A college football team is a continuing story, and we follow it partly to escape our lives, and partly because the passion and energy of the game reminds of all the things we value most in life, including hope, the power of belief, and the will to commit to something greater than yourself. The number of yards Kenjon Barner gains in the first half against Arkansas State won’t change the world. But what he and his teammates do that Saturday afternoon and in the days and weeks of preparation tells us something very important about the capacity of the human spirit. To win again in 2012, the Ducks have to overcome even more adversity than they did in 2011. They’ve lost their leaders. They have to find the heart within them to care more than anyone else. It’s only football. It’s not a cure for cancer or the birth of a child. But that group of young men, committed and courageous, can inspire a community of fans to experience joy. Hope is a good thing, and no good thing ever dies.
We’ll drink too much beer and yell too loudly. At times we’ll ignore large and pressing problems to discuss 3rd wide receivers and cohesion on the defensive line. Fathers and sons bond over the Ducks. It binds generations. Sometimes, it becomes a code for all the things we can’t or don’t talk about. I love my three brothers. You’d get punched in the arm for using the words. But we can always talk about the Ducks. Except with Mike, who’s a damn Husky (business school, class of ’88). Giving him grief is the bear hug I’d give him if it wouldn’t embarrass the hell of him. I only hate his Husky ass one day a year.
The twists and turns of a football season and the space between them marks the calendar as sure as the changing of the leaves. The first reports from Spring Practice lift the dulling gray of winter. We’re snapped to keener attention by the first quick bleat of the coach’s whistle, the echoing boom! of Jackson Rice’s foot on a punt. Spring practice, and the rhythm of the seasons continues. Our lives are marked by birthdays, graduations, family picnics and the turning of spirals. There’s the hope watching one settle deftly into the arms of a fleet wide receiver, the small inspiration, the glimmer of a sense that we can find our stride in life, provided we supply the same quality of attention and respect for our gifts. Watching that artistry your spirit is lifted, the perfect throw, gathered in stride, suggests with effort two young men can fly as far as their dreams will take them, and we with ours.
Writing about Oregon football for the last two seasons has been an incredible privilege. It has been exhilarating to build an audience, because every writer wants to be read. In long evening hours at my laptop I found a voice and a purpose; it’s incredibly energizing to be engaged creatively, to give voice to a dream. But as I scan the web this evening I realize, like LaMichael James and Darron Thomas, that it’s time for me to try the next level: for them, the NFL, for me, to grow as a writer and a person. I could hide for another year in discussions about plans for the offense and the depth chart at linebacker, but there are better observers out there more carefully placed, with the opportunity to interview coaches and attend press conferences and telephone recruits. I truly don’t know enough about football to add much to the cacaphony of voices. A certain portion of the time I’m just talking out of my ass, and a writer should only write what he knows.
I do know this: to succeed in football, a player has to confront and conquer his fears. The fear of failing and the fear of pain, the fear of being supplanted or passed over. And then the fear of leaving the game. Our challenge in life is exactly the same; we just keep score a little differently.
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