And now, it’s here. For most, that means tomorrow is here: the holiday that often brings distant family and friends together around a table overflowing with food, in hopes that will inspire a fair share of giving-thanks. But for some in two states in the Midwest, at least, the couple days after tomorrow are fervently and anxiously drawing near (although hopefully they can still manage some giving-thanks): for what many have dubbed “The Game.”
Granted, sports, especially football, is not for everyone, and the collegiate level of it is not for everyone either. But for the matchup on the field between Michigan and Ohio State that started in 1897, entering its 121st rendition on Saturday, the friendly (or not so much) rivalry has overflowed into the mainstream culture of the respective states.
Some would say it all started over a dispute between the two friendly (or not so much) bordering neighbors ramped up on Toledo in the 1830s. Others would say it didn’t really kick into this intense gear until a guy named Woody and another named Bo strolled the sidelines for the Buckeyes and Wolverines, respectively. Although the two coaches deeply respected each other, they seemed to define their entire collegiate football success in not only beating the not-so-friendly neighbor, but annihilating them. Of course, as with any sporting rivalry that has grown over in (un)popularity spanning decades, folklore tends to emerge, including when Woody’s car ran out of gas near the border, he pushed his car across to Ohio to ensure he would not pay for gas in the place of that “team up north.”
Of course, because my family were fans, I followed suit, perhaps too far to the extreme: creating a “Buckeye Chamber” in the family living room during the fall months with Columbus Dispatch clippings from their Sunday edition covering the scarlet-and-gray, along with streamers and balloons, as if I didn’t have anything better to do with my life during my elementary and middle school years. At that point in the storied tradition, a guy named John Cooper strolled the sidelines of the Horseshoe, and did not fare so well against the maize-and-blue, and there may or may not have been some tears shed on my part, as if my whole world could revolve around a/The game.
So, fast forwarding a few years, it only made sense that the first congregation I served with out of seminary would be no where else than in Michigan. I still remember a friend of mine, who had been with me through a fair share of watching football on Saturday afternoons, helping me unpack boxes for my first on-my-own living in the parsonage. The Ohio State paraphernalia was starting to be pulled out with my intention of hanging such things on the wall, perhaps continuing with my own big-kid version of that “Buckeye Chamber” from my childhood living room. But my friend not-so-subtlely nudged that I might need to consider growing up, in the end.
Although that particular faith community was somewhat evenly mixed amongst Michigan State and Notre Dame and yes, “the team up north,” allegiances, of course the guy I came to depend on for the random parsonage attention needs was someone who would hope for the best for the ones in Ann Arbor. He wasn’t the type that wore maize-in-blue or sported a block-M hat, as he stuck to his plain clothes, instead. It was almost as if he was under the impression there was more to life out there.
He served in the Marines, but didn’t talk about that much. He eventually carried that over to a career in law enforcement, but again, didn’t delve into that much either. He would constantly serve as an usher, help with various needs around the church grounds, as well as helping his wife who led the youth group and other outreach activities; and yes, helped the naïve first-call pastor who didn’t know the first thing about house-maintaining, and did so with a sense of humor and whole-hearted caring and even tried to do the fatherly-figure thing in helping me learn how to do such maintenance-y things in case it may come up down the life line pipe. I don’t know how I would have made it through if it wasn’t for him, and plenty of other people from that “state up north” for my first extensive time away from (Buckeye) home.
As the days are fervently and anxiously drawing near, one song that has grown with folklore for the Buckeye end of things is, “We don’t give a d--- for the whole state of Michigan…We’re from Ohio.” When the scarlet-and-gray are actually pulling off a victory against their rival (which hasn’t happened the last few times out), the crowd attempts to shout that sung-chant at the top of their lungs, whether it’s in the Horseshoe or the stadium in Ann Arbor. Yes, some would say it’s all in good fun in a rivalry packed with nostalgic memories from the 1960’s sidelines to living room watch parties to pregame tailgating, but because of one guy in particular (and a fair share of others, to be sure), I can’t bring myself to sing that song anymore. Yes, I still pull for the team in Columbus, but I can’t help but see a bit of God living up north too. I can’t help but feel that the Holy Spirit got to me up there. I can’t help but…give thanks for them, too.
In Christ,
Pastor Brad
Image: Paul Sancya/Associated Press