The last time Michigan won the Rose Bowl, New Year’s Day 1998, it had been a dazzling season for the undefeated Wolverines. It had also been a spectacular football season for my then-three-year-old son and me, but in a very different way.
It all started one Sunday, when Sam begged us for a football he had spotted at the drugstore. “The really hard one,” he said, letting us know that his purple Nerf ball no longer cut it.
For Sam, these visits to Michigan Stadium seemed to mean that he was “on the team.” On the way back to our car, he’d ask over and over, “You didn’t know that they let little boys on the team?”
The new ball, which for some reason said “Fashion” across the stitches, was lugged everywhere. At preschool, he sobbed and refused to go into his classroom because, he said, “I want to be on the football team.” It was only when I convinced him that all the football players were also in school that he calmed down and went in to play with the trucks and sandbox.
After school that day, I went in search of “football activities.” As we crossed S. State St., hand in hand, we excitedly anticipated watching the Michigan team practice. I quickly found out, as we were met and turned away by a burly guard, that even three-year-olds, and their clueless mothers, were not allowed at the practice field, lest they give away team secrets.
A few days later, a nurse at our pediatrician’s office suggested that we might go into Michigan Stadium—it was always unlocked and just a block away from the office. We walked over, not knowing what to expect, and found the huge, quiet field wide open. I had never been there, and with Sam, experienced a thrill as we entered and looked out over the 102,501 empty seats. We, of course, had our football with us and played catch on the field, alone with the birds and the echo of our voices. We both felt like lucky kids.
After that, we visited the empty stadium many times, and my husband often joined us. We went on brilliant sunny days, and even in the rain. We watched the numbers being painted on the field, hot dog buns being delivered, and the small, old electric scoreboard being tested. No one stopped us, even when the lines were freshly painted and major games were just a day away.
Sam loved to run and “score points” on the huge letters in the end zone. We fell down in the thick grass, pretending to tackle each other, and tried to kick field goals. Sam perfectly imitated the hunched over stop-and-start running of the players he had seen on TV. For him, these visits to Michigan Stadium seemed to mean that he was “on the team.” On the way back to our car, he’d ask over and over, “You didn’t know that they let little boys on the team?”
We were there before games, but also on days following, when trash was still thick in the aisles, and the numbers had been worn off the grass. We saw the stadium under the glory of red sunsets and with a light dusting of snow. One late Sunday afternoon, my husband was playing on the field with Sam when all the big lights came on. They were also there one day when a bride and groom showed up to take wedding pictures. The couple had forgotten to bring a ball, so our old “Fashion” ball is now in their wedding album.
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Of course, everything always changes. Sam got older and started spending his days at school, so we didn’t go to the stadium as much. And the stadium also changed. “No trespassing” signs showed up on the field, and getting down there from the stands became much harder. We knew we’d never get to run through the tunnel again. Then came the artificial turf, and the huge new scoreboards. We’d still occasionally visit, but, like so many things, it wasn’t the same.
I clearly remember that 1997 season though, when we first discovered this magical place. Late in November, I told Sam that there wouldn’t be any more games because it was getting too cold. I added that the team would be going to California to play one last time. “Not our team, with the grass!” he protested. He seemed to be imagining the whole stadium flying, without us, to the Rose Bowl.