The Game

The Game refers to different things for different people. Some think of the West Coast rapper Jayceon Terrell Taylor, more commonly known as “The Game” or “Game.” Others may refer to the 1997 movie starring Michael Douglas and Sean Penn titled The Game. Most intriguingly and incongruously The Game is a game where the object is not to think about playing the game and, if you do, you lose. Did I just lose? Was I playing? The nineteenth century Russian author, Leo Trotsky, played a version of it that he called the “White Bear Game” with his brother where each man stood in a corner and tried not the think about a white bear. It’s a type of activity that involves ironic processing where the attempt to avoid certain thoughts makes them more likely to occur. For anyone growing up where I did this makes no sense whatsoever.

If you live or ever lived in northwest Ohio or southeast Michigan, all of the above meanings are Jabberwocky. We know there is one, and only one, meaning of The Game and that it happens only one day every year, one special, glorious or heartbreaking day of the year—the day The Ohio State University plays the University of Michigan in the greatest college football rivalry—check that—the great rivalry in the history of the world. Rome versus Carthage was merely a pillow fight. Nikola Tesla versus Thomas Edison couldn’t hold a candle to it. The Hatfields and McCoys were simply two families having fun with one another. The Burr versus Hamilton duel… okay that one comes close. Ohio State versus Michigan is the great rivalry.

No one where I grew up needed ironic processing to think about The Game. Who in their right mind wouldn’t want to think about it? We knew the other 364 days (365 days in leap years) served only one purpose: to think about and prepare for The Game and then, afterwards, to humiliate the loser or plot revenge on the victor. And on that one day, it was more important than Christmas, Easter, and (sorry Mom) my mother’s birthday. It almost didn’t matter if that day would be one of unbounded joy or of agonizing despondency—ALMOST. It was The Game.

Then one year in the late 1970s everything changed. The Game was more than The Game. It became a time to share the excitement, intensity, and the do or die tension of college football while clad in Scarlet and Grey. Why would you wear any other colors? Of course, some of my friends would wear Maize and Blue, maybe because they thought someone had to. At least that’s what I told myself. Any other explanation opened up the possibility that some of my friends were either a) mentally impaired or b) insane. What teenager wants to be associated with mentally unstable people? It was better to tell myself they made a personal sacrifice to wear Maize and Blue because who else would do it? That’s right. My friends were socially conscionable, not off their rockers.

I was invited to my friends’ home to watch the Woody Hayes led Buckeyes battle Bo Schembechler’s Wolverines. There were only a few of us there and it was fun to share this most important of days with my good friends Steve and Tim and their parents as well as Dave and Ron. That is as long as we stayed off the radiator. That could be a difficult thing to do in late November in northwest Ohio. But then Life did something I had never experienced before. It confronted me with a conundrum: succumb to the devilish cold or risk life and limb by slowly encroaching on the radiator for the little wisps of heat that struggled from it.

At halftime, magic happened. My friends suggested we go outside to play some football of our own. That seemed like a better idea than listening to Keith Jackson review the first half of The Game. I must admit I keep having these crazy suspicions that he also reported on other games played that day. It’s weird to have these thoughts because who else would be playing during The Game. Anyhow we had a blast playing our own game before returning for the second half. I don’t recall who won The Game. I know that’s about all that mattered at the time. I also know that I have more than a fair share of depressing, dejected, and demoralized memories of The Game. Certainly, that is the result of negative bias where negative events have a disproportionate impact on our memories and perceptions. That is the only explanation because neither God nor the gods (for those of various religious persuasions) would be so merciless and cruel to make such enlightened and worthy Scarlet and Grey clad fans suffer at the hands of a primordial menace.

Over the years The Game evolved. More and more people joined us to experience the great cosmic struggle. As teenagers and young men, we played harder and harder during halftime. At first, it was to one-up our friends and impress any spectators as to who could throw the hardest, run the fastest, make the most spectacular catch. We were newly minted men and wanted everyone to know it. It was even better when Uncle Joe joined us and proved that wisdom and age was a potent antidote to youthful exuberance and braggadocio. Just to be clear, Uncle Joe was Steve’s and Tim’s uncle. Over the years Steve’s and Tim’s Uncle Joe became Dave’s Uncle Joe and Ron’s Uncle Joe and my Uncle Joe just as their dad became our Pops and their mom became our Mom. Without really perceiving what was happening we became fortunate sons of a greater magic at work during The Game.

Suddenly, at least it seemed sudden, attendance grew ever greater as little ones accompanied my friends to The Game. Fortunately, by that time Pops and Mom had moved to a new place with a bigger yard and no one had to fear about trespassing on the radiator. Now the halftime game was about showing the youngsters that we still had game. Granted it took a bit longer for the arm to loosen up or for us to make a cut, but we still could play. Like always, there was Uncle Joe with us wearing a small smile because he could still hang and because he was watching us go through the very things he had experienced back in the day.

As too often happens, Life stuck its finger in our annual rivalry revelry. I moved away from home and missed The Game. I thought about it the whole day and ached to be there in the cool crisp air or maybe it was a cold, damp drizzle. A few days later I received a photo in the mail. There was everyone dressed in Scarlet and Grey or Maize and Blue gathered together. Steve was holding a paper with my name printed on it. Mine was nothing more than a corporeal absence.

I have made it back a few times since then. Always we would head out at half time and try to convince ourselves that our days really weren’t that distant in the mirror. That pass that was a couple of yards too short or too wide—only rust. The pass routes weren’t as sharp, but we didn’t want to show up the youngsters (who somehow had kids of their own). The stiffness and aches meant we hadn’t stretched enough and never mind that we never used to stretch at all. And there was Uncle Joe still with us and still wearing his smile.

Mostly I have been absent for The Game these past 30 years as my career has taken me far from where I grew up. But one glorious, magical day each year, the day of the greatest rivalry in human history, the day of The Game, I find myself transported back home. I can smell the autumnal must of dry leaves; feel the cooling breeze that hints at the dastardly winter northeast gusts that seek to destroy all living things; hear the grunts and groans of boys trying to prove they were men echoing through the years; and, discern the chuckles of men who know those days of speed and power were nothing but a wonderful memory. Even half a world away, I have moments when it feels as if I were in northwest Ohio or southeast Michigan.

The Game has transcended its original place in life. It may be sacrilegious but that day is no longer one of splendid delight or hollowed out pain. Blasphemy warning: I don’t really care that much who wins or loses The Game. The game is really nothing more than Merriam-Webster’s definition: “a physical or mental competition conducted according to rules with the participants in direct opposition to each other.”

Time has taught me that every year The Game was won by the same team—the team of friends who became brothers and their loved ones who became family. I will be with you in spirit if not in body as you watch Ohio State and Michigan play this year just as I am every year. It’s especially apropos on a Thanksgiving weekend. I am ever thankful for all the times we shared and those we will share in the future. Hail to the victors for the victors are us.