I thought I'd posted this a few years back. Turned out I hadn't. Anyway, since it's a long way to August 30, here's a little something for my fellow geezers to remember. The story first appeared in OSUAM in November of 2002:
The Furthest Fan
The Buckeye in the bunker knew he had to be the most distant fan, as well as the most devoted
By Forrest G. Brandt
Lai Khe, Vietnam. Nov. 24, 1968: My alarm clock rattled me awake at oh one hundred hours. I wanted to toss it across the tent, but instinct kicked in, telling me, "Not today, baby, this is the Michigan game!"
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.
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.
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 Columbus, Ohio, for a live broadcast of the game between the Ohio State University Buckeyes and the University of Michigan Wolverines." 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.
Oh, to be there!
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.
Marv's voice put me where I longed to be, knee-deep in Buckeye mania. It took me back to other fall days in Ohio 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."
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.
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 Columbus from Dayton 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.
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 Ohio. A lump formed in my throat as I heard the melancholy sounds of the Orton Hall chimes being recreated by the band.
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."
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 Lai Khe, Vietnam, going nuts!
"If you think you might be the furthest one, write to WOSU, Lane Avenue, Columbus, Ohio, and let us know where you listened to us."
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 Keokuk, Iowa, 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.
The Michigan 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, "California, here I come!"
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."
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.
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 Michigan 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.
The letter never came.
Forrest G. Brandt '67 (LM) lives in Cincinnati.
