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- Thread starter BB73
- Start date
cincibuck
You kids stay off my lawn!
BUCKEYE BUNKER
Lai Khe, November 24, 1968: My alarm clock rattled me awake at one in the morning. I would have loved to have tossed it across the tent, but some well preserved instinct kicked in telling me, “Not today baby, this is the Michigan game!” I shook the cobwebs from my brain, throttled the clock with one hand while I located the socks, uniform and boots I had set aside the night before. Dressed I stepped into the night without waking my tent mate.
With my portable radio tucked under my arm and four back up batteries stuffed into my pockets, I crossed the dirt road and ducked into the bunker that sat just opposite our tent. This was the first time I had gone to the bunker on a purely voluntary basis. For the past two weeks we had been hit by an elusive NVA unit regularly 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. Army Specialist Gary Gears’ deep tones boomed out from the AFVN (Armed Forces Network, Vietnam) studio down in Saigon, “Now 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 Buckeyes”, Marv Homan. He quickly set the scene, noting that both teams were ranked in the top ten in the nation, the young Buckeyes holding onto a precarious number one in the polls.
Oh to be there!
I could hear the fight songs in the background, I could see the crowd, in excess of 89,000, settling into seats in the huge horseshoe; scarlet and gray clad folks 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 carefully balancing thick paper cups of hot chocolate, some sporting a shot or two of brandy left over from the tailgate party. I could see kids stuffing their faces with the stadium special; an overcooked hot dog smothered in vinegary brown mustard.
I was homesick, but Marv’s voice had just the right edge to put me back where I longed to be, knee deep in Buckeye mania, right on the fifty yard line of life. It took me back to other fall days in Ohio when I had had to settle for his voice in lieu of a narrow, splintery seat somewhere high in ‘C’ deck. My bunker seat was just as uncomfortable and my vision 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 and I sat in the dank, mildewed darkness, listening, body pitched forward as if that would help me hear better, fists punching the pitch black 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. My teeth sought out my fingernails as the Wolverines threatened to build their lead early in the second period.
This was so unfair, locked in a sand bag hovel twelve thousand miles from where I belonged. I caught myself screaming once or twice and thought about how silly I would look if the perimeter guards would stumble in, catch me in the cone of light from their flashlights, standing hunched over, head just below the roof of sandbags, screaming, “Hold ‘em Bucks!” at the hapless radio.
Half time came and Marv was replaced by two young announcers who talked about the number of people watching the game on national TV, those listening in and those lucky few inside the stadium. I could count my dad and Uncle Cliff among the latter. I had sent a letter to my fraternity little brother, Mark Palmer, in early October along with a check for $75.00 (and a promise of more if necessary) asking him to do his best to secure two tickets anywhere for the Michigan game. Mark had written back telling me he was successful. Dad, taking no chances, had driven up to Columbus from Dayton to secure the tickets the Sunday before the game. I was glad they were there, but I wished more that I was in Uncle Cliff’s seat.
The two 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 navy clad band spelling out ‘Ohio,’ the Scarlet jacketed drum major directing the solitary bass to his spot atop the ‘i’. I felt a lump form in my throat as I heard the melancholy sounds of the Orton Hall chimes being recreated by 200 bandsmen.
My reverie was interrupted by the amateur broadcasters, “Tom, this game has drawn so much national attention, I wonder where the most distant listener of this game is located.”
I knew the answer to that question; exactly on the other side of the globe, twelve time zones and an International Date Line away, sitting in a bunker in Lai Khe, Vietnam, going nuts!
“So, if you think you might be the one, let us know. Write to WOSU, Lane Ave., Columbus, Ohio and let us know where you listened to us.”
I had to be it. Who could be further? I was not only furthest, I was the most sincere 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 “faithful fan” award. They were probably holding out for a note 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 the address down in the dark. Then I 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, bent over, sweating and screaming, “OH - AITCH!” and then answering myself, “AYE - OH!” By the start of the fourth quarter my confidence in victory allowed me to launch into an a capella rendition of 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. I wanted to belt out, “California here I come!”
Around four hundred hours, soaking wet, voice reduced to a squeak and grinning from ear to ear, I emerged from the bunker, back into the deep dark of early morning. I tried to grab an hour or so of sleep before having to get up and go back on duty. The game’s great plays ran through my mind. My heart pumped as though I had downed four or five cups of thick, black, Army mess hall coffee. Within minutes I knew it was useless. I put my uniform back on and wandered down to the office tent, located my desk and began writing to WOSU confident I would soon have my answer proclaiming me as, “the most distant listener.”
For the next few weeks I imagined myself being magically plunked from the ranks of the First Infantry Division, The Big Red One, and transported to the Rose Bowl, a son of The Ohio State University, removed from the war for just this one day, just this one game, sent to Pasadena to hand each OSU player his own green shield emblazoned with a proud, bold, scarlet ‘1’, the combat patch of a legendary infantry division, to help the Buckeyes become college football’s Big Red One.
The Rose Bowl over, Woody Hayes arrived in Vietnam and my boss assigned me to be the escort officer when he reached Lai Khe. Unfortunately a monsoon storm moved through and his trip to our base was cancelled.
I gradually downgraded the dream. I imagined that two years from this day 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 soon receive a letter from the twin announcers who had posed the distance question, anointing me as the “fan from the furthest location,” eleven thousand miles further than Keokuk, one thousand further than McMurdo Sound.
The official announcement never arrived.
Lai Khe, November 24, 1968: My alarm clock rattled me awake at one in the morning. I would have loved to have tossed it across the tent, but some well preserved instinct kicked in telling me, “Not today baby, this is the Michigan game!” I shook the cobwebs from my brain, throttled the clock with one hand while I located the socks, uniform and boots I had set aside the night before. Dressed I stepped into the night without waking my tent mate.
With my portable radio tucked under my arm and four back up batteries stuffed into my pockets, I crossed the dirt road and ducked into the bunker that sat just opposite our tent. This was the first time I had gone to the bunker on a purely voluntary basis. For the past two weeks we had been hit by an elusive NVA unit regularly 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. Army Specialist Gary Gears’ deep tones boomed out from the AFVN (Armed Forces Network, Vietnam) studio down in Saigon, “Now 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 Buckeyes”, Marv Homan. He quickly set the scene, noting that both teams were ranked in the top ten in the nation, the young Buckeyes holding onto a precarious number one in the polls.
Oh to be there!
I could hear the fight songs in the background, I could see the crowd, in excess of 89,000, settling into seats in the huge horseshoe; scarlet and gray clad folks 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 carefully balancing thick paper cups of hot chocolate, some sporting a shot or two of brandy left over from the tailgate party. I could see kids stuffing their faces with the stadium special; an overcooked hot dog smothered in vinegary brown mustard.
I was homesick, but Marv’s voice had just the right edge to put me back where I longed to be, knee deep in Buckeye mania, right on the fifty yard line of life. It took me back to other fall days in Ohio when I had had to settle for his voice in lieu of a narrow, splintery seat somewhere high in ‘C’ deck. My bunker seat was just as uncomfortable and my vision 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 and I sat in the dank, mildewed darkness, listening, body pitched forward as if that would help me hear better, fists punching the pitch black 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. My teeth sought out my fingernails as the Wolverines threatened to build their lead early in the second period.
This was so unfair, locked in a sand bag hovel twelve thousand miles from where I belonged. I caught myself screaming once or twice and thought about how silly I would look if the perimeter guards would stumble in, catch me in the cone of light from their flashlights, standing hunched over, head just below the roof of sandbags, screaming, “Hold ‘em Bucks!” at the hapless radio.
Half time came and Marv was replaced by two young announcers who talked about the number of people watching the game on national TV, those listening in and those lucky few inside the stadium. I could count my dad and Uncle Cliff among the latter. I had sent a letter to my fraternity little brother, Mark Palmer, in early October along with a check for $75.00 (and a promise of more if necessary) asking him to do his best to secure two tickets anywhere for the Michigan game. Mark had written back telling me he was successful. Dad, taking no chances, had driven up to Columbus from Dayton to secure the tickets the Sunday before the game. I was glad they were there, but I wished more that I was in Uncle Cliff’s seat.
The two 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 navy clad band spelling out ‘Ohio,’ the Scarlet jacketed drum major directing the solitary bass to his spot atop the ‘i’. I felt a lump form in my throat as I heard the melancholy sounds of the Orton Hall chimes being recreated by 200 bandsmen.
My reverie was interrupted by the amateur broadcasters, “Tom, this game has drawn so much national attention, I wonder where the most distant listener of this game is located.”
I knew the answer to that question; exactly on the other side of the globe, twelve time zones and an International Date Line away, sitting in a bunker in Lai Khe, Vietnam, going nuts!
“So, if you think you might be the one, let us know. Write to WOSU, Lane Ave., Columbus, Ohio and let us know where you listened to us.”
I had to be it. Who could be further? I was not only furthest, I was the most sincere 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 “faithful fan” award. They were probably holding out for a note 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 the address down in the dark. Then I 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, bent over, sweating and screaming, “OH - AITCH!” and then answering myself, “AYE - OH!” By the start of the fourth quarter my confidence in victory allowed me to launch into an a capella rendition of 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. I wanted to belt out, “California here I come!”
Around four hundred hours, soaking wet, voice reduced to a squeak and grinning from ear to ear, I emerged from the bunker, back into the deep dark of early morning. I tried to grab an hour or so of sleep before having to get up and go back on duty. The game’s great plays ran through my mind. My heart pumped as though I had downed four or five cups of thick, black, Army mess hall coffee. Within minutes I knew it was useless. I put my uniform back on and wandered down to the office tent, located my desk and began writing to WOSU confident I would soon have my answer proclaiming me as, “the most distant listener.”
For the next few weeks I imagined myself being magically plunked from the ranks of the First Infantry Division, The Big Red One, and transported to the Rose Bowl, a son of The Ohio State University, removed from the war for just this one day, just this one game, sent to Pasadena to hand each OSU player his own green shield emblazoned with a proud, bold, scarlet ‘1’, the combat patch of a legendary infantry division, to help the Buckeyes become college football’s Big Red One.
The Rose Bowl over, Woody Hayes arrived in Vietnam and my boss assigned me to be the escort officer when he reached Lai Khe. Unfortunately a monsoon storm moved through and his trip to our base was cancelled.
I gradually downgraded the dream. I imagined that two years from this day 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 soon receive a letter from the twin announcers who had posed the distance question, anointing me as the “fan from the furthest location,” eleven thousand miles further than Keokuk, one thousand further than McMurdo Sound.
The official announcement never arrived.
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LovelandBuckeye
You never lose to those pricks. Ever. Ever. - UFM
Anyone want to go to Bed, Bath & Beyond at noon today? 
Go Buckeyes!!!!
Go Buckeyes!!!!
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Anyone want to go to Bed, Bath & Beyond at noon today?
Go Buckeyes!!!!
Only after the game, and only for the sweet smell of a successful win.
Ode de dead Wolverine?
Plus I need soap.
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LovelandBuckeye
You never lose to those pricks. Ever. Ever. - UFM
The Game comes on at 10:00 here and the malt liquor is cold. I am ready for a reliving of college years minus the Cooper debacle.
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LovelandBuckeye
You never lose to those pricks. Ever. Ever. - UFM
I feel it will be a good year. Wilmington College beat Miami (OH) in BBall and Loveland is in the DII championship against Cleveland Glenville. I feel a crystal ball will come back to Cbus this year.
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Herby was just asked by Reece Davis: "What state has the best winning streak in FBS, Division 2, and Division 3 in football?"
Without any hesitation he responds: "That's easy, Alabama."
Fucking moron.
Without any hesitation he responds: "That's easy, Alabama."
Fucking moron.
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Hes a fuckin Dumbass.. quit bangin on that southern drum herbie, and start doing some damn research
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