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- Thread starter Bucktastic
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I can't believe you guys think fighting and Boston showboating define the rivalry. Those things define Cooper's lack of discipline and were a disgrace, imo. The things that define the rivalry for me are mutual respect, helping opposing players up after a play, low number of penalties and the unbridaled ENTHUSIAM for The Game, as seen on both sides.
Fighting and showboating are for Cryami and FreeShoes.
Fighting and showboating are for Cryami and FreeShoes.
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AJHawkfan
Wanna make $14 the hard way?
My personal favortie was in Tress's first season ('01). He took his kids up there huge underdogs and won the game. Wells exploded for 3 long first half TD's if I remember correctly. They held on at the end to win it in typical Tressel style. Set the tone for the NC championship season the following year.
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Jeffcat
Banned
it defines it because thats what the players want to do. obviously the lack of discipline on coopers part led to the showboating and fighting which isnt right but the fighting clearly expressed how badly the teams want a piece of each other. im sure they all have mutual respect for both organizations as do i but as soon as they step on the field our views and the players views are solely devoted to kicking their ass. hence boston-woodson fighting. it basically brought out the true colors. lol isnt boston and woodson related as well? i remember hearing that from somebody
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I disagree. Had Boston done those types of things on a regular basis, then the lack of discipline comes in. He did not. Not one of my favorite moments, but hardly something to be disgraced by. Coop's teams had been on the bad end of bad losses to scUM for years. What it showed, to me, is the players knew how important The Game is, even if Coop didnt.
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Jeffcat
Banned
yea no doubt there. they showed it before the game and during we just never had the knack for being on the winning end of things in the game. of course we looked like asses afterwards a couple times when we talked shit and lost but hey at least the players are ready to go.......coop wasnt.......end result........coop gone
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cincibuck
You kids stay off my lawn!
Best Michigan game moment? 1972 Watching the second field goal attempt go wide right, shanked off the toe of Michigan's kicker. Mintues before the Buckeye defense had held them on four downs inside the five. Michigan QB Dennis Franklin had shot off his mouth about "Only the best Ohio high school players go to Michigan." I was there as an extra sideline photog for the Dayton Daily News and was suppossed to keep my mouth shut and just take pics,(first rule of sports journalism, "No cheering in the press box.") but I couldn't keep from screaming at the sob, "Only the best, Franklin, only the best!"
My next best memory is posted below. It was in the OSUAM two years ago. Shameless self promotion. Cincibuck
The Furthest Fan
The Buckeye in the bunker knew he had to be the most distant fan, as well as the most devoted
<O:p</O:p
By Forrest G. Brandt
<O:p> </O:p>
<ST1:p<?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" /><st1:City>Lai Khe</st1:City>, <st1:country-region>Vietnam</st1:country-region>. <st1:date Year="1968" Day="24" Month="11">Nov. 24, 1968</st1:date>: My alarm clock rattled me awake at <st1:time Minute="0" Hour="1">1 a.m.</st1:time> I wanted to toss it across the tent, but instinct kicked in, telling me, “Not today, baby, this is the <st1:State>Michigan</ST1:p</st1:State> game!” <O:p></O:p>
I shook the cobwebs from my brain and throttled the clock while I located the uniform I had set aside the night before. I dressed, laced up my boots, and stepped into the night without waking my tentmate.<O:p></O:p>
With my portable radio tucked under my arm and four backup batteries stuffed into my pockets, I crossed the dirt road and ducked into the bunker opposite my tent. This was the first time I had gone to the bunker voluntarily. For the past two weeks we had been hit regularly by an elusive North Vietnamese unit, and I had hustled to the shelter as mortar rounds whistled overhead. <O:p></O:p>
<O:p> </O:p>
I plunked the radio down on the wooden bench and snapped the dial. The deep tones of Gary Gears boomed out from the Armed Forces Network studio down in Saigon: “Stay tuned as we join WOSU in <st1:City>Columbus</st1:City>, <st1:State>Ohio</st1:State>, for a live broadcast of the game between the Ohio State University Buckeyes and the <ST1:p<st1:PlaceType>University</st1:PlaceType> of <st1:PlaceName>Michigan Wolverines</st1:PlaceName>.” Next came the “Voice of the Buckeyes,” Marv Homan. He set the scene, noting that both teams were ranked in the Top 10 in the nation, the young Buckeyes holding onto a precarious No. 1 in the polls.<O:p></O:p>
Oh, to be there!<O:p></O:p>
I heard the fight songs in the background. I pictured the crowd settling into their seats in the Horseshoe: scarlet and gray everywhere except for that little section of maize and blue hunkered down in the northeast bend of A deck, just above the seats set aside for the second-best band in the land. I imagined alums balancing cups of hot chocolate, some spiked with a shot or two of brandy left over from a tailgate party. I could see kids stuffing their faces with the stadium special, an overcooked hot dog smothered in vinegary brown mustard.<O:p></O:p>
Marv’s voice put me where I longed to be, knee-deep in Buckeye mania. It took me back to other fall days in <st1:State>Ohio</st1:State> when I had had to settle for his voice in lieu of a narrow seat somewhere high in C deck. My bunker seat was just as uncomfortable, and my view was blocked by more than just a support beam. “This won’t be so bad,” I told myself, “as long as the Bucks win.”<O:p></O:p>
<O:p> </O:p>
The teams kicked off. I sat in the mildewed darkness, body pitched forward as if that would help me hear better, fists punching the air each time Jack Tatum or Jim Stillwagon stopped Ron Johnson dead in his tracks or Rex Kern turned the corner and scrambled for a first down. I gnawed my fingernails as the Wolverines threatened to blow the game wide open early in the second period. I caught myself screaming once or twice and thought how silly I would look if the guards should stumble in and catch me shouting “Hold ’em, Bucks!” at the radio.<O:p></O:p>
At halftime Marv was replaced by two young announcers who talked about the number of people watching the game on national TV, those listening in, and the lucky fans inside the stadium. I could count my dad and Uncle Cliff among the latter. I had sent a letter to a friend in early October along with a check for $75 (and a promise of more if necessary), asking him to do his best to secure two tickets for the Michigan game. He had written back telling me he was successful. Dad, taking no chances, had driven to <st1:City>Columbus</st1:City> from <st1:City>Dayton</st1:City> to get the tickets the Sunday before the game. I was glad they were there, but I wished that I were in Uncle Cliff’s seat.<O:p></O:p>
The announcers droned on. I tuned them out by picking up on the sounds of Le Regiment in the background. I imagined the precision of the band spelling out Script <st1:State>Ohio</st1:State>. A lump formed in my throat as I heard the melancholy sounds of the Orton Hall chimes being recreated by the band. <O:p></O:p>
My reverie was interrupted by the amateur broadcasters: “This game has drawn so much national attention. I wonder where the most distant listener is located.” <O:p></O:p>
I knew the answer to that question: he was on the other side of the globe, 12 time zones and the International Date Line away, sitting in a bunker in <st1:City>Lai Khe</st1:City>, <st1:country-region>Vietnam</st1:country-region>, going nuts! <O:p></O:p>
“If you think you might be the furthest one, write to WOSU, Lane Avenue,<st1:City>Columbus</st1:City>, <st1:State>Ohio</st1:State>, and let us know where you listened to us.” <O:p></O:p>
Who could be further? And I was not only the furthest, I was the most devoted Buckeye in the whole Buckeye grove, giving up precious sleep to listen to a game on the other side of the world. I deserved the recognition and some sort of award. They probably were expecting to hear from some animal husbandry major in a barn outside <st1:City>Keokuk</st1:City>, <st1:State>Iowa</st1:State>, or a geology graduate assistant sitting in his sleeping bag in Antarctica. No contest! I wrote down the address in the dark and waited for the second half to begin. <O:p></O:p>
<O:p> </O:p>
The <st1:State><ST1:pMichigan </ST1:p</st1:State>challenge melted early in the third quarter. I leaped up and down in my sandbag stadium, sweating and screaming. By the start of the fourth quarter my confidence in victory allowed me to launch into We Don’t Give a Damn for the Whole State of Michigan. I yearned to be among the rowdy mob that would descend upon High Street afterward. I wanted to belt out, “<st1:State>California</st1:State>, here I come!”<O:p></O:p>
It was over—a 50-14 win! Soaking wet, voice reduced to a squeak, and grinning from ear to ear, I emerged from the bunker into the deep dark of early morning. I hoped to grab an hour or so of sleep before going on duty. But the game’s great plays kept running through my mind. My heart pumped as though I had downed four or five cups of thick, black, mess-hall coffee. Sleep was impossible. I put my uniform back on and went to the office tent to write to WOSU, confident I would soon be proclaimed “the most distant listener.”<O:p></O:p>
For the next few weeks I imagined myself being magically plunked from Vietnam and transported to the Rose Bowl, removed from the war for just this one day, sent to Pasadena to hand each Ohio State player his own green shield emblazoned with a proud, bold, scarlet “1,” the combat patch of a legendary infantry division. <O:p></O:p>
The Rose Bowl came and went, with the Buckeyes victorious over Southern Cal 27-16. I gradually downgraded the dream. I imagined that two years from now I would receive two free tickets to the <st1:State><ST1:pMichigan</ST1:p</st1:State> game, and Dad and I would trudge happily up the concrete steps to the upper levels of C deck. The more reasonable side of me thought I would at least receive a letter from the two announcers anointing me as the furthest fan, 11,000 miles further than Keokuk, a thousand miles further than McMurdo Sound</ST1:p.
The letter never came.
<O:p> </O:p>
Forrest G. Brandt ’71 (LM) lives in <st1:City>Cincinnati</st1:City>
<O:p> </O:p>
<O:p> </O:p>
My next best memory is posted below. It was in the OSUAM two years ago. Shameless self promotion. Cincibuck
The Furthest Fan
The Buckeye in the bunker knew he had to be the most distant fan, as well as the most devoted
<O:p</O:p
By Forrest G. Brandt
<O:p> </O:p>
<ST1:p<?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" /><st1:City>Lai Khe</st1:City>, <st1:country-region>Vietnam</st1:country-region>. <st1:date Year="1968" Day="24" Month="11">Nov. 24, 1968</st1:date>: My alarm clock rattled me awake at <st1:time Minute="0" Hour="1">1 a.m.</st1:time> I wanted to toss it across the tent, but instinct kicked in, telling me, “Not today, baby, this is the <st1:State>Michigan</ST1:p</st1:State> game!” <O:p></O:p>
I shook the cobwebs from my brain and throttled the clock while I located the uniform I had set aside the night before. I dressed, laced up my boots, and stepped into the night without waking my tentmate.<O:p></O:p>
With my portable radio tucked under my arm and four backup batteries stuffed into my pockets, I crossed the dirt road and ducked into the bunker opposite my tent. This was the first time I had gone to the bunker voluntarily. For the past two weeks we had been hit regularly by an elusive North Vietnamese unit, and I had hustled to the shelter as mortar rounds whistled overhead. <O:p></O:p>
<O:p> </O:p>
I plunked the radio down on the wooden bench and snapped the dial. The deep tones of Gary Gears boomed out from the Armed Forces Network studio down in Saigon: “Stay tuned as we join WOSU in <st1:City>Columbus</st1:City>, <st1:State>Ohio</st1:State>, for a live broadcast of the game between the Ohio State University Buckeyes and the <ST1:p<st1:PlaceType>University</st1:PlaceType> of <st1:PlaceName>Michigan Wolverines</st1:PlaceName>.” Next came the “Voice of the Buckeyes,” Marv Homan. He set the scene, noting that both teams were ranked in the Top 10 in the nation, the young Buckeyes holding onto a precarious No. 1 in the polls.<O:p></O:p>
Oh, to be there!<O:p></O:p>
I heard the fight songs in the background. I pictured the crowd settling into their seats in the Horseshoe: scarlet and gray everywhere except for that little section of maize and blue hunkered down in the northeast bend of A deck, just above the seats set aside for the second-best band in the land. I imagined alums balancing cups of hot chocolate, some spiked with a shot or two of brandy left over from a tailgate party. I could see kids stuffing their faces with the stadium special, an overcooked hot dog smothered in vinegary brown mustard.<O:p></O:p>
Marv’s voice put me where I longed to be, knee-deep in Buckeye mania. It took me back to other fall days in <st1:State>Ohio</st1:State> when I had had to settle for his voice in lieu of a narrow seat somewhere high in C deck. My bunker seat was just as uncomfortable, and my view was blocked by more than just a support beam. “This won’t be so bad,” I told myself, “as long as the Bucks win.”<O:p></O:p>
<O:p> </O:p>
The teams kicked off. I sat in the mildewed darkness, body pitched forward as if that would help me hear better, fists punching the air each time Jack Tatum or Jim Stillwagon stopped Ron Johnson dead in his tracks or Rex Kern turned the corner and scrambled for a first down. I gnawed my fingernails as the Wolverines threatened to blow the game wide open early in the second period. I caught myself screaming once or twice and thought how silly I would look if the guards should stumble in and catch me shouting “Hold ’em, Bucks!” at the radio.<O:p></O:p>
At halftime Marv was replaced by two young announcers who talked about the number of people watching the game on national TV, those listening in, and the lucky fans inside the stadium. I could count my dad and Uncle Cliff among the latter. I had sent a letter to a friend in early October along with a check for $75 (and a promise of more if necessary), asking him to do his best to secure two tickets for the Michigan game. He had written back telling me he was successful. Dad, taking no chances, had driven to <st1:City>Columbus</st1:City> from <st1:City>Dayton</st1:City> to get the tickets the Sunday before the game. I was glad they were there, but I wished that I were in Uncle Cliff’s seat.<O:p></O:p>
The announcers droned on. I tuned them out by picking up on the sounds of Le Regiment in the background. I imagined the precision of the band spelling out Script <st1:State>Ohio</st1:State>. A lump formed in my throat as I heard the melancholy sounds of the Orton Hall chimes being recreated by the band. <O:p></O:p>
My reverie was interrupted by the amateur broadcasters: “This game has drawn so much national attention. I wonder where the most distant listener is located.” <O:p></O:p>
I knew the answer to that question: he was on the other side of the globe, 12 time zones and the International Date Line away, sitting in a bunker in <st1:City>Lai Khe</st1:City>, <st1:country-region>Vietnam</st1:country-region>, going nuts! <O:p></O:p>
“If you think you might be the furthest one, write to WOSU, Lane Avenue,<st1:City>Columbus</st1:City>, <st1:State>Ohio</st1:State>, and let us know where you listened to us.” <O:p></O:p>
Who could be further? And I was not only the furthest, I was the most devoted Buckeye in the whole Buckeye grove, giving up precious sleep to listen to a game on the other side of the world. I deserved the recognition and some sort of award. They probably were expecting to hear from some animal husbandry major in a barn outside <st1:City>Keokuk</st1:City>, <st1:State>Iowa</st1:State>, or a geology graduate assistant sitting in his sleeping bag in Antarctica. No contest! I wrote down the address in the dark and waited for the second half to begin. <O:p></O:p>
<O:p> </O:p>
The <st1:State><ST1:pMichigan </ST1:p</st1:State>challenge melted early in the third quarter. I leaped up and down in my sandbag stadium, sweating and screaming. By the start of the fourth quarter my confidence in victory allowed me to launch into We Don’t Give a Damn for the Whole State of Michigan. I yearned to be among the rowdy mob that would descend upon High Street afterward. I wanted to belt out, “<st1:State>California</st1:State>, here I come!”<O:p></O:p>
It was over—a 50-14 win! Soaking wet, voice reduced to a squeak, and grinning from ear to ear, I emerged from the bunker into the deep dark of early morning. I hoped to grab an hour or so of sleep before going on duty. But the game’s great plays kept running through my mind. My heart pumped as though I had downed four or five cups of thick, black, mess-hall coffee. Sleep was impossible. I put my uniform back on and went to the office tent to write to WOSU, confident I would soon be proclaimed “the most distant listener.”<O:p></O:p>
For the next few weeks I imagined myself being magically plunked from Vietnam and transported to the Rose Bowl, removed from the war for just this one day, sent to Pasadena to hand each Ohio State player his own green shield emblazoned with a proud, bold, scarlet “1,” the combat patch of a legendary infantry division. <O:p></O:p>
The Rose Bowl came and went, with the Buckeyes victorious over Southern Cal 27-16. I gradually downgraded the dream. I imagined that two years from now I would receive two free tickets to the <st1:State><ST1:pMichigan</ST1:p</st1:State> game, and Dad and I would trudge happily up the concrete steps to the upper levels of C deck. The more reasonable side of me thought I would at least receive a letter from the two announcers anointing me as the furthest fan, 11,000 miles further than Keokuk, a thousand miles further than McMurdo Sound</ST1:p.
The letter never came.
<O:p> </O:p>
Forrest G. Brandt ’71 (LM) lives in <st1:City>Cincinnati</st1:City>
<O:p> </O:p>
<O:p> </O:p>
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GoBucks89
Straight Shooting
Don't you mean 1973? That's the year their kicker (Mike Lantry) missed three FG's and the game ended up as a tie. 1972 was the year we held them on downs inside the 5, but I don't remember any critical missed FG's. But you probably remember it better.
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bucknut4life
even chuck norris fears laurinaitis
You mean this? :)
thats my all time fav memory from the game...i love those pics
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my favorite memory of the game is JT's first year. being born in '79, there werent too many to choose from, coop saw to that. My best friend is a scUM fan, though this week he is just another piece of shit, gave me grief throughout the 90's. even when we won, he would say next year. i knew he was right. then, JT came, we won in AA, and he said next year. i said, dont think so, its A NEW ERA BITCH!!!!
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'72 was in the 'Shoe and had the 2 goal line stands in the 14-11 victory.
'73 was in AA and Lantry missed 2 late FG's in the 10-10 tie. Corny Greene completed 0 passes that day because of a broken thumb.
'74 was in the 'Shoe and Lantry missed a last-minute FG when scUM was down 12-10. I was in the end zone that day, and I believe I was the first person to scream "it's wide" since the ball came directly at me.
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