“…Out, damn’d spot! out, I say!…Hell is murky…”
Lady MacBeth (Shakespeare)
She was my first love and I was introduced to her by my Dad in the late 50’s.
Long before “air guitars” he’d direct the fight song—my father would—with his air baton. Long before there was Tatum or Griffin there were others: like Frank Kremblas and Bob Ferguson and Tom Matte. Laying on his bed he’d cradle a pre-printed list of college football games, checking off schools with names so foreign: VMI, The Citadel…Lehigh, allthewhile listening intently to Ohio State.
My first love.
Havlicek and Lucas and Knight, the horror of ’62 (when the faculty rejected a Rose Bowl bid), the majesty of Coach Hayes (who my Dad would point out, ALWAYS), wore but a baseball cap and shortsleeves…
“Look,” he’d announce, ALWAYS, pointing down to the sideline.
“Yeah, Dad, we know.”
Cementing our love was ritual. We’d get down there each fall, to a game. Once—I remember it well—he woke us on Saturday—and we travelled by train. Tickets? Not an issue. Ever. Outside the closed end we’d wait, marvelling as our father worked the closed end of the stadium. How we’d worry that we wouldn’t get in! “Relax,” he would caution. “Right after the kickoff there’ll be all kinds of seats available!” There always were.
They were special years molding special memories and a special love. Indeed, not even tougher times could kill the regimen. Weekend stays at The Neil House downtown turned into one-night stands at a Nationwide Inn on Olentangy, but always hit The Jai Lai, always valet parked, and each and every meal there our reverie grew.
“Look, boys,” he’d remark, pointing to a large, framed black and white photo by the hat check; “That’s Woody. He eats here.”
“Yeah, Dad, we know.”
Al Bogart died suddenly in ’85. He was survived by Harriet, kids, and a legacy of love for God, family, and Ohio State. It is precisely because he would put them in that order that he could now understand what I’m about to say:
It will never be the same again…ever.
My Dad’s eyes closed long ago. He never saw, thank God, the way his grandchild was treated. He never knew, thank God, how the institution he prioritized for life so reckless threw his baby to the curb.
(Editor’s Note: I separated from active duty in May, 1972. Just days before we’d learned that, contrary to its prior promise, OSU would not admit me to grad school. Incensed over what in context is so trivial a matter—my Dad went wild! “They can’t do that to us,’ he proclaimed, calling Governor Gilligan. But they did. Even after a face-to-face meeting at the Statehouse with Ohio’s Chief Executive, even as the governor shook our hands telling us “Sorry, but the folks uptown don’t like me butting in,”, even then he pushed back. Face turning red, puffing his lip he shot back: “With all due respect, Governor,” he told Gilligan, “Jim Rhodes wouldn’t have let this happen.”)
It’s a living thing: history. What my Dad didn’t know, I just can’t forget. What my Dad didn’t see, I just won’t erase. It WILL never be the same.
The heroes of my past had nothing to do with the bottom-feeders on campus in ’01. And still…
I revere my past: those halcyon years as a Buckeye. But I can’t let go. Not really. ‘Can’t hear a score without thinking; can’t watch a game free of conscience…no matter how exciting it may be. Truly.
We can’t forget.
Intellectually I know, the players have changed. I wonder though: does the game go on? How many besides my daughter were compelled to move on while the bureaucrats danced on? (I read about the golden parachute the then-president of OSU got and I wanted to vomit. We hear the name of my daughter’s perp and we still get nautious).
I accept and I let go, but I can’t forget. Not really.
They won a game last weekend, the Bucks did. I’m glad, of course. And yet…as a national alumni rejoiced, my shout was muted. How couldn’t it be?
My father’s gone but his memory lives. The tapestry though, the one he weaved so well of God and family all framed in scarlet and gray, has a stain on it. On its border. Right at the corner of 15th and High, (shall we say?)
I will cherish always my memories of youth and revere warmly the “best years of my life” on campus.
They’ve soiled it though, indelibly. I can’t help it.
Godless pretenders feigning to be educators callously hurt our Little One. The thrill of an overtime victory can never eradicate the way my school, my First Love, dropped the ball in regulation—nor can new jobs for the old regime ever cleanse their grimy hands.
And this, time and change will surely show.