College football season is back! Born and bred a Buckeye, is yours truly. You holler “O-H” towards my personal space, and I’ll lobby back a hearty and impressive “I-O,” that would make Woody Hayes blush, even at a funeral.
Of course, you’ll have to explain to the confused mourners and minister why you were yelling “O-H” in the first place, long before we get to my explanation that I was simply completing your vocal tribute intended for the beloved deceased, who must have been a lifelong Buckeye fan, otherwise why would one offer such a rude spell yell during this somber occasion?
There you stood, midway behind a nearby tombstone, with folks mistaking you as a secret service agent, because even though it’s an overcast sky you’re still wearing sunglasses and sporting a wire connecting your cellphone to your ear. You and I know, you’re listening to the game.
Just as the casket is lowered into the grave, an ill-timed “Touchdown” erupts from your lips. How could you?
Several tearful relatives and friends now wondering why dearly deceased Aunt Matilda needed secret service in the first place. Was she indeed a double-secret agent all this time? I knew it! She was part of the Nikita Baryshnikov scheme all along! But Matilda is dead. Maybe the secret service was for someone else? But who? Who is really in that casket?
Upon further unsanctioned examination of the dearly departed Matilda’s home when the mourners convened there after she was planted, to politely sip punch, eat tiny wieners wrapped in bacon, and talk about her, it was discovered Matilda was not a Buckeye fan after all. There was evidence in her closet that she had allegiances…and a diploma, from one those Ivy League schools, which explains why she never married I suppose. But I digress.
Even during those self-discovering years living in New York City, Chicago, then later in Maine and Florida, when college football season kicked off, my Saturday plans were dictated by the Buckeyes’ TV schedule.
There was one year when we were playing at Penn State in Happy Valley in a night game, during what they called a “white-out,” which was when all the Penn State fans at Hello Kitty stadium, or whatever they call it, wore white.
In this particular game we had a certain star quarterback who shall go nameless because later he got himself in a sticky wicket for selling his golden pants or something like that for tattoos or lunch money, no one really knows for sure, except his hairdresser I suppose.
In this game though, our quarterback was wearing pants, I know this for certain. That’s a thing you’d remember if he wasn’t. If anyone wasn’t for that matter.
During this same time, I was performing in a play at a certain theatre that shall also go nameless, given what I am about to confess. As an actor I took my job seriously, never insisted on special treatment. I have my team of special assistants place warm massage stones on my back just like any other schlep would do. They put my pants on me one leg at a time. The hot, moist towels in my dressing room are sometimes tepid, but do I say anything? Do I complain?
But this particular evening I insisted on a TV in my dressing room, which meant I brought my own black and white TV from my apartment to my dressing room, so when I wasn’t emoting in front of 600 theatre folk, I was emoting in my dressing room, watching my Buckeyes.
I never studied at THE Ohio State. I have a brother who did, for many years. I think he would tell you there were a few extra years tossed in there for good measure, and he’s all the wiser for it.
By the time you read this Pulitzer teaser, the best time of the year has returned, and THE Ohio State University has likely beaten a fellow Ohio college football juggernaut, the Akron Zips, in the season opener, I’m guessing by what, 28 points? I’ll go with 41-13-ish.
And what’s with the word “juggernaut?” And why the “Zips?” I mean, we know Akron, rubber, and all that, and the galoshes, and before they were called “galoshes” they were called “zippers,” then shortened to “Zips.” I guess it’s better than calling yourself the Akron Galoshes. Or is it? But I digress.
My first Ohio State Buckeye game was with my dad, watching Cornelius Greene at quarterback, Archie Griffin at halfback, and Pete Johnson as our fullback. Three yards and a cloud of dust.
My son’s first Buckeye game was with me last year. He seemed mildly impressed, but how can you really tell what they’re processing? He has no idea how important going to that game together was to me, and probably won’t until he takes his own child to his or her first game, and I’m long gone.
He’s getting those fancy letters and postcards from colleges all over the country now, trying to lure him far away from us. He knows what I’m hoping, but I have to be prepared for the worst. I told him no matter what he decided to do, I would love and support his decision. I can only hope and pray that decision doesn’t involve that place up north. “O-H!” “N-O!”
Steve Burnette is an occasional contributor to the paper when space is needed to fill. He also serves as the executive director of the historic Murphy Theatre in downtown Wilmington, Ohio, and serves on the Board of Directors of the Ohio Arts Professionals Network.
