I can take myself back to Tampa in an instant. I close my eyes for a moment and there I am, falling to the rain-soaked cement of Raymond James Stadium as the Auburn Tigers rush the field and the purple faithful turn away in anguish. The flashback leaves me in the same condition – part anger, part emptiness, part steadfast refusal to accept what I witnessed – I was in when it happened.
It is hard for some to understand such deep emotional attachment to the outcome of a seemingly insignificant event. “Don’t worry,” we’re told, “It’s just a game.” I concede that, on a basic level, it makes little difference that the group of men I supported carried a leather ball into a painted rectangle fewer times than the group I did not support. But what these well-meaning naysayers fail to grasp is that this attachment is both a testament to an institution and a connection to the people who are a part of it.
When it comes to big-time college football, it is admittedly easy to become jaded. Off-field scandals, recruiting violations and student athletes who only live up to half of that moniker take their toll on fans and followers, causing issues with the sport as a whole to obscure the magic of watching fellow students compete. A recurring personal theme at Northwestern has been my amazement at the talents of those around me and I don’t think I’m alone. It’s this sense of childlike wonderment – finding out that your roommate’s writing a novel, that the girl down the hall is an incredible violinist, that the guy in your econ class does Shakespeare in his spare time – that should underscore every game.
More than anything else, the Outback Bowl loss has shown me how grateful I should be to the team for making me care this much. That so many students and fans can get so depressed based on something that’s “just a game” speaks to the connection fostered between members of the Northwestern community. Through our pain, our disappointment and our sorrow, those of us in the stands that day could take pride, if not solace, in knowing that the players leaving the field were going through the same thing.
At the same time, this strong bond makes such losses all the more heartbreaking. It’s hard to overplay the impact of Northwestern football’s past on our expectations in the present – over six decades without a bowl win weigh heavily on the program’s shoulders. Every bowl game presents an opportunity: not to rewrite history, but to move past it. The Outback Bowl was the latest in a series of shots at vindication for a football team, a fan base and an entire community.
As I think about this history and reflect upon the game, it’s hard to avoid making a common fan mistake. We deserved a victory, I tell myself. We’ve suffered for long enough, our players have given so much – we deserved to win that game. Of course, to paraphrase Clint Eastwood, deserve’s got nothing to do with it. Like Sisyphus and his boulder, the Wildcats seem almost preordained to get as close as possible to victory before ultimately falling short. Dwelling on this, however, does more harm than good. When players and fans get too wrapped up in history, they can lose sight of what’s most important – the next game on the schedule (even if it’s not for another nine months).
I blink and it’s New Year’s Day again. For the hundredth time the game is replayed in my mind, and for the hundredth time we fall two yards short. The sadness still hits like a gunshot, but it’s also strangely comforting. As the game ends and I fall to my knees, it’s because I have a profound attachment to the team leaving the field. I am fortunate enough to go to school with my sports heroes, to take classes with them, go to parties with them and show up every Saturday knowing that their emotional investment on the field can be approached by mine in the stands. Win or lose, we all know we’re a part of something bigger – and that’s what will make the next win all the more rewarding.