Every year, around this time, we hear the same things. We pound the message boards with comments. We log hours reading blogs and sneaking a peek at Lindsey Willhite’s carefully-crafted articles while our significant other begs us to watch another cupcake show. We text with former buddies, former roommates, and our fellow alumni.
“I hear the defense looks really good.”
We hope.
Northwestern gives us that kind of bond. While some schools are always there, always in the race, always knowing what kind of season they’re going to get, we pack Ryan Field on Saturdays hoping to see a blowout, knowing we’re actually going to get a heart attack.
We look at plane tickets to Los Angeles, just wondering how much we have to save up for that elusive trip to Pasadena. We also look at plane tickets to Dallas, knowing we could be a Dan Persa injury away from the Ticket City Bowl again.
However, we still hope.
I’m a pessimist at heart, always have been. I would rather believe I’m a realist, like my father, just waiting for something with this team to go wrong.
I was born a Wildcat, although I never really believed it or knew it until I learned to hope in 1995. I was in third grade, wandering around the house on a Labor Day weekend, or thereabouts. My dad called me in, and said something to the effect of, “You might want to watch this.” Northwestern was hanging tough with Notre Dame.
I knew Notre Dame was good, I knew Northwestern to that point had been horrible, and something gripped me. It was one of the first bonding moments with my father over Northwestern football. The ‘Cats won, and a neighbor came driving by as my dad was washing his car gleefully that afternoon.
“We gotta get to some games this year,” the neighbor said.
Weeks later, I attended my first Northwestern game. The truth of it was, it oddly parallels seemingly every season after that. NU thumped Wisconsin 35-0. It was cold. It was really freakin’ cold. And suddenly, I was sold. I was in third grade and I knew I wanted to be a Wildcat when I got older, but really, this was when I became one. Remember that thing I said about it oddly paralleling every season after that. Well in that game, I saw Sam Valensizi get knocked out for the rest of the season by the angry Gods known as AstroTurf. You could argue, that played a role in the Rose Bowl loss.
But I was sold.
Years went by. I got older. I got my NU Starter jacket for Christmas. I looked like the freakin’ Purple People Eater, and kids made fun of me, but hell if I cared. I was a Wildcat.
I went through high school knowing I had to go to Northwestern. I had to experience it. Great school, great memories in Ryan Field, and just an undeniable pride in the school.
Every Saturday, we congregate together in our purple (God forbid you wear some other color), meet in the West lot or in Wildcat Alley (might I add this was the best thing the marketing dept. did ever), or at Mustard’s Last Stand to talk some trash on the other team, meet up with old buddies, make new friends, and share the shortly historic tradition of the modern era of Wildcat football.
And we hope for another magical season.
I know what I do on those gamedays, ever since I was student. My dad would come in from the suburbs, meet me and Wildcat Alley, talk a little bit over a few Goose Islands, and hop on into the stadium just in time to hear “Rise Northwestern.” Those are moments, I hope, you should treasure as well. These are memories that are made every Saturday.
Now I think back on it, and some of my favorite moments of my life have come at Ryan Field or Dyche Stadium, whatever you want to call it. I’ve seen some amazing games. I’ve made some amazing friends. And best of all, during the season, my dad and I bond over one thing.
We hope.
Filed under: Football
Tags: 1995, college football, fall, Fitz, football, Gameday, northwestern, Ryan Field
