Football in its Purest Form

I'm not a football fan by any means.  In fact, you could say I hate football, except that we're really trying to impress upon our kids that "hate" is very strong word that shouldn't be thrown around liberally, so let's just say I really, really, really dislike football.  Chris, on the other hand, loves football, and since we encourage the use of the word "love" in our house, he loves, loves, loves football. He wishes I would love football as much as he does.  He would try to bargain with me to watch football with him by offering to watch HGTV with me after the game, but then we got rid of cable.  Even without cable, he knows he can still lure me in with a feel-good, well-written human interest story, such as Football's purest form in the heart of Minnesota.  

ST. PAUL, Minn. -- Some days, you need a game you can reach out and touch. You need a game where there are people standing patiently outside the gates of a small stadium, blankets folded over their arms, waiting for someone to open a ticket booth the size of a upright footlocker on which a sign hangs that says, "Children Under Five Admitted Free."

Some days, you need a game where they're selling hot dogs, and hamburgers, and bratwurst, and you have to pay for them under the stands and then come back because, as another sign says, "Your bun is your ticket." Some days, you need a game where the women's basketball team is selling soda and cookies to support itself. Some days, you need ragged pep bands, seemingly formed by like-minded strangers on the sidewalk outside who just happened to bring drums and a tuba to the game.

Some days, you need a little, low-ceilinged press box where everyone is jammed in, including the coaches from the visiting team, so you can hear them agonizing over their headsets, calling an assistant down on the sidelines an idiot, and calling one of their linebackers a "lazy f---," and nobody in the press box turns a head. Some days, you need a game you can reach out and touch, and a place in the game where the corporate gigantism afflicting the sports-industrial complex isn't quite so stifling, a place in the game where it's still easy to breathe.

Somewhere beyond O'Shaughnessy Stadium, beyond the neat little campus and the grain elevators and the big river, they were playing important football games in the Big Ten, in the SEC, and in the ACC. There were shiny, happy people in shiny, happy luxury boxes. There were millionaire boosters and even more corporate executives. There were bands and they all wore uniforms, and they were huge, and they were so far down below the press box that they might as well have been playing on the radio somewhere. There was bombast and pageantry, and there was some terrific American football being played, and every one of those games was worth watching, on television, because they were basically television shows themselves.

So when St. Thomas whacked Wabash 38-7 at O'Shaughnessy Stadium to advance to the semifinals of the NCAA Division III football tournament, the game didn't shake a leaf outside Lucas Oil Stadium in Indianapolis, or Mercedes-Benz Stadium in Atlanta, or Bank Of America Stadium in Charlotte. But I am willing to bet that, in none of those places on Saturday, did anyone see a tight end score on a fake field goal. I am also willing to bet that, in none of those places on Saturday, did anyone see a tight end score on a fake field goal, which his team then followed up with a successful onside kick, which was followed by another touchdown. And I am willing to bet your house that nobody at any of those games was waving a papal flag in the stands because the star running back on the home team is studying to be a Catholic priest. All of that was what you could see on Saturday at O'Shaughnessy Stadium, where some people played American football and played it very hard.

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I have to hand it to St. Thomas.  As much as I dislike football, this article did tug at my heart. That's because Chris had taken the Oliver and Soren to see this particular game and thought it lived up to everything the writer loved about the game.  They bought cookies from the women's basketball team and Oliver and Soren cheered and ran "pell-mell" in all directions.  Chris got to watch a good game while spending time with his kids and everyone enjoyed the afternoon together.  And that is what football should be about.