jdturtle02
04-09-2007, 09:59 PM
This Saturday marks the 103rd edition of “The Game” -- Maryland vs. Johns Hopkins -- and while it may be too soon to post on “Gameday,” I can’t help but slide back into the mystique and past haunts of perhaps the most thrilling sports rivalry I’ve ever witnessed. For me, this week is the longest of the year, so I’m hoping some of your remembrances will make the wait a little easier to bear.
Pretty much everyone I’ve ever met knows you can find me at this game, whenever, wherever. But my most gripping memory of this epic intercollegiate sports tradition has nothing to do with the field, the great players, the pads and helmet, or the blinding pain of having my nose smashed by the butt of an errant stick … wait a minute, that’s not where I wanted to go ...
As a cub reporter fresh out of Maryland I had the rare privilege of interviewing an elder of the “Piscataway People” -- that’s what he called them -- at his home following a national pow wow in Maryland. The old man, whose name escaped into the mist long ago, had me spellbound for hours, talking about civilization and pointing to the icons of his ancestry tacked crudely on every wall. I don’t remember asking him anything … I was too busy fishing and hunting and wrestling with his boyhood friends back when oyster shells and packed mud was the only marked path through the wooded tangles of his youth. But then I saw it, hidden from the pale glow of the fireplace and kerosene lamps … his crosse. As ancient as he; broken, withered and hard like jerky that had become petrified. I had to ask …
He was one of the few of the Piscataway who had ventured north and trained with the Iroquois. He said he played a while on the Allegany reservation. Then he mentioned seeing a game between Hopkins and Maryland -- horses and carriages mingling with the early generation Fords lining the uncut field -- and began poking at the fire. He talked about forgotten dreams, about wanting to go to college and be like them. As the aggravated embers rose in the heat of his rekindled anguish, he uttered a six- or seven-syllable word. Poetry, I thought, something warrior-like: “Great hearts and fearsome spirits” … He straightened up as best he could and found his way back to his well-padded chair. Again, I had to ask …
He looked at me as if piercing my flesh with an arrow … “It means we sucked.”
He returned home after three years and became a waterman. The stick, he said, reminded him that it’s okay if some dreams don’t come true. I remember, when he finally broke down and started laughing at my stunned silence, thinking how magnificent he must have been on the ancient fields of glory, and how that moment marked us both. To this day, after the dust settles and The Game begins to fade into memory, I see his words painted on some of the players’ faces. And sometimes I remember my smashed nose. But always, I’m thankful for the chance to see it again.
Pretty much everyone I’ve ever met knows you can find me at this game, whenever, wherever. But my most gripping memory of this epic intercollegiate sports tradition has nothing to do with the field, the great players, the pads and helmet, or the blinding pain of having my nose smashed by the butt of an errant stick … wait a minute, that’s not where I wanted to go ...
As a cub reporter fresh out of Maryland I had the rare privilege of interviewing an elder of the “Piscataway People” -- that’s what he called them -- at his home following a national pow wow in Maryland. The old man, whose name escaped into the mist long ago, had me spellbound for hours, talking about civilization and pointing to the icons of his ancestry tacked crudely on every wall. I don’t remember asking him anything … I was too busy fishing and hunting and wrestling with his boyhood friends back when oyster shells and packed mud was the only marked path through the wooded tangles of his youth. But then I saw it, hidden from the pale glow of the fireplace and kerosene lamps … his crosse. As ancient as he; broken, withered and hard like jerky that had become petrified. I had to ask …
He was one of the few of the Piscataway who had ventured north and trained with the Iroquois. He said he played a while on the Allegany reservation. Then he mentioned seeing a game between Hopkins and Maryland -- horses and carriages mingling with the early generation Fords lining the uncut field -- and began poking at the fire. He talked about forgotten dreams, about wanting to go to college and be like them. As the aggravated embers rose in the heat of his rekindled anguish, he uttered a six- or seven-syllable word. Poetry, I thought, something warrior-like: “Great hearts and fearsome spirits” … He straightened up as best he could and found his way back to his well-padded chair. Again, I had to ask …
He looked at me as if piercing my flesh with an arrow … “It means we sucked.”
He returned home after three years and became a waterman. The stick, he said, reminded him that it’s okay if some dreams don’t come true. I remember, when he finally broke down and started laughing at my stunned silence, thinking how magnificent he must have been on the ancient fields of glory, and how that moment marked us both. To this day, after the dust settles and The Game begins to fade into memory, I see his words painted on some of the players’ faces. And sometimes I remember my smashed nose. But always, I’m thankful for the chance to see it again.