I was born where the thumb meets the index finger. In my 38+ years of life, about 20 of which have been in the college football equivalent of 1940s Berlin, Germany, I have endured. There is no going back. My wagon was hitched to the beast of burden that is Michigan football long ago.  It may catch fire, be robbed by bandits in the night, break an axle; my son may get bitten by a snake, my wife suffering from dysentery, yet I still return for the journey each fall, with 200 pounds of meat in hand, no more. 

I have no control of where I am taken. More often than not, my journey ends in tragedy, as we so nearly arrive at our new paradise only to once again drown fording the river; sometimes the wagon just plunges into a ravine as soon as we leave. Either way, I’ll put something funny on the epitaph, shrug it off, and prepare for the trip again next fall despite knowing deep down I’m going to die.

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I was moving boxes in our basement to get all the Christmas decorations in order.  "Are you serious?" my OSU-loving-wife asked incredulously, "you seriously aren't gonna watch The Game?"  

I had made up my mind weeks beforehand to close myself off to the world at the stroke of noon.  I had seen this song and dance before.  While spared the year prior due to COVID, the previous two renditions I watched as my favorite team in all of sports was reduced to nothing more than a crater.  

"Nope," I confidently said, as I turned off my Messages, Wi-Fi, Bluetooth, COVID-vaccine GPS microchip, and any other technology used to track and/or interact with me.  I already knew how this was going to end; I didn't need to see the panicked texts from my small cluster of fellow fans, nor the gloating from my numerous OSU acquaintances.  Same story, different year.  Every fucking time…

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"Why do you like Michigan?"

I explained that my allegiance was borne in the same manner that theirs was for Ohio State.  "Michigan sucks!" they would inevitably reply.  It was a sick burn every time. 

We had moved to St. Mary’s, Ohio in the early 1990s, catching the tail end of a high school dynasty helped in part by a Division 1 talent Mike Elston, who would betray his homeland upon committing to the University of Michigan. 

Football began to overtake baseball as my preferred sport, largely shaped by my experiences watching the Roughriders under the Friday night lights, playing Tecmo Super Bowl, and watching Michigan football games in my parent’s bedroom on their massive 12” TV.  I had no concept of schemes or personnel, but merely knew that scoring touchdowns was a good thing. It was easy to watch a St. Mary’s football game because they ran 5 plays: FB dive, HB iso, HB sweep, QB sweep, and their trick play: the forward pass. Big dumb boring football for big dumb boring people.

My classmates at school were genetically predisposed to their fandom and the corresponding behavior; if you squinted, you could almost see a goatee and tactical sunglasses beginning to form above the "47" or "33" on their chest.  I was too young to truly appreciate the Cooper years, but it didn't stop me from gloating after Tim Biakabatuka ran for a million yards, or after they won the 1997 Rose Bowl, cementing their perfect season. All the shit-talking for nothing.  Their anguish sustained me.

It probably wasn't the best idea to close myself off to the outside world while doing mindless tasks.  I kept telling myself to not get hope, because it will soon be dashed.  I kept telling myself that they were likely losing, just as they had been doing for the decade prior.  But there was still that small sliver of hope buried in the corner of my subconscious softly whispering "yeah, but what if...?"  I tried to drown my ruminations by providing my brain as much audiovisual stimulation as I could.

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John Cooper would taste one more victory over his rivals before succumbing to a 2-10-1 record vs Michigan. By then we had moved to Fort Wayne, Indiana.  Ohio State hired a guy who looked like a church usher. Things began to change.  

Jim Tressel was named Cooper’s successor and from that point on, I began to navigate the stages of fandom grief.  OSU, constantly in the good graces of God/Satan/Dean Cain, bought a lottery ticket on a weekly basis and hit the jackpot every time; Michigan would get hit by a car in the parking lot, clothes exploding off their body like Charlie Brown hit by a line drive.

In 2002, I watched Purdue essentially control 90% of the game, holding the Buckeyes to 3 points with a little over a minute to spare.  My mom intermittently popped in to see the score, to both affirm her displeasure with Ohio State and root her best for Purdue, the future alma mater of her 2nd born, who was at the game as a student.  As Michael Jenkins hauled in that perfectly placed pass from Craig Krenzel on 4th and 10, I sat in silence as Brent Musberger did his usual schtick.  But I couldn't hear the audio, because it was drowned out by an exasperated "EVERY FUCKING TIME!"  I didn't need to say anything, because mom said what we all were thinking.  And momma knows best.  Apart from two games, one a rebuild year and one with an interim coach, OSU controlled the rivalry for two decades.

In 2004 I graduated high school and decided I would attend a small, private liberal arts school in the shadows of downtown Columbus.  I voluntarily descended into hell and was at ground zero for some of our favorite episodes...  

• an undersized underclassman QB tearing the defense to shreds in an upset win in Columbus.  He would eventually win the Heisman a couple years later
• Football Armageddon 2002
• The Horror
• The RichRod years and Hoke years all ran together apart from the Devin Gardner playing with 50% less legs 

They all ended the same. Even the 1-point loss was poetic. Michigan had played their ass off and went the distance, only to fall victim to their own schematic tendencies. 

I had seen this song and dance before.  It always ended the same. 

"Every fucking time."

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My only bridge to the outside world was my wife's face.  A beautiful face, if I say so myself, but a face that absolutely does not and cannot lie.  I would catch a glimpse of her cute, freckled visage to see that it was one of annoyance.  “No,” I reminded myself, “you know how this ends.”

"Are you sure you don't want to watch?"  she would ask.

"Absolutely not," I replied.

"You guys are doing well."

"Not another word," I stated and disappeared into the basement void once more.

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From Michigan's last victory vs OSU through COVID, I lived a lifetime.  I taught for a decade, got my Master's Degree, got engaged, got married, went back to school, had a kid, graduated from nursing school.  Michigan’s mediocrity was just part of life, now. Maybe they would be decent and go to a nice bowl game.

I stayed up on the new recruits and commits on Mgoblog, perfectly content with hypotheticals.  I enjoyed going to local high school games and offering my thoughts on some local recruits/commits for the blog.  I even fired off a decent enough tweet or two to have the honor of getting signal boosted by Brian.

I was okay with being entertained by average teams led by youth who could outrun the Millennium Falcon and with charisma so infectious, it wrapped you in its gentle warmth.  I was realistic about my expectations. The sea of goateed, pierced eared, script tattooed, dog-named-Brutus Neanderthals still reminded me that “Michigan sucks” but I didn’t care that much anymore. 

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Sometime after 3pm, my wife was still doing her guffawing and harrumphing, indicating Michigan was doing well and/or OSU was struggling.  For the last time, she asked "are you sure you don't want to watch?"  Before I could answer, she interrupted me to spoil it: "you probably should; you're gonna win.  Congratulations. You guys did it."

With that, I turned on my phone and pulled up the score.  It took maybe a second for my eyes to make sense of what I was seeing: Michigan 42, Ohio State 27.

"No way..." I said to myself.  I finally turned on the TV to witness the light snow drift to the ground.  The crowd raucous.  Something felt different. 

CJ Stroud dropped back for a pass, scrambled to his right, and was brought down by David Ojabo.  One pass play short of the sticks later, and it was over.  They had done it.  My phone began to buzz with all the messages I missed and new ones coming in. People were treating me like I had gotten that big promotion at Denny’s.  "Congrats!" "You did it!" "You guys beat our ass; plain and simple." My family thread was littered with cheers and emojis and gifs and apologies to my wife for her loss.  My mom, 1st grade teacher and regular church-goer, without missing a beat simply texted:

"Not this fucking time"

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Living and going to school in Columbus denied me any chance of insulating myself along my own kind.  My classmates, girlfriends, girlfriend's parents, in-laws, teachers, principals, students, student's parents allllllllllll had opinions about Michigan football, of which you were never spared.  When JT Was Short, I got texts from people I hadn't talked to in years. "lol GO BUCKS!" they said. 

It was a real treat when my students would inevitably learn my allegiances.  I would get anything from the run of the mill "Michigan sucks!" all the way up to a hand drawn Block O urinating on a Block M, which in retrospect was cute that they would even consider the time and effort for a simple troll; it still ended up in the trash. 

Even at my own wedding, when the bridesmaids solicited marriage advice from our guests, one wrote that my wife should "go easy on (me) when the Buckeyes keep beating Michigan," much to the delight of the majority of the attendees.  Constant, unsolicited shit talking.

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A year later I was running around in the Emergency Department at my new nursing gig.  Quite literally in downtown Columbus, there would be no avoiding The Game.  My expectations were higher that year but still low.  The game was at The Shoe, OSU still had a loaded team, they likely felt they had something to prove, and the weather was perfect.

Only able to watch the game in little segments, I was somehow able to be in patient rooms or at the physician's station where the game was playing on an iPad to catch some of the top plays: Johnson down the sideline, Colston Loveland shushing the crowd, Mullings’ throw, MacGregor with the batted pass at the line, DONOVAN EDWARDS AGAINNNNN 85 YARDS...THE DON.  

Drunks began to file into the department shortly thereafter. My phone blew up once more.  Pleasantries were exchanged.  Mom was silent this time.

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In August, just before the season began, I was in an ICU. Not in Columbus, not for work, not by plan, not as a patient.  I was alone. Mere seconds prior, that hadn’t been the case. Around 37 years before that moment, my mom had brought me into this world as I proclaimed my arrival with my first breath. Now I was holding her hand as she breathed her last.  

In a span of about 4 months, my mother was scanned and diagnosed with Stage IV ovarian cancer, underwent surgery in which masses were removed from her liver, lungs, and abdominal cavity.  She never came close to making a full recovery. 

I went from having a joyous, healthy mom, to sobbing at her bedside.  My sons will go on with life without a grandmother on either side; my wife's mother had passed the year prior.  Her death, too, was sudden.

Within a span of 3 years, I bought a home, left my former career (not something I was anticipating), went back to school for another degree, had a child, lost my mother-in-law, had another child, started my new career, and lost the first woman I ever loved. Three years; I felt I had aged 30.

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It was the sign stealing that had given Michigan the prior two wins. There was no other explanation. Stolen signs and snow and flu and stolen signs and just a few big plays and more signs. “Michigan isn’t good,” one of the few male nurses in the department confidently said, “they almost lost to Bowling Green.” Unsure of what game he had watched, I still had to guard myself amongst these heathens, but vouched nonetheless. “Nah man, Michigan is a good team.” He had a goatee, anyway. His words weren’t meant to be taken seriously.

Ryan Day cut a WWE promo and suddenly we were on a highway of destruction once more, only this time the stakes couldn’t have been higher. If Michigan lost, it would verify the claims brought forth by a PI company that he absolutely did not hire or tip off. The eye of college football was fixed on Ann Arbor. JJ McCarthy tweeted out a 3-letter word. Sherrone Moore let the world he has strong feelings, as Michigan was now their second stretch of the season without their head coach.  And then I watched in awe as a humble group of gentlemen, either unable to legally drink or barely able to, beat the shit out of Ohio State, Iowa, Alabama, and Washington without the use of performance enhancing drugs, stolen signs, The One Ring, or a goddam Game Genie. 

As thousands of “stories” rained down at JerryWorld in Dallas, I sat quietly on my brother’s couch taking in what I had just seen. 

Michigan won the national championship. 

It was an insane thing to fathom, as not that long ago, I was asking myself if they could beat Ohio State just once; in the year 2024, Year of our Lord, Michigan was standing on a three-game win streak over their arch enemy and stood at the apex of college football.

2018-2022 were not easy years for me on a personal level. Not all of it was bad, but the ups and downs take their toll.  Starting a new career isn't easy. Being a father isn't easy.  Being a husband isn't easy. Being a trauma nurse in an understaffed profession isn't easy. Navigating life without your greatest resource isn't easy.  I don't care how old you are...you never stop missing your mom...

But then I see these beautiful idiots thrusting folding chairs into the skies, dancing on the field at Camp Randall; I see Hassan Haskins break into the open field once more as the crowd roars and then "go to 11" as he glides over an Ohio State defender.  I didn't watch that play live, but that didn't stop me from thinking what used to be an impossible dream: “they are not losing this fucking game.”  

I hold my breath as the season rested on the right foot of a college kicker; I see JJ throw to a walk-on running back on a 4th down conversion with the game on the line; I see a converted receiver make up ground and play a ball perfectly, breaking up a sure TD pass and then give a Braveheart speech to his teammates, who inside already believed what he was telling them.  I see Donovan Edwards go plaid not once, but twice, in front of over 100,000 Buckeye fans, rendering the stadium silent apart from those pleading to a god that appeared to no longer love them.  

I see the human equivalent of a golden retriever guide the offense and tweet the 2023 version of a DX crotch chop, inviting the college football world to do something about it. I see a mountain sprout legs, reach speeds large objects should never attain, and run down an all-conference running back. I see Blake Corum speed to the endzone, sneer his lip and hold up a "6" and a "5" for his teammate that broke his leg the play prior.  I see the mortal embodiment of hypertension pace the sidelines, marveling at the beasts he helped create in the weightroom.  I see Alabama run into a wall of maize and blue that cascades down the field in victory.  I see the heart and soul of this team intercept a pass on the biggest stage, because of course it had to be Mikey.  I hear Mr. Brightside echoing in stadiums and in my brain.  

How could you not love this fucking team?

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I've always viewed the world as a closed system, that every action, no matter how minute, has consequences.  Whatever bad action or notion that came my way, I absorbed.  All the while knowing that at some point, things surely had to change for the better.  I was spiritually connected with Michigan football. We rode the same wave of endorphins.  And seeing such a fun, likable group of guys take in all the pressure, negativity, and general disdain from the college football world and wear it like a badge of honor, you can't help but smile.  It reminds me that no matter what happens, things aren't so bad.  That there's good in this world, Mr. Frodo etc.

So now I wait for August to come once more; my wagon is ready for the next journey in the hopes we can reach a safe end.  We have been there before; we know the way.  The path will be more difficult, but we worry not.  We have endured worse.  Maybe we lack the confidence once emitted on the biggest of stages.  We are content, nonetheless.  We have no reservations except for arguably the simplest and most important human experience, perfectly encapsulated by Sherrone Moore in a PG-13 postgame interview.  Their love was and is contagious.  And now we are left wondering, will we love the next team as fiercely as we loved this one?