cincibuck
You kids stay off my lawn!
Never post something after your third glass of wine...
Oh, fuck that. Here are the shameless, maudlin, postings of an old fart...
It is finally feeling like football season around here. I love long shadows, light hanging in the far southwestern part of the evening sky, changing leaves and cool autumn nights. It's only now, as an adult, that I've noticed that autumn, red, orange, yellow and brown leaves, is only a three-week phenomenon. In my childhood mind it began on the first day of September and the last leaf didn't fall until just before Thanksgiving Day.
My sister was eight years older than me. I was Mom and Dad's futile effort to keep Dad out of World War Two. It was because Betty Jo wanted to be a dental hygienist, and not a teacher, that she went to Ohio State and I became a Buckeye fan.
I am eternally grateful.
My sister managed to get my dad and me tickets to games in the '53 and '54 seasons, and then, as an alum, seasons beyond that. I saw Cassidy and Tad Weed, Don Southern and Dick LeBeau, Jim Parker and Dick Schafrath, Aurelius Thomas and Jim Roseboro, and, and, and.
I saw J.C. Caroline of Illinois, Mickey Bates of Michigan State, Ron Vanderkellen and Pat Richter of Wisconsin and Coach Bernie Osterbaan's last Michigan team.
If I didn't learn the words, I at least picked up the melody of every Big 10 fight song. A percussionist myself, I dreamed of being one of the snare drummers that led "The Pride of the Buckeyes" onto the field.
I entered Ohio State in the fall of 1961. What a year! To see Bob Ferguson and Ike Kelly lead the Buckeyes to a national championship, to see Lucas and Havlicek lead the nation in basketball until Len Chaple of Wake Forest undercut Lucas in the closing minutes of the NCAA semi-final game.
The football Bucks didn't get to go to the Rose Bowl and the basketball Bucks came up short against Cincinnati. I remember how much it hurt then. I ponder how much it hurt those deserving champions that they didn't get their full rewards, but what really matters is that I learned that you don't measure your loyalty, your Semper Fi, your Duty First, only by victories. You measure it by commitment, perseverance, and simple things: like memories of great players and great games, worthy opponents, school songs, and snare drummers coming down the ramp.
I am so glad to be a Buckeye.
Oh, fuck that. Here are the shameless, maudlin, postings of an old fart...
It is finally feeling like football season around here. I love long shadows, light hanging in the far southwestern part of the evening sky, changing leaves and cool autumn nights. It's only now, as an adult, that I've noticed that autumn, red, orange, yellow and brown leaves, is only a three-week phenomenon. In my childhood mind it began on the first day of September and the last leaf didn't fall until just before Thanksgiving Day.
My sister was eight years older than me. I was Mom and Dad's futile effort to keep Dad out of World War Two. It was because Betty Jo wanted to be a dental hygienist, and not a teacher, that she went to Ohio State and I became a Buckeye fan.
I am eternally grateful.
My sister managed to get my dad and me tickets to games in the '53 and '54 seasons, and then, as an alum, seasons beyond that. I saw Cassidy and Tad Weed, Don Southern and Dick LeBeau, Jim Parker and Dick Schafrath, Aurelius Thomas and Jim Roseboro, and, and, and.
I saw J.C. Caroline of Illinois, Mickey Bates of Michigan State, Ron Vanderkellen and Pat Richter of Wisconsin and Coach Bernie Osterbaan's last Michigan team.
If I didn't learn the words, I at least picked up the melody of every Big 10 fight song. A percussionist myself, I dreamed of being one of the snare drummers that led "The Pride of the Buckeyes" onto the field.
I entered Ohio State in the fall of 1961. What a year! To see Bob Ferguson and Ike Kelly lead the Buckeyes to a national championship, to see Lucas and Havlicek lead the nation in basketball until Len Chaple of Wake Forest undercut Lucas in the closing minutes of the NCAA semi-final game.
The football Bucks didn't get to go to the Rose Bowl and the basketball Bucks came up short against Cincinnati. I remember how much it hurt then. I ponder how much it hurt those deserving champions that they didn't get their full rewards, but what really matters is that I learned that you don't measure your loyalty, your Semper Fi, your Duty First, only by victories. You measure it by commitment, perseverance, and simple things: like memories of great players and great games, worthy opponents, school songs, and snare drummers coming down the ramp.
I am so glad to be a Buckeye.
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