so much that they want to win. They expect to win. But they're
terrified to lose.
I think as I look at them, that by the end of the night, we will take this thing you have, this greatness at football, this expectance to win, and we will crush it between our thumb and forefingers.
I think this until I realize that they're not wearing pinstripes.
*****
Q: Brett Basanez, how do you start a third quarter in which your team is leading a ranked team by three points?
Basanez: You score a touchdown on the opening drive.
Q: Correct!
Basanez: I try, thanks.
Q: Next question: Say your defense has given up another touchdown to bring the score back within three. How do you start the fourth quarter?
Basanez: Trick question. You drive all the way to the one yard line in the final seconds of the third quarter, then you give it to Noah Herron and let him score.
Q: Correct!
Basanez: Boo-yah.
Q: Next question! They're within a touchdown now. Your defense is holding, but barely. You need to score. What do you do?
Basanez: Oh, man. This one's tough.
Q: Take your time. Or don't, because you're about to get sacked.
Basanez: Shit! I throw the ball over the mid-
Q: Wrong! Intercepted! This will eventually lead to a tie game, and overtime!
Basanez: Oh, hell.
*****
The fourth quarter ends with Justin Zwick throwing two incomplete passes, one of which Santonio Holmes almost breaks for a touchdown. I'm scared out of my wits now. I'm now fully committed to the idea of winning this game, and any threat to that idea is terrifying and nerve-wracking.
Overtime in college works like this: after a coin flip to determine possession, one team starts out on the other team's 25 yard line. They have as much time as they want to score. They must either score or get a first down within four downs. If they end up scoring, the ball goes to the other team, which tries to match or exceed their point total. If neither team scores or wins, the process repeats over and over again. We lost the TCU game on a field goal in double overtime.
This is where the NU defense, which is tired and almost broken, decides to play its best. The first play, a run, is stopped for three yards. Zwick is pressured into throwing two passes which alternately bounce off a receiver's hands and bounce off a bench on the sideline.
Mike Nugent comes out to kick. Everyone at this point knows he's nearly been perfect this entire season.
The kick is up, and it looks good. Here, looks is the operative word.
"I think he got it," I say to my surrounding friends, before the referees give the "no mas" signal.
The Ohio State crowd is silent again, and still as dead soldiers on a battlefield. The Big Mo, that ultimate intangible, is decidedly on our side of the field.
*****
Q: Brett, next question. It's overtime, and--
Basanez: Screw this. I'm running it to the two yard line on one play, and we'll let Noah bust it in.
Q:...That's correct, actually.
Basanez: Damn straight.
*****
Noah Herron takes the handoff, and sees what the rest of us only have an inkling of: a hole in the defense. He bounces off a tackler, turns on the gas, and screams his way into the endzone. This is where things start getting a little hazy.
*****
I remember a mass of people pushing me forward, of holding onto Joy's hand and worrying that she'd be trampled (she wasn't, just so you know), of screaming, "Everyone on the field, now! NOW!
NOW, YOU BASTARDS! GO!", of teetering on the edge of the barrier before being helped down, of finding as many Northwestern players as possible and pounding on their shoulderpads and screaming at them that this was the best game they'd ever played, of pushing my way to the goalpost, and then past it as a bunch of guys tried to bring it down.
I remember making my way past Dave and his pimp hat, and then losing him in the crowd. I remember screaming at Castillo, and seeing him smile, taking the entire scene in. I remember patting linebacker Tim McGarigle on the back and realizing his entire uniform was soaked to the core in sweat and dew.
I remember the OSU stands emptying, the fans fleeing the field like they were a routing army chased by barbarians. I remember seeing cops pull students down from the goalposts and beating them up, and stopping when our mascot, Willie the Wildcat, climbed up as well. He fell, but popped right back up on that goalpost. There was no way they were bringing it down, as it was sunk 20 feet into the ground with cement, but it's more the idea that counts.
Thirty-three years? Not so insurmountable. This is why they play the games, you know. It got me thinking that nothing lasts forever.
Thirty-three years?
What's thirty-three years?
What's eighty-six years?
Nothing, really.
I remember thinking how much I bloody well love seeing an underdog win.
