Back in 2000, life was different in America. Half the country didn’t know who Osama bin Laden was. People still liked George W. Bush. I spent most of my money on Digimon and clothes from Abercrombie and Fitch, a status symbol I craved.
But back then, on autumn Saturdays I didn’t think about those things. I was just at the game, probably eating a $3.50 frozen lemonade or reading a program full of histories of bowl games and biographies of Purdue legends (one famous wide receiver’s daughter was in my class, and I’m pretty sure the entire grade had a crush on her).
I had been going to Purdue football games with my dad at Ross-Ade Stadium for two seasons at that point. There were lots of people in the stands those years and Purdue was playing really well. Future NFL quarterback Drew Brees was at the top of his game, even setting an NCAA record with a 99-yard touchdown pass against Northwestern. My memories of these games are less connected with what went down on the field than with the goings on in my immediate vicinity – the stands.
For those two years my dad and I sat around a regular crew. Next to us there was an amiable Midwestern couple with asses so big they covered up our seat numbers. A few old guys and their wives were a nice constant, clearly longtime ticket holders with at least one pair of binoculars between them. Behind us sat a chorus of middle-aged dudes who wore straw hats and sunglasses on lanyards, swore a lot and probably chewed tobacco. And then there was the guy who sat in front of us.
He was the spitting image of the recently retired pro football great John Elway. Every game he was there with his trademark blue baseball cap on and four hours worth of insults prepared for the opposing team, their fans and, most reviled of all, the refs. After “bad” calls he led our section’s rallying cry of “Bull-shit! Bull-shit!” that I, at age ten and sitting next to my father, was too timid to join in on — although my dad was so entertained by the whole goddamn thing he probably wouldn’t have cared.
Over those two seasons I grew close with the people in our section -– we shared something special. United in our support, we were a team of our own. Games were an established, comfortable ritual. Until one day.
At halftime, the John Elway lookalike always got a hamburger with fried onions. I couldn’t picture him without one. He had that blue hat and that thick, red John Elway hair and those fried onions. But today was particularly hot out, so for the first time he took his hat off and — what the hell?! He was bald!
My dad and I looked at each other, slack-jawed, astounded. No longer the John Elway lookalike, he was now Surprise Baldy. My sense of reality had been thoroughly messed with. Who was this guy, really? How close was I to my section-mates? Still, the hilarity of the situation made future games even more enjoyable. On the way to games my dad and I would almost always talk about him, looking forward to witnessing his antics again.
Those were a great couple of seasons, but after Drew Brees left we stopped getting season tickets. The most obvious reason is that the team wasn’t as good anymore, but I’m not sure, because I never actually paid attention to the football. I guess I’m not wired for die-hard fandom.
Last February, my dad sent me a celebratory text when Drew Brees led the New Orleans Saints to their Super Bowl victory. My dad was elated; he always got into the actual games more than I did. It was nice to remember watching Drew Brees at Ross-Ade, yet I hardly remember a single play of his from our two years of season tickets. But that just goes to show you don’t need to be a sports fan to get something out of a game, because I’ll never forget the moment Surprise Baldy took his hat off.