Return of the Little Animal

Upon learning that James Laurinaitis would return to Ohio State for his senior season, I involuntarily let fly into the ether: “O-H!” Rising out of the stench of stale beer on High Street, 400 miles away, came the reply: “I-O!” All across the land, Buckeye nuts flung themselves from tree limbs, rolling shamelessly through the streets hoping to be gathered up and made into tacky necklaces before next August. Somewhere in Columbus, a small child knelt at his bedside, clasped his hands together, and prayed: “God Bless the Little Animal.”

Yes, we’re all excited to have ol’ number 33 back. The news that the 2006 Nagurski Award winner and 2007 Butkus Award winner will be suiting up again next year was exactly the jolt needed to shake off the funk lingering from yet another bowl game humiliation, and set the Buckeye nation dreaming once more of glory, perhaps even another shot at redemption. But before the band strikes up Carmen Ohio, I just have to ask: “James, what the hell are you thinking?”

Let me explain my position here, and know that you’re hearing this from a former high school administrator, someone who values education very, very, very much: any player who can leave college early as a first-round draft pick—particularly an early first round pick as Laurinaitis has been projected—should.

My argument: One can always go back and get a college degree, but one has only a small window of opportunity to play in the NFL. And the monetary reward for playing in the NFL is very big. And the reality of it happening hinges on something very small—about the size of a knee or ankle.

Worst-case scenario for a top prospect entering the draft: Get signed for millions of dollars, sustain a career-ending injury the first week of practice, still collect a large portion of your money because your contract has certain guarantees, and with that large portion—which I should emphasize is very large—go back and finish college, which you’ll drive to each day in your Hummer from your enormous house.

Worst-case scenario for a top prospect staying in college one more year to get his degree: Sustain a career-ending injury at some point during your senior season, thereby ensuring you don’t get a dime—not one—for your enormous talent, a turn of events that rocks your world, nay your very existence, and will haunt you for the rest of your life as you think about what could have been. But hey, at least you’ll have that degree in interdisciplinary studies to fall back on.

“But wait,” a purist protests, “What about goals like wanting to lead your team to a national championship? You can’t put a price tag on that.”

That’s true, you can’t. Nor can you guarantee that it will happen.

Have we learned nothing from Mike Hart, Chad Henne and Jake Long? They returned to Michigan for their senior season, anchoring what was expected to be one of the nation’s most potent offenses, with three goals in mind: beating Ohio State, winning the Big Ten, and winning a national championship. They accomplished none of these. Instead, they opened their season as the victims of the biggest upset of all time and followed that up, in the case of Henne and Hart, by getting hurt. Not only did their goals go unfulfilled, they likely actually lowered their stock for the NFL draft. And they were lucky. If the injuries they sustained had been worse, they wouldn’t be getting drafted at all.

I’m not saying that the Buckeyes are going to flop next year, or that Laurinaitis will get hurt. I’m just saying we don’t know what’s going to happen, though after winning the Butkus Award this year and setting the record for tackles in the National Championship game, it's hard to imagine what he can do next year, short of winning the Nobel Peace Prize, to make his stock any higher than it is at this moment.

Anyway you slice it, coming back is a risk, and a big one at that. One can only assume that Laurinaitis has thought it all through, weighed the pros and cons as I’ve done, and somehow determined that leading the Buckeyes for another season is a risk worth taking.

For that, you have to love the guy even more.

God bless the Little Animal.

Poisonous Nuts and Overgrown Weasels: A Symbiotic Relationship

Like most Ohioans, I learned to walk, talk, and cheer for Ohio State at an early age, and not necessarily in that order. This ingrained Buckeye fanaticism came with a corollary: a natural inclination to abhor all things Michigan. Not that there was anything inherently wrong with Michigan. It’s just that they were, well, Michigan.

The rivalry was hard to ignore. In my 35 years on the planet, the Buckeyes and Wolverines have combined for 28 Big Ten titles and 35 top ten finishes in the AP rankings. And that pales in comparison to their accomplishments in the years before I sprang into existence. To say the teams have dominated the college football landscape is to barely hint at their influence on the game—and on each other. At least twelve times in the last forty years, one or both of the teams have been undefeated going into their annual November match-up. And as history has shown, the team that has the most to lose usually does. In the early 1970s, Michigan had five out of six perfect seasons ruined by a loss to Ohio State. Three times in the 1990s, Michigan returned the favor.

Having two such competitive teams in the same conference would alone be enough to constitute a world class rivalry, but it took the genius and conscious gamesmanship of legendary coaches like Woody Hayes and Bo Schembechler to create what ESPN deemed the greatest rivalry in all of sports, edging out Muhammad Ali vs. Joe Frazier for the honor.

Woody’s disdain for the Wolverines was legendary. He refused to call Michigan by name, instead referring to it as “that state up north”. When his car was low on gas during a recruiting trip to Michigan, he forbid his assistant coach, who was driving, to pull over to fill up, preferring instead to coast into Ohio on fumes rather than give one cent of revenue to a Michigan gas station. By such stories are great rivalries cemented.

Naturally, the rivalry has fluctuated over the years, with Michigan sometimes dominating (the dreaded Cooper years), and Ohio State currently enjoying a decided edge under Jim Tressel, whom many consider the second coming of Woody. Just swap the eyeglasses for a sweater vest, and instead of punching opposing players, extol their merits.

But at the end of the day—or season, if you will—the outcome of the game is quite beside the point. Michigan sucks not because they beat us, or because they lose to us, but simply because they are Michigan. And naturally they feel the same way about us. In this way, we have established a wonderful relationship. We complete one another, much like Superman could not exist without Lex Luthor, or Austin Powers without Dr. Evil. (Note: Michigan shall assume the role of Luthor and Dr. Evil in above examples.)

This rivalry now looms so large, it even has the power to bring people together—bonding like immature middle school cliques over our common disdain for another group. A few of my friends and our families, who have all scattered to far flung parts of the country, get together each year to cheer the Bucks against Michigan. It’s a great excuse to see everyone, and reaffirms our faith in one another and a certain poisonous nut. So far we’ve cheered the Bucks together in New York and St. Louis, and this year will do so from my home in the Blue Ridge Mountains, 15 miles from Boone, North Carolina—a town still given to spontaneous bursts of moonshine-induced celebrations over a noteworthy football upset earlier this season. As this will be my first year hosting the gathering, I wanted to have a little pre-game entertainment for my guests. Thus, the song: That State Up North.

I’d like to think it’s written just as much for Michigan fans as Buckeye fans. Because really, guys, when I say you suck, I’m sort of saying…thank you? Consider it a term of endearment.