2010 Iowa Hawkeyes: One For The Ages?

The autumn leaves were thick on the still-growing grass, and the first hints of cool weather were whispered on the wind.  I tugged on the rake in my hand, molding a leafy structure that fought to stand against the Midwestern wind.  Jim Zabel crooned out his signature “I love it, I love it, I love it” though my mid-1980’s Walkman headset as I toiled away the hours cleaning our front yard.  The Hawkeyes were edging out a tough victory over conference rival Illinois, and all was right with the world.  It’s one of my most endearing memories of my teenage years, and as fall approaches each year, I pause to go back to that day and relive it in my memory. 

The food had been devoured with almost barbaric abandon.  The scents of barbecue sauce and grilled hamburger meat still hung in the air.  With full bellies and an insatiable appetite for Hawkeye football, the men had gathered around the television in the living room to watch #1 Iowa take on #2 Michigan.  The stakes couldn’t have been much higher, and neither could’ve our anticipation.  As time ran down on the clock and Iowa trailed 10-9, I almost couldn’t watch.  Scratch that; I couldn’t watch.  I listened to the announcers as Rob Houghtlin lined up for the possible game-winning kick.  My hands acted as closed doors over my eyes and they refused to open even a little.  Just as I heard the broadcasters announce the snap of the ball, two fingers pried open, providing a window for one eye to see the fate of my beloved Hawkeyes. 

The room erupted in jubilation as that spinning brown projectile sailed between the uprights and Iowa escaped with their #1 ranking still in tact.  It was an instant classic that still airs to this day as one of the great games in college football.  It was Bo Schembechler.  It was Hayden Fry.  It was Big Ten football at its best, and nothing will ever quite match the sense of relief, joy, pride, and motivation that I felt that sunny afternoon. 

Sitting on the edge of my couch, the tension was palpable.  The roar of the crowd broke through my television screen and spilled into the living room in a flood of emotion made audible.  Not another sound could be heard.  Time dwindled as Drew Tate led the Iowa Hawkeyes down the field against defending national champion LSU.  As the seconds ticked away, anticipation turned to frustration.  What was he doing?  He took too long to break the huddle.  He didn’t get the football out of bounds to stop the clock.  The Hawks were still out of field goal range, and there was only time enough for one more play.  It had to be something great.

Common sense told me that it was all over.  Hope was seeping from my body like water through a sieve; replaced with quiet resignation.  The mistakes were too numerous; the obstacle now, too large.  However valiant the effort, and however satisfying the season, it would end there on that field against a worthy opponent. 

And just then, when hope seemed lost, Tate tosses a perfect pass to wide-open Warren Holloway.  As he rumbled and stumbled through a desperate defense, I leaped to my feet, erupting in a cheer of support that I’m almost certain young Holloway could hear even a thousand miles away.  I willed him into the end zone.  I parted the seas of purple and yellow with every ounce of my being, and as Holloway fell across the goal line, I nearly collapsed to my knees.  Tears tugged at the corners of my eyes as a swarm of killer bees dressed in black collapsed on their heroic comrade.  Warren picked a helluva time to catch his very first touchdown pass as a Hawkeye, in his last game as a Hawkeye.  My heart almost couldn’t take it.

Once again, I sat upon the edge of my couch.  This time, I was living 900 miles from my home town, but nothing would stop me from following my Hawkeyes.  The first perfect record since the 1920’s was in the making and I couldn’t miss a play of it.  Against the odds, Iowa had surpassed everyone’s expectations and were battling for something even bigger than a conference title.  In their way stood the Spartans of Michigan State with their home crowd boosting them to a herculean effort.

Two seconds sat ominously on the scoreboard.  Trailing 13-9, a field goal wouldn’t do enough.  The Hawkeyes had tried a couple of times to score from inside the ten yard line, but had failed.  Somehow Ricky Stanzi had defeated the laws of physics and kept time on the clock for more plays than humanly possible.  He could only do so much though, and one more play is all he would get to preserve the best start in school history. 

After discussing the situation with the coaching staff on the sideline, Stanzi and the crew trotted back out onto the field.  Once again, I felt like covering my eyes.  This time, I didn’t.  With fingernails chewed to the quick and shaking like I leaf, I watched intently as Stanzi took the last snap of the game.  Before I even had time to offer a prayer to the football gods, the ball was out of Stanzi’s hand and streaking into the open arms of quarterback-turned-receiver, Marvin McNutt.  As the clock showed all zeroes, I sat in stunned silence.

A text message broke me from my shock.  It was my brother and he only had one word to say: wow!  No other word would have done.  Simply “wow!” was all that was necessary.

Those are just a few of my many Hawkeye memories.  What I’ve omitted from them is what happened before and after those moments that stand so clearly in my mind’s eye.

I can’t pretend to remember what happened with the rest of the season that fall when I raked leaves in my front yard while listening to an Iowa legend.  What I do know is that the best that could have happened would have been Iowa losing in the Rose Bowl.

Two short weeks following Rob Houghtlin’s clutch kick against Michigan, the Hawkeyes dropped 22-13 to Ohio State, effectively ending their reign at #1.  They would go on to lose the Rose Bowl to UCLA 45-28.

“The Play” between Drew Tate and Warren Holloway gave Iowa the 2005 Capital One Bowl victory.  The Hawkeyes had started the season 2-2 though, after falling in back-to-back weeks against Arizona State and Michigan.  Neither of those losses was even close.

The classic match against Michigan State was merely one of many come-from-behind victories for the Hawkeyes.  Eventually they would run out of magic when Stanzi was injured against Northwestern and would lose that game as well as an overtime thriller against Ohio State the following week.

The Hawkeyes have had more moments in the sun over the last decade than they have in the shade.  As far as college football programs go, Iowa fans would be terribly amiss if they thought their Hawkeyes are somehow on the wrong track.  Having survived some fairly rough times throughout their history, whatever stumbles they have had in the 21^st century, they are nothing to get upset about.

Still, there is that small piece within me that yearns for something just a little more.  There is that voice within the shadows that begs for just one season that surpasses all the others and leads the Hawkeyes to the Promise Land.

This coming season, the Hawkeyes return the majority of an all-star defense.  They bring back a veteran quarterback, a stable full of experienced running backs, a couple of stellar receivers, and a tight end that could pull it all together.  Could this be the year?  Certainly, the pieces are in place.  Can they shoulder through the barriers that have locked them so unceremoniously out of the biggest show of all?

My love affair with the Hawkeyes is littered with moments that carry me into the deepest depths of human emotion.  From anger over decisions that I disagree with to despair over lost opportunities; from amazement over dedication and dutiful discipline to sheer joy over conquests won against terrible adversity, I believe I’ve felt it all.  And for it all, I have just one wish:

For that boy still raking leaves in my distant memory, unaware of what will transpire over the course of his lifetime, I wish for a moment that will remind him of what is possible when men band together and strive to accomplish something far greater than what they can accomplish by themselves.

For that same young boy, peeking through spread fingers, unconcerned with the troubles of the world and unaware of the magnitude of his future decisions, I wish for a season that lets him know that miracles aren’t miracles at all when a person gives everything they have to reach their highest goals.

For the men whose shouts of triumph and joy still echo in the chambers of my soul, who are speeding toward middle age in an uncertain world, I wish for a season for the ages.  I wish for that singular thing that cuts through the hardships of a fragile economy, a war that seemingly has no end, and a society that apparently finds its answer to troubles with senseless violence.  I wish for that Hollywood ending that reminds them that there are still good and pure things left in this world and that reminds them that sports really are important, even in this time.

I wish for all of these things with just one wish: I wish for a National Championship.