The drama of defeat

College athletics is weird.  I usually ignore it.  I'm disturbed by all the resources that are devoted to it, and I'm bothered by the illogic of universities' having, over the years, essentially developed semi-professional teams to play on their behalf for the amusement primarily of non-students.

And yet, at times I've gone crazy supporting a university team.  As an undergraduate, I followed both football and basketball avidly.  As an adult, I can ignore college football when my school's team is mediocre, and become a fanatic in years when it shows promise.  I admit to having -- during those good years -- actually clicked on ESPN repeatedly on a Sunday morning, so eager I've been to get the week's rankings.

Basketball?  Nah.  Not so much.  Not since high school.  My university's never been particularly good at it, and -- in addition -- I've never particularly liked or been knowledgeable about the sport.

But today I was bored in mid-afternoon and noted that the Gonzaga Bulldogs -- a team from the Northwest Corner, albeit the boring "east of the Cascades" side of said Corner -- was playing in the NCAA playoffs.  The Zags nearly always have a decent basketball team, and I thought I'd show a little home-state spirit and watch the last ten minutes or so of the game.

When I tuned in, Gonzaga seemed comfortably ahead of the Northwestern Wildcats, but I kept one eye on the screen.  And then occurred something that -- to the national TV audience -- was more memorable than the ultimate Gonzaga win, or the fact that Northwestern seemed to have been cheated by some seriously bad officiating.

I refer, of course, to "the kid."  There was a skinny blond boy, apparently between 9 and 11 years old, sitting immediately behind the Northwestern bench, a boy on whose face played in extreme caricature every feeling, good or bad but mainly bad, passing through every Northwestern fan's soul throughout the game.  His hands were all over his rubbery face as he portrayed anxiety, horror, disbelief, supplication to the gods, fear, anger, and despair.  His face reddened.  His eyes brimmed with tears.  And when the refs totally missed an interference call on Gonzaga, instead calling a technical foul on the Northwestern coach -- his eyes overflowed as he slowly and distinctly mouthed the easily-read words "OH MY GOD!" 

A career as a great stage actor, perhaps.  But not a poker player.  The plasticity of his face enabled observers to read every thought crossing his mind, every emotion gripping his heart.

The network cameramen couldn't keep their cameras off the kid.  He was more fun than the game itself.  And he wasn't showing off -- he was totally oblivious to the fact that his every emotion was entertaining the entire nation. 

At the end of the game, the network's cameras skimmed quickly over the Zag celebration and the quiet disappointment of the (well-mannered) Northwestern team.   They lingered lovingly on the boy, his entire body drooping as, hope abandoned, he gave way to tears.  

And no one who has ever followed a team will ever laugh at him.  His face projected the deep emotions -- for some of us, somewhat shameful emotions -- of joy or depression that arise unbidden in the course of a game, in the course of a season.  We've all been there.  We may not have displayed our feelings for the entire stadium, let alone the entire TV viewing public, but we've at times felt those feelings every bit as strongly as did that young man.

The young man who, as it turns out, is the son of Northwestern's athletic director.  Wildcat alumni can rest assured that their alma mater's athletic director cares as much about the team's success as they do -- and that goes double, nay triple, for his kids.