I’ve probably watched the video about 20 times, and I’ve gone over it in my head hundreds more. I can recall the exact game situation from memory: It’s overtime at the 2010 Outback Bowl, and Northwestern has the ball on the 3-yard line. It’s 4th-and-goal, and the Wildcats trail Auburn 38-35. They line up for a field goal, and walk-on kicker Steve Flaherty, who’s never kicked a field goal in Northwestern purple, stares straight down the center of the uprights. He must convert this 20-yard try to send the game to a second overtime.
And then, chaos. The offense breaks abruptly and the camera follows backup QB Dan Persa, who’s running to his left. But Persa doesn’t have the ball; he’s intentionally dropped it on the ground and it’s been picked up by WR Zeke Markshausen, who’s darting off to the right behind a host of blockers. It’s a complicated trick play known as the fumblerooski, and for a second it seems that it will work, that Markshausen will dive into the end zone for the winning touchdown. This elation is very brief. Before Markshausen can leave his feet, he’s blasted by Auburn safety Neiko Thorpe, sending him sprawling out of bounds at the 2-yard line. Game over, Auburn wins.
Every sports fan should have a highlight that he thinks is going to end differently every time he watches it. It’s a unique feature of fandom that compels us to watch a replay of our teams’ failure, over and over, and be hopeful each time that the outcome is going to change. For me, the fumblerooski is that play. I’m inexplicably drawn to it, assured that this time, Persa will only fake the play and run through a huge hole on the left for an easy score, or that Markshausen will cut back and find a way to hurdle across the goal line for the win, or that Flaherty will just kick the god damn field goal and keep the game going. Of course, I’m always disappointed. Fumblerooski, tackle, ballgame, we lose. That’s the way it goes.
I never thought football would be a part of my college experience. I looked at schools like Tufts and Brandeis where the most impressive part of the football program was the mascot. Even after I chose Northwestern, I wasn’t exactly ready to dive in to a historically tepid program. The welcome pamphlet showed purple-clad supporters holding up a neatly written sign. Beat them with your brains! I couldn’t help but snicker.
And then, they started winning. They notched nine wins in my freshman year, and eight the next. It wasn’t just the number of wins that made me fall in love with Northwestern football; it was the way they eked out every victory, just doing enough to confuse physically superior teams with their clever spread offense and a smattering of trick plays. Some would say that Northwestern won ugly, often giving up swaths of yardage to average offenses, suffering a host of fumbles and sacks due to an undersized offensive line, and moving the offense with unexciting short passes and simplistic interior runs rather than deep bombs and long, thrilling carries. But to me, this ugly was beautiful. It was an exciting, new narrative for me; a way of playing football that I never would think could win games. I was always watching for new, crazy ways Northwestern could pull off improbable victories, and they didn’t disappoint.
During the 2008 Parents Weekend, Northwestern suffered a thrashing at the hands of mighty Ohio State. They came into town, invaded our stadium, drank our beer, and drove away with a tidy 45-10 win under their belts. Business as usual. I wasn’t disappointed at all, and not just because we knew we were never going to beat them. We were happy to be on the same field as Ohio State, and their fans seemed almost bored.
After going 8-4 in 2009, the ‘Cats were invited to the Outback Bowl, giving them another chance to break a winless postseason streak dating back to the Truman administration. It ended up being the zaniest, craziest, wildest, most Northwestern-like game I’ve ever seen. It was New Years Day, and I was incredibly tired and hungover to the point where I’m still not sure the game wasn’t just some hazy, Advil-induced dream. The ‘Cats got attacked by a powerful Auburn team that would win the National Championship the next season and led Northwestern by 14 on two separate occasions. But each time we went down, we fought back with a crazy assortment of plays. There were tiny passes that turned into big gains, sneaky runs from several different backs, timely turnovers and sacks, and a play where WR Andrew Brewer deftly tossed a 2-point conversion to one of his fellow receivers. Northwestern survived five interceptions, three missed kicks and three instances where the Tigers came rushing onto the field, believing they had won the game, only to have the play called back due to a penalty or coach’s challenge. Of course, it all culminated in that fumblerooski, the craziest play of them all, and a succinct expression of what it’s like to root for Northwestern.
At first, that replay crushed me every time, and I couldn’t figure out why I was so attracted to that Youtube link. Why would I do something so masochistic? I think I understand now that it’s important that Markshausen got tackled. It’s a lesson to me that when you choose to root for Northwestern, you’re choosing constant excitement. More so than other teams, you’re going to have exciting wins, but you’re also going to have exciting losses. I think a lot of college graduates would like to face life like they’re Ohio State: eminently successful, only occasionally marred by disappointment or scandal, easily content. But I bleed purple. I want my life to be one big fumblerooski: endlessly entertaining and wildly uncertain. I want to win some, but I also want to lose some, too. If you score the touchdown every time, well, what fun is that?