Stunned
silence rushed through Autzen stadium with the speed of an avalanche. I sat dazed with my head in my hands,
hoping this football game was just a cruel dream. My father stood to my right, his eyes trained on the field,
gazing at the celebrating opponent with envy. All around us, faces that had been red from the November
weather were suddenly scarlet with fury.
Hands and jaws clenched as the bitter reality set in. My inner monster of despair howled.
The
day had begun in Salem with much fanfare.
The impending winter forecast loomed above us, and different outfits
were arranged. I paced nervously
about, trying to remain calm by reminding myself that my good luck hat had been
undefeated this season. I glanced
at a large pre-game feast on the table.
How could anyone be thinking about food at a time like this? My palms were beginning to sweat as I
continued to pace, muttering nonsense about offensive game plan.
“What
color are we supposed to wear again?”
The dominant color of the uniforms the Ducks would be wearing each game
was printed on each ticket. Fans
dressed in the same color, forming a giant, loud and synchronized creature in
the seats. Touchdowns fueled this
colossus mass of 60,000 addicts.
Every positive play cast coal into the fire.
“Black,”
I answered. It was to be the only
blackout of the 2012 season. The
team rarely wore the black uniforms, saving them for special occasions, to
harness more intensity from players and the crowd. Tonight appeared to be one of those nights. Little did we know we were dressing for
a funeral.
Many
people consider sports to be a pointless waste of time. Who cares about players moving a ball
down a field, throwing the ball in a basket or even hitting it in a hole? But the die-hard fans understand the
true meaning of it all. The game
is a group celebration of life and a shared way of understanding. Fans treat the players like family –
caring, reassuring, and scolding.
Oregon football is not life or death; it’s way more important than
that. For me, Duck football is
sacred time with my father.
Together we sweat out every important game, side by side.
On
the night of November 17, 2012, our boys were two wins away from a National
Championship appearance. Notre
Dame was locked in as the opponent and had Duck fans licking their chops in
anticipation. Oregon ran the
up-tempo lightening quick, high-scoring offense. Blowing out teams with regularity. Notre Dame and its prestigious old
style of play had no chance against the well-oiled machine of the Ducks. The coaches had pieced together a
towering monster of speed by recruiting players from all over the country. Our time for glory had come. All we had to do was beat Stanford.
The
Oregon-Stanford game quickly turned into a low-scoring slugfest. Our confidence and certainty abandoned
us late in the fourth quarter when a touchdown by Stanford tied the game with
seconds remaining on the clock.
The stadium rocked and rolled with nerves while the teams prepped for
the overtime period. On the
outside, we looked stoic, but the inner monster had awoken from its
slumber. We took deep breaths and
shouted encouraging words, hoping to cast the inner demon back to the
depths. Rage and despair reared its
ugly head as Stanford positioned to attempt the game-winning field goal. An eternity passed as the ball hurtled
through the air on a crash course with destiny. Our seats were positioned high above the field, making field
goals easy to view. All of us in
section 25 knew the kick was good before the officials blew the whistle. I quickly dropped to a sitting position,
head in hands, keeping my eyes diverted from the field. Inside, the monster cackled with
delight and grew in strength.
Thoughts and ideas fueled by rage and anger swept over me. My initial idea was to immediately
drive to Stanford and set the university on fire. I wanted all the players to miserably fail their
finals. I wished the team plane
crashed into a thousand pieces. I
hoped that the next time a Girl Scout came to my door, she would be wearing a
Stanford shirt so I could slam the door in her face. This was our moment, our home field, and our moment in the
sun. But Stanford gave us the
stomach punch.
I
was debating the pros and cons of prison time when a soft hand came down on my
shoulder and my father said, “we gotta get out of here, this is unbearable, I
can’t take this anymore.”
My
father gently brought me to my feet and looked me in the eye. His inner monster seemed more professional,
more experienced. As a long-time Duck fan, my father was more familiar with these
trials and tribulations. I was
not. A new fire-breathing dragon
burned inside my soul, already counting down the days until the next matchup in
Eugene. The opportunity for a
Championship and to die in peace had eluded us yet again. Ranges of emotion filled the air as the
addicts began to cope. Deep
breaths and hugs were shared, plots to tip over the team bus were squashed, and
the muttering about the chances of next year was already being discussed. The others marched out of the area like
Zombies in a trance. Regrettably,
my Dad and I joined the herd.
