Vic Socotra

19 November 2006

The Little Death

Of course the French have a word for it. They do for everything. Their term for sensual culmination is “le petite mort,” referring to the appearance of delicious agony that contorts the face.

I heard on the radio that the French have successfully culminated their courtship of my former company, and have passed the rigorous standards for national security protection. There will be the appearance of the little death on the faces of those that will benefit from the merger, even me, as I exit with honor.

Certainly this last week has been an emotional time for all concerned, twice or thrice so for those who have other things going on in their lives.

Returning from a funeral on Friday, I listened to classical music as I crossed Maryland and the District. I had no idea that Bo Schembechler had passed away until I checked my e-mail.

I was stunned, as was anyone who cares about the college game. Bo was an exemplar, a gruff paladin of another era of the student athlete, and the heart of the Midwest.

His first coaching year, the beginning of the mythic rivalry with Ohio State Coach Woody Hayes, was my first year at Michigan, and the return to glory with the defeat of that number-one ranked Buckeye team was a pivotal one in my life,

Bo's passing took this year's e impending collision with arch-rival Ohio State to an entirely new level, stratospheric and ethereal. Number One in the nation versus Number Two was billed as the latest Game of the Century.

The whole thing is more than a little ironic, since Bo was a Buckeye, and many of the best players he recruited came from down south. Heck, my Mom's family came from Ohio, so it just displays the curious nature of the human heart that I go into palpitations about The Game each year.

Both teams are always at least workman-like, and sometimes superb. This was one of those years when greatness coincided for both. The winner was going to the National Championship, undefeated, and likely would go into the history books as one of the greatest of all time.

When you add Bo's passing, it was the stuff legends are made of.

So that took us to the game. I tried not to pay too much attention, and did my errands as I always do on Saturdays, even if my hands shook a bit. I made a point of turning on the game precisely at kick-off, so the hype and hyperbole would not overwhelm me, and likewise made a point of opening a diet soda as I worked at the computer.

Someone sent me a most curious link on the Internet. In these declining days of public modesty, and the blogosphere in general, an Australian firm has provided a venue in which women and men can be captured in the act of personal intimacy.

There is a catch. The streaming video captures the scene only from the neck up. There is nothing at all immodest about it, except the idea of what might be going on elsewhere, and as my correspondent noted, it was pretty amazing.

I watched a couple clips as the game progressed in it majestic manner, 106,000 fans foaming in passion. Ohio State dominated the first half, but there were flashes of brilliance from the Wolverines.

At halftime I gave up. I could not do it alone. There is a sports bar not far away, and a friend had called that morning, saying he was back from his year in Afghanistan and was ready to watch the game. He was going to camp out at the bar, and would be entertaining friends.

When I arrived, the din was extraordinary. Every seat in the place was taken, and we had to shout to be heard as we stood in a knot near the service bar, dodging the harried help.

Legendary games have a lot of breaks inserted into the television coverage. Attending a game in person reveals how annoying this is in reality, changing the momentum and even, it may be argued, the nature of the game.

But shouting in a sports bar is the way things are these days, I imagine.

Things did not go as I wanted. The Michigan defense was porous, giving up the big plays, even as the offense roared right back, keeping them in the game.

Buckeye's quarterback Troy Smith was a marvel, even as the scrappy Michigan defense forced miscues and turnovers. He gained more than my grudging admiration, even I a prayed for him to get pulverized by a hurtling line-backer.

The pivotal moment came with six minutes to go in the fourth quarter. The Wolverines stiffened, forcing a third-and-fifteen situation. Smith had to leave the pocket, searching for a receiver and there was none. A fluttering pass dropped harmlessly to the turf, and would have forced a fourth-down 53 yard field goal attempt.

And then the yellow flag flew, the officials calling a penalty for roughing the passer. I shouted in frustration. What were the defenders to do? Stop and give him time to throw? If the passer leaves the pocket, he has to assume that he is going to get smacked, right?

The Field Judge did not see it my way. Face impassive, he determined it would not be a fifty-three yard field goal attempt. It was Ohio State first-and-ten on the Michigan twenty-three.

It was a good enough game that it was not over until it was over. Michigan rallied and scored, and had a last gasp chance to take the ball away, only three points back. Then the death of that dream came with a pedestrian six-yard run for a first down that enabled the Bucks to run out the clock.

An expression passed over the faces of everyone in the crowd, almost indistinguishable from the little death, remarkably similar regardless of which team they were cheering for.

As I trudged back to the truck, I thought that any Wolverine team that scores 39 points in regulation should win, and any Michigan team that yields 42 points should probably lose.

Next year the game will be in Ann Arbor, and the screaming will be for the proper team. These things are part of the exquisite pain and pleasure of being human. Like some of them, we can do them again and again, until we get it right.