Michigan, Ohio State, & D**N I Got My Hopes Up Again

A less than memorable collection of memories from the game Michigan loses every year.

I’ve been a Michigan fan since before I was born.

It started in 1973, when Dad chose the winged helmet over the scarlet and gray.

Then it continued in 1976, when Dad kicked off the day in Columbus with a buck sixty-five and a touchdown on the ground before ending it in Ann Arbor with a dozen or so High-Lifes, a Whopper with cheese, and help from Mom and a police officer to make sure he found his way home okay.

The first Ohio State vs. Michigan game I remember came in 1990. And what I remember is Mom and Grandpa and I squeezed around a big-boxed TV set with UHF and VHF dials while J.D. Carlson decided our fate. Mom was whispering, “please let it go in… please let it go in…” while Grandpa swirled a highball. I remember Michigan winning.

Three years later, OSU rolled into Ann Arbor unbeaten and favored. Two mornings before The Game, Detroit radio station WJR phoned Dad asking him to predict the score.

“Easy,” Dad said. “28 to 7 Michigan.”

He hung up and we drove to McDonald’s for breakfast before school.

Michigan won 28-0.

Later that night, Mom and Dad took me to see Rudy. The movie ended and we drove home. When we got there, Dad and I played a game one-on-one football under the spotlight in our backyard. I ran and laughed and pretended I’d played on that day’s grand stage.

Inside and on my way to bed, I asked Dad: “How’d you know the score?”

“H**l if I know,” he said. “They asked. So I made up some numbers. But I look pretty darn smart today.” He grinned and walked away.

That was November 20, 1993. Dad died seventeen years to the day later.

In 1996, Mom and I huddled around a 10-inch screen on our kitchen counter while Dad stalked the yard with a shovel over one shoulder, a rake over the other, and too many butterflies to sit still.

Five of us went to the game in 2003. We squeezed into Michigan Stadium along with 112,113 other fans. During the third quarter a friend I won’t name fell asleep on my shoulder. When some play happened and some fans cheered, he opened his eyes, looked around, and said: “Why they gotta be so loud,” and returned to sleep.

Then the sadness started.

A loss in ’04.

Another in ’05.

In 2006, #1 Ohio State played #2 Michigan. I lived in Manhattan, then, and my roommate was in Boston visiting his future in-laws. I watched the game alone in our small apartment.

Mike Hart scored in the 4th quarter to cut OSU’s lead to 35-31. I pumped my fist in the air. Immediately, glass fell from the sky and crashed onto our living room table next to a half dozen empty Celebration Ales from Sierra Nevada.

My roommate and I had something like the following text exchange:

Me: Michigan scored. They’re making a game of it.

Me: Oh. Also. I broke our chandelier. Accidentally. I was celebrating.

Me: Lots of glass. But I’m okay.

Me: Love you.

Me. Go blue.

(Not sure he ever texted me back)

Michigan lost again in 2007 and 2008 and 2009 and 2010, and, well, you get the point.

There was hope in 2016, when P and I watched with her family in Tennessee. During the game, I convinced myself of a correlation between a nearly full Guinness in my hand and Michigan’s success on the field. We went to a movie that night. I fell asleep in the theater. Neither the Guinness nor the game worked out well.

I turned 36 in 2018. I cried alone after that year’s game.

After 2019, I pledged to never get my hopes up again.

But here we are just hours before The Game. And I’m clutching a sliver of hope so faint it’s invisible to the outside world. Ready to suffer in my fandom once more.

Fifteen minutes before kickoff, I’ll put on the #41 Michigan jersey I save for this day.

I’ll text good luck to a few OSU friends even though I don’t mean it.

I’ll whisper to myself those words from Shakespeare, ‘once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more.’

I’ll play The Victors.

Then, two to four hours later, I’ll turn off the television. I’ll be a little loose on Modelos and a lot sad on college football.

I’ll promise never again to have hope in this game.

Until next season.

When I convince myself it could happen. Because the streak must end sometime, right?

Friends-

If you gotta go, then go blue.

We love you. And we’ll see you when we see you.