A Game for the Generations

My dad had been a Chicago Bears Season ticket holder in the 1960s, before moving to the suburbs, having kids, and all of that. 

We watched the Bears together every week, creating a special bond. My other brothers didn’t get the football bug, though one became a star soccer player, my dad’s other favorite sport. So he had everything covered. This weekly routine probably started in earnest when I was 7. Walter Payton was still one of the league’s top stars, and the team was on the cusp of something special. Then things got amazing when I was 10 with the 1985 season. I was led to believe that rooting for a team means they climb the mountain and win it all. That they become the best of all time.

We got season tickets to Northwestern because we could walk to the games. That and they were probably dirt cheap given the level of play back then. Things are a bit hazy now. I only recall a few plays, most of them baffling gaffes. My dad almost couldn’t stand it at times, and his comments on some of those gaffes are what remains most clear to me. I realized that rooting for a team did not mean that they necessarily climb the mountain or even a foothill or two.

My dad was not a Michigan fan. But he loved great football. And he certainly was never in a million years going to root for Ohio State. So when I became a student, he started to lean our way. He was with me in the stands for Biakabutuka 313, the most fun I’ve ever had at Michigan Stadium. By halftime he had figured out The Victors and was chiming in with the whole stadium. He was with me and 15 of my friends for Northwestern 52, Michigan 49, trying to secretly pull for the home team. I say trying because he didn’t need to be demonstrative for me to know what he was thinking. But he didn’t gloat when it ended. He joined us as the oldest man in attendance at a Chicago bar I had “reserved” for the Game of the Century in 2006, when the bar accidentally double-booked their space for my group and an OSU group. 

When I left work to drive around the country going to football games, he was incredibly encouraging, proud even. And when I left home to move to Argentina and then Switzerland, that same support never wavered, even though we didn’t see each other as much. We still talked football as often as we could, and it was usually about Michigan.

On a visit home to Chicago, on New Years Day 2016, we watched Michigan quietly trounce Florida 41-7 together. He took a nap on the couch during halftime that lasted into a healthy chunk of the third quarter. To be fair the game wasn’t exactly a nailbiter.

He passed away suddenly and peacefully 12 days later, at age 91. This set me up for a challenging year. My second child arrived that June, and we had many unexpected life changes coming. But Michigan came through for me. After nine seasons in the wilderness, Harbaugh had restored much of what had been lacking. In a grief-filled, exhausting time, Michigan football had given me something to pull me forward.

Of course the showdown with Ohio State ended horribly. We were to finally reach the summit, such as it was, but a series of gaffes and, let’s say, interesting refereeing led to an unforgettably sad finish. I made my wife let me hold the baby during overtime because I knew it was the one thing in the house I was not allowed to break. This helped me tamp down the rage for the moment, but the disappointment that not all scripts could be flipped lingered for a long time. I was reminded that rooting for a team means a whole lot of suffering. 

My dad studied journalism at Missouri, and whenever there was some national scandal of any kind, he was always quick to look at coverage of the scandal as much as what was happening itself. He would have been apoplectic at the way the Connor Stalions era was covered with its Weapons of Mass Misconstruction. He would have immediately seen through all the hyperventilated nonsense, to the agendas at play, to the cowardice of Petitti. 

But more than that, he would have loved this team. He would have loved their lack of penalties. The way they played as a unit. Their bruising lines. He would have seen the brilliance of Blake Corum, how the kid has the killer instinct to destroy the opposition with the game on the line time and time again. He would have admired the hell out of Sherrone Moore and how he stepped up to lead when Harbaugh was forced out of action. How they have delivered on every single promise so far. How they didn’t let the bastards get them down. He would have tried to say “Bet” the right way. The team wouldn’t have taken the place of the ’85 Bears in his heart, but his admiration would have been massive.

2023 was not an easy year. I won’t get into the details here, but the trials have been many, varied, and steep. We got through them all as a family. And much like in 2016, Michigan has provided a boost week in and week out. My son is now 7. He was distraught after the loss to TCU, but it’s only a vague memory for him at this point. He has watched the first halves of the early games live with me (noon = 6pm here) for the first time this season. The first thing he wants to do every Sunday morning is ask if Michigan won. And then watch the highlights as many times as we will let him. The words “Blake” and “JJ” hold joyful purpose in his life. 

Now that I'm the dad, sharing the passion with my son, I hope for his sake as much as mine that Michigan wins tonight. I'm clearly setting the wrong expectations; he will think rooting for a team means they become champions. But it's better to see the mountaintop whenever you can than to wait for decades. 

What I'm saying is that the players on this team have made me prouder than any Michigan team in history. Given how obsessed I have been for these 30 years, that's saying a lot. I just hope my son can appreciate it like his grandpa would have.

Let's Go Blue one last time!