SKI-U-MAH

November 27, 2010

A day to remember.

Iowa Hawkeyes vs. Minnesota Gophers

Who hates Iowa? WE hate Iowa.

For normal people, this was just the Saturday after Thanksgiving. A day most likely spent with family, maybe decorating for Christmas. I'm not normal. I am a proud inaugural member of the new Minnesota Golden Gophers Rooter Club. I'll be honest, it sounds as lame as it is.

I received an email in the first week of the school semester, advertising this new cheering section that would receive prime seating at Gopher football games. I already owned season tickets, and I figured that this would be a good way to ensure that I would have good seats. So I applied, was accepted, and began attending Gopher games. By myself.

The Gophers have a dismal football team. Bad enough that I think I could even have a shot at making the team. That's a bad team. Going into the final game, we had two wins, both coming on the road. We didn't have a home win since the previous year, it was 20 degrees out, our opponents were ranked #24 in the nation, and I was staring down the barrel of a 13 hour night-shift followed by a Sunday at church. After considering all of that, I still decided that I needed to remain faithful to my new school and see the season through to the bitter end.

I donned my ridiculous attire, smiled, and began the walk to the stadium. I arrived about an hour early. The student section had maybe 20 fans. I posted myself at my front row seat (although I never sit during the game) and tried to stay warm. By this point I was beginning my weekly ritual of working myself into the delusion that the Gophers maybe stood a chance of winning. I think it was the fog from the fog machines going to my head. It was crazy to think that way. Regardless, before every game, I would scream myself hoarse, pounding on the player's helmets as they ran out of the tunnel and onto the field. I know, I'm supposed to be an adult, and act like it, but need I remind you I am not normal? Adulthood is boring and comfortable.

As the game began I added a second layer of gloves, immediately regretting slapping helmets in the bitter cold. My fingers hurt. This was it. The final game. The last nail in the season's coffin. The Gophers received the first kickoff. They scored. A touchdown. It wasn't uncommon for the Gophers to tease me like this, so I screamed wildly, but in a subdued sorta way. The Gophers then kicked off. Generally in the first quarter of a game, you do a regular kickoff. The Gophers tried an onside kick and recovered the kick. At this point I immediately abandoned all subtlety and threw all of my emotional capacities into the game. The louder I screamed, the warmer I became, so that was only an encouragement. This is when my delusional thoughts of a victory reached their peak for the season. The Gophers had nothing to lose, and they were playing like it. That's a dangerous team to play, no matter how pathetic they are.

At the end of the first half, the Gophers held a slim lead. This wasn't uncommon, as they always play exponentially worse in the second half. I spent halftime walking through the concourse, trying to bring feeling back to my toes. I also received a lot of odd looks due to my socially unacceptable clothing choices. The third quarter was scoreless. the final fourth quarter began. (As I'm typing this there's an epic movie score playing on Pandora. It's very fitting. And funny. Just pause for a moment and imagine some deep, pulsating bass sounds with flowing strings and increasingly louder brass. Now that the mood is set, back to the story.) The Gophers scored, increasing their lead. Then, as it inevitably happens when I predict tragic events, the Iowa Hawkeyes returned the ensuing kickoff for a touchdown. This also was not an uncommon practice for opposing teams to do. Iowa then scored again, taking the lead in the game for the first time, with only minutes remaining. The Gophers received the kickoff, and with the help of some acrobatic plays, drove down the field for a touchdown, regaining the lead. Usually when the Gophers score, I give bear hugs to everyone around me, whether I've seen them before or not. By this point, our hugs were not wild, crazy celebrations, but instead emotion-filled hopeful embraces, hoping beyond all hope that our misery was possibly over. But we had to kick the ball to Iowa again. They had a couple minutes, which is plenty of time for a team like Iowa to score, dashing our hopes once again, and retaining Floyd of Rosedale, a bronze pig we have been fighting over since 1935, I believe. On the second play of their drive, their running back found a hole and was running toward open field. But we are gophers. And we are sneaky fast. From the running back's blind left side came a Gopher who lowered his head (poor fundamental tackling) and speared the football loose. Fumble. I still remember watching the referee signal that the ball was going in the opposite direction. Gophers recover. If we can get one or two first downs we can run out the clock. My screams would have been primal at this point, but I had lost my voice quite a while earlier, so I sounded more like squealing brakes. I turned to the guy next to me and in the manliest way possible at this point, we embraced, trembling that victory was within our grasp.

The Gophers ran the ball several times. Iowa used their timeouts to stop the clock, leaving one remaining. The Gophers gained a first down. Victory was ours. Victory. Running out the clock was a mere formality. On the next play, as long as Iowa didn't needlessly use their final timeout, the clock would run out and the Gophers would be victorious. I braced myself, leaning against the front railing that separated me from the field. Extra security and police officers were positioned around the field. I did not care. At all. As the quarterback kneeled down, I vaulted myself over the railing and down to the field level, somehow without injuring myself. I shot a few of my trademark furious glances at the security guards, and they moved out of the way. I was on the field sprinting toward the team. When I was near the 50-yard line, the referee came on the sound system and said, "Iowa has used their final timeout." Lame. Scaling the wall back to my seat wasn't an option, so I sprinted to the sidelines and tried to blend in with the football team as best a guy with striped overalls and an aviator helmet could. The quarterback kneeled the ball a second time, and mayhem ensued.

A mad dash for Iowa's sidelines to recover our precious Floyd of Rosedale was the first order of business. The field goal post was lowered so that the students wouldn't tear it down. We would have. I was amidst the football team as we ran the pig over to the student section and band, where a hearty rendition of the fight song was screamed. (Ski-U-Mah is a Sioux Indian war-cry, and part of the fight song. Now you know.) The mass of people wound around the stadium, growing in number. A number of people would hit me on the helmet and yell, "Thank you!!" To which I would reply, "I'm not on the team, but you're welcome!!" What fun. As the mass dispersed after 10 minutes or so, it re-formed by the band section again for the traditional singing of the Minnesota state hymn after each game. The fight song was heartily performed again, followed by the solemn hymn, with all of the players and fans putting their arms around each other. I put my arm around a police officer on my right and the closest person to my left, The Gophers head coach. As the crowd stumbled through the lyrics, I leaned over to him and said, "You know, if we win more games, I bet we'll learn the lyrics." After this song the players returned to the locker room and I climbed back into the stands, practically skipping home to change clothes for work. I had a great night at work. I wasn't tired at all in church.

Who beat Iowa? WE beat Iowa.