I did not go to last Saturday's football game against Georgia Tech. In all honesty, I do not go to any U.Va. football games anymore.
Like most game days, my pregame tailgate Saturday transformed into a day-long party, meaning that when 3 o'clock rolled around and that one guy in the bow tie excitedly said, "It's almost time to leave, who's going to the game?" I chuckled and scoffed at the idea. Not surprisingly, so did almost everyone else. Very few people responded in the affirmative, yet many were more than willing to yell out their reasons for not going: It's too far of a walk. There's no chance we're going to win. Why would we go to the game when we can just watch it on TV here, with alcohol aplenty and an incredibly competitive game of slap cup currently captivating everyone?
The apathy was overwhelming. Nobody cared about the game, and it's the same way at every tailgate, every single week. That's just how it is at this school. It's the culture. I don't know how the malady originated, and I definitely don't know how, or even if, it can be cured. I do know, however, that it is contagious and can infect even the most steadfast among us. And I know this from experience.
Today I am a detached, apathetic fan just like the rest - vast majority? - of you, but I have not always been this way. My father was a student here, and I have been a fan of Virginia sports all my life. My love for sports has always been insatiable, so I once followed our football team with the same passionate devotion that I currently reserve for my favorite professional teams. Growing up in Connecticut, I would travel down to Charlottesville every other year for a game, and even got the opportunity to watch us play in two bowl games - yes, there was a time where we actually made bowl games - both of which resulted in wins. I don't know if it's because we had a better team back then, or just because I was still young and callow, but I recall those games being different. I remember them being more, well, more like actual football games.
People yell and scream at football games. People curse in anger and cheer in exuberance at football games. Some people reach levels of insanity which border on illegal at football games. But ultimately, people care at football games. I mean deeply, deeply care. Not just about the score, or the team's chances of winning, but about all the minutia which could possibly be cared about. At every single moment, every single person in the stadium is intently focused on the same thing - football - and they do not want to be disturbed.
Fast-forward to Sept. 3, 2009, the date of my much-anticipated first U.Va. football game as a student, and now known simply as the infamous William & Mary debacle. This game changed me. And it wasn't because we lost, or because the loss came at the hands of such an embarrassing opponent, or even because of how incredibly inept our team looked. I have loved bad teams before, endured countless pathetic and hopeless seasons - I'm a Knicks fan - but never have I encountered a fan base which exuded such apathy. When I made my way down the hill in the first quarter, attempting to finagle my way to the best spot possible, I didn't have to worry about blocking anyone's view of the game because, well, nobody was watching it.
There were people sitting cross-legged on the ground, talking innocuously about God knows what. There were people constantly shuffling around in vain attempts to find the perfect formation for their ever-important group pictures. There were people there to drink, people there to gossip and people there for no other reason than for the opportunity to flaunt their expansive wardrobes. In other words, very few people were actually there for football.
After that day, I would never be there again. I was disillusioned, sickened even, and the feeling lasted me two long years.
But then last Saturday came along, completely unforeseen and unexpected, and with it came a sense of hope. Hope that maybe, just maybe, things were changing. I don't say this because of the outcome of the game - a most improbable upset. Nor do I say it because of how impressed I was with the heart and desire our team exhibited in the contest, literally out-willing Georgia Tech to earn the victory.
I say this because, at least for a few, fleeting moments, we all cared again. Even watching on TV, you could see it in the looks of extreme anxiety evident in fans' faces as the clock slowly wound down in the fourth quarter. You could hear it germinating as the team lined up in the victory formation, the anticipation in the stadium beginning to build. You could feel it as thousands of students burst onto the field as the final whistle blew, completely disregarding the disapproving voice heard over the P.A. system.
And after watching Mike London's postgame interview, I could tell he detected it too. He's an emotional man, a passionate man, and it was clear that this game, and the ensuing scene on the field, moved him. For once, there was a sense of promise and possibility, a reason for optimism. London desperately wants this team to be nationally relevant again, but he knows that to do that, they first need to become relevant again here, on Grounds. A change must first occur amongst us, the fans.
I'll lead the way next weekend when I make my glorious return to Scott Stadium. And if I walk in front of you, blocking your view of the game as it's in progress, please curse at me. Just show me you care.
I swear it's not too late.
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