Heaven must look a lot like a football Saturday

I realize that many of you out there are not die-hard football fans. Some could care less about the game. However, attending a university like Michigan and saying "I don't watch football," is a lot like living in Alabama and saying, "I don't eat grits." People may respect your decision, but the majority are going to look at you funny and think: "What's wrong with this knucklehead?" For those of you who just don't understand the whole football mania here (and even for those who do), I will try to explain by way of a story. Maybe it's fictional, maybe not. You decide...

 

Branden Sanz Dropping the Hammer

A young man wakes up to the blaring of his alarm clock. It is 9 a.m. on Saturday morning and his mouth is dry, his head feels about three sizes too big and he is in dire need of a shower. He pops an aspirin and washes it down with a 32-ounce plastic cup that says "Panchero's," brushes his teeth and jumps into the shower. He emerges feeling refreshed, but slams a cold cup of coffee anyway in hopes of killing off the last vestiges of his hangover. Donning a white "Michigan" tee shirt with blue letters, he walks out the front door of his apartment.

As he walks the streets of Ann Arbor, he sees animation everywhere. Parents are in town visiting with their student progeny; alumni are back, meeting each other and hanging out at old haunts together; friends are chilling on a myriad of porches; engineering and pre-med students are on their way to study.

Already the fraternity houses are booming with activity, a tribute to Dionysus. The young man grins as he sees this. Normally the sound of Destiny's Child blaring at volume high enough to kill small children would annoy the shit out of him, but today he doesn't mind it. He sees cases of cheap beer being passed out to the guys and the sorority girls that are pre-partying with them and smiles a secret little smile, for he too understands fratguy logic. Beer + football = Game. The alcohol is inherent to the math, as without the beer it would turn into something like football + game = Football Game, which is far too rational and reeks of Da' Man.

The young man walks on and meets up with some friends who have graduated but are back in town tailgating. Hugs are exchanged. His friends are barbecuing and the young man avails himself to a piece of chicken, hoping to settle his stomach. It works. Someone throws him a beer. He still feels a little queasy, but sucks it up and takes a pull. By the time he finishes the first beer, he feels much better. They catch up; talk about football, talk about life.

He has time for three more beers and a game of frisbee in the morning sun before they start moving towards the stadium. Like streams flowing into a river and then running to the sea, so does the crowd move forward, inexorably converging into a huge mass at the stadium. The young man smiles again, for he knows he is watching tens of thousands of people united in purpose. Old and young, rich and poor, black and white. They have come together today and the only thing they have in common is The Team. Your team, my team, it's all one - it is our team. The young man knows this and it makes him happy. Surely this is a good thing, he thinks. He knows evil - he has been evil. This feels the opposite.

He enters the stadium and sits down with his friends, but not for long. It is almost kickoff and everyone stands up. The kicker raises his arm. Suddenly, a breeze swirls through his section, momentarily relieving thousands from the unseasonably oppressive heat. The young man smells barbecue and fresh-cut grass and burning leaves, but he also smells the salt of sweat and the metallic tang of blood. His vision shimmers and the young man is suddenly looking at a different football field - a different place and a different time.

This is his high school football field. Or is it the field next to his childhood home where he learned to play The Game? His vision switches again and he is watching all three fields at once. The opposing quarterback tosses a swing pass out to the tailback, but overthrows him. When the tailback jumps and extends his arms, #17 comes flying in and crushes him. The young man knows this feeling, for he once played linebacker. He once laid a hit exactly like that in a game. It was beautiful. He felt so alive then. He remembers those times when he was playing The Game and nothing else mattered. He didn't care about drugs or crime or politics, never thought about the ozone layer or the vanishing rain forests. The whole of his existence could be distilled to the adrenaline rush of battle - the clash of bone and sinew under pads and helmets; the smell of grass and blood; the roar of the crowd and the screams of his coach.

But he feels alive now too. He knows he doesn't want to go back to high school - would not even if he could. But he wants that feeling back. He wants to feel happy and wild and free and full of hope - not at all like the jaded, tired cynic he sees himself becoming. And for three more hours, he will feel that way. He will be young and wild and free until the fourth quarter ends. After that? Who cares. Right Now is all that is important and Right Now is perfect.

- Branden Sanz can be reached via e-mail at hamrhead@umich.edu.