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America's game is changing. Can it retain all of its old magic?
by Matt Hartley
August 2023 | 20 Minute Read | Volume 2. Issue 7.
Montlake Mojo
Montlake Mojo
“There was a whole lot of red on the bus ride,” a UW fan mutters as he walks by.
That’s the first clue I get about the absolute ass-kicking I’m about to witness. Had I been a more seasoned Washington fan, I would have known to pick up the telltale signs and reign in the pregame optimism that’s prancing around like a skittish pony. But this is my first game. It’s September 2010 and I’m a wide-eyed freshman taking in the scene of my new college campus. The gothic architecture. The tranquility of Drumheller Fountain. The canopy of tailgate tents, the smell of BBQ, and the pretty girls walking by. Why wouldn’t we upset #8 Nebraska only two years away from an 0-12 season?
UW doesn’t start class until mid-September, but my childhood friend Cody and I drove three hours from Vancouver to attend our first game as students. As we navigate our way through the pregame crowds the fan’s ominous observation comes back to me. I’m also seeing red. I mean a hell of a lot of red. I mean so much red that I’m starting to question whether I actually know our school colors. Everywhere I look, smiling, midwestern folk are appearing in crimson shirts and corn hats with Nebraska plastered all over their body. They’re getting off the buses. They’re coming around corners. They’re practically emerging from the street manholes. I’m not sure I could point out Nebraska on a map of the United States but apparently, I don’t need to because the entire state has invaded Seattle.
My faith in our assured victory is restored as we trace Montlake Boulevard and enter the hallowed grounds of Husky Stadium. We make our way to the student section at the 50-yard line and I take in virgin views of the historic setting. To the east, I see Lake Washington’s shimmering surface broken only by the white boats and sailgaters boozing before the game. Above me, the stadium’s twin bleachers stretch skyward with roofs that hang over the stands like an eagle’s wings. When it reaches its 70,000+ capacity, the arena becomes a cacophonous tunnel of sound responsible for the loudest ever recorded crowd noise in the history of college football –– 133.6 decibels, about the equivalent of a jet engine. It was 1991 and Washington trounced Nebraska on their way to a national championship season. It’s only fitting, I think.
Soon, fans pack into Husky Stadium like sardines in a can. After the national anthem, players take the field and the crowd begins to chant. “GO!” one side of the stadium yells. “HUSKIES!” responds the opposite bleacher. The two teams line up opposite one another and the Nebraska kicker raises his arm signaling the kick. Time seems to slow –– the crowd’s anticipation and excitement washing over me in a euphoric feeling that borders on spiritual. In that moment of time, whether we came in optimistic, or pessimistic, or so drunk we don’t know where we are, every Washington fan briefly thought: we might just do this. Kickoff. Breaths held as the ball descends towards the Earth. Washington ball. Heisman-hopeful QB Jake Locker steps onto the field.
The problem is that Jake Locker may as well have stayed in the locker room because he throws an absolute mallard on the opening drive which Nebraska intercepts, resulting in a prompt 7-0 lead for the Corn Huskers. It’s an appetizer for the beatdown about to come. The next four quarters are filled with missed tackles, Locker scrambling for his life, and Nebraska running all over the field to a 56-21 thrashing. Their QB amasses 137 rushing yards on the ground in a blinding display of offense. Locker goes 4 for 20 with two interceptions.
Throughout the onslaught, chants of “GO BIG RED! GO BIG RED!” ring around the stadium as Nebraska fans high-five and their cartoon mascot dances up and down the visitors sideline like Sponge Bob Square Pants. I stare at the 1991 National Championship engraving on the far side of the stadium and wonder how it came to this. Its gold coloring looks a little duller this afternoon.
Our drive back to Vancouver that night is quieter than the ride up but like the kid whose father neglects him, the beating only serves to fuel my rapidly growing need for more Washington football. The next week, the Dawgs take down perennial Pac-10 power, #18 USC in the Los Angeles Coliseum. So begins the roller coaster ride that is Washington fandom.
The season is a yo-yo of highs and lows. The Dawgs lose an ugly one to Arizona State then bounce back the following week with an overtime win over Oregon State. They drop three in a row, then end the season on a three-game win streak and get invited to the Holiday Bowl at 6-6. It’s the first time they’ve made a bowl game in eight years, and they win. The opponent?
#17 Nebraska.
A Fan is Born
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Imagine a place where people paint their faces like clowns, where buffalos are unleashed recklessly close to pedestrians, and where grown men bark like dogs. No, it’s not the circus, it’s just good-old college football. In the sports pantheon of America, there’s no other sport that quite matches the blend of passion, characters, and absurdity of the game. Scarf-wearing, metro-Europhiles will scoff it doesn’t have the global following or beauty of the real fútbol but as Jim Rome would say, “all real Americans know soccer is just foosball on grass.”
When your favorite NBA, NHL, or MLB team loses a game you’re disappointed. But when your college football team loses or is mocked in a national broadcast, it physically hurts. You feel as if you yourself and where you come from have been insulted. Your alma mater and home state are a part of your identity in a way a professional team isn’t. Because of this and its regional flavor, college football is tied to your sense of honor. It’s more than a sport. It’s tribal.
College football has the shortest number of games played of all major U.S. athletics. One loss can dictate the postseason. Every quarter, every play, and every inch matters. It’s not a fair sport. There’s no draft at the end of the season where the worst teams can improve their rosters, there’s no salary cap, and there’s certainly no commissioner to wisely guide and safeguard the rich tradition of the game. Enter rampant disruption and a complete imbalance that’s more akin to a medieval feudal system than a modern democracy.
Of the 129 teams that play Division I football there are only about 10 teams that can actually win a national championship. I’m talking about the classic brands that even the non-initiated recognize. Alabama. Ohio State. USC. The type of programs that have both the acumen and the financial backing to attract the top talent to win at the highest level.
Then there are some 20 teams that are competitors. Programs that are invested in football at a high level but don’t quite have the pedigree of the blue bloods. If the right players, coaches, and financial backing materializes, these teams might pull off a natty, but it rarely happens. Washington (when Tyrone Willingham isn’t the coach) falls within this group.
Then last, and certainly least, there’s the doormats. The comic relief of college football. The Cals and Rutgers. The Kansas Jayhawks. You know who you are. Occasionally, they’ll make a run that garners immediate national attention, but the early season momentum normally collapses in a fiery trainwreck at year’s end. If Alabama is Darth Vader, these guys are C-3PO.
That’s the sport at 20,000 feet, but individually, there’s no team more compelling than the Washington Huskies — hear me out.
The blue bloods get spoiled. The conference titles, the Rose Bowls, and the national championship games become expected. So like the rich kid who bores of summering in the Hamptons, the prospect of going to a big game loses its edge. Other teams deliver mediocre, monotonous seasons with the regularity of a mailman. And some teams provide unwatchable garbage that’s good for a few laughs but not much else (cough Colorado cough). But Washington is the only team that spans that full spectrum. Like a nice restaurant with a kid’s menu, you might dine on a world-class steak or get served chicken fingers with a few crayons for coloring. UW is the only team in the country to have both a national championship and a winless season. They’ve had decades of dominance and ten-year droughts of misery. First ballot hall of fame coaches and coaches that became unhirable after their UW tenure.
At Washington, you get a little bit of everything, and the result is an addictive ride that fuels rampant emotions and speculation.
Welcome to my world.
America's Game
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As my friend’s dad puts it, there’s nothing more anticlimactic than hearing, “Montana drops back to pass!” followed by the football landing in the middle of the field with the nearest receiver 10 yards away.
It’s August 2011, and Nick Montana, son of hall-of-famer Joe Montana, is competing for the starting QB spot at UW. He’s got a Hollywood name and Hollywood looks. But as good as he is on paper, the in-game performance is the equivalent of a coach deciding to start Ryan Gosling simply because he was a football player in Remember the Titans.
But there’s this other guy on the roster named Keith Price. He doesn't have a world-class name or origin. He hails from Compton, California, and was co-MVP of the Trinity Football league ––arguably the best high school football conference in the country. He also has a world-class smile which earns him the nickname “Teeth” Price. My housemate bumps into one of the team’s running backs on a trip to Safeway and asks him who’s winning the QB competition. The player looks over his shoulder, then turns back to him and whispers, “We all want Keith.”
So Keith Price becomes the QB and leads the team to a 6-2 start, the best in a decade. The offense is humming, and Price sets a season record for touchdown passes. But that’s the offense.
Nick Holt, a bald tough guy with no visible neck is the defensive coordinator. He’s got a permanent scowl painted on his face as he paces up and down the sidelines. He has the exact visual aesthetic and demeanor you want in a defensive coordinator –– the kind of guy you’d want at your side in a bar fight. He’s barking like Winston Churchill during the Blitz, “Never surrender!” Except the problem is the defense tends to surrender a lot, and a few games in, Holt starts telling reporters it’s a “Bend but don’t break strategy.”
Hawaii scores 32. Nebraska 51. Stanford 65.
In their bowl game, the Huskies draw #15 Baylor and Heisman trophy winner Robert Griffin III. Keith Price steals the show in a magnificent performance resulting in 56 points.
Baylor scores 67.
The team is on the tarmac preparing to board their plane home when Coach Sark turns to his defensive coordinator and says, “Find your own way back.”
A shocked Nick Holt stutters, “I..I..”
Sark cuts him off, “You heard me.”
Okay, I made that last part up. But he was fired after the game.
The Greatest (Looking) Defensive Coordinator
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It’s August 2013, and head coach Steve Sarkisian has earned a moniker on campus: Seven-win Steve. In his first two years, Sark resurrected UW from a winless season, earning him acclaim and popularity, but the shine has since dulled. His antics aren’t as exciting as they once were. In 2012, he brings a live tiger to practice thinking it will motivate the players to win at LSU. It doesn’t, and I’m just thankful that QB Keith Price makes it back alive. Now in 2013, three consecutive seven-win seasons have resulted in a mediocre nickname and constant grumbling amongst us fans.
But I think this is his best team yet, and in a newly renovated Husky Stadium, I watch Keith Price lead the Dawgs to a 35-7 win over mid-major power Boise State.
The team has a good-but-not-great year and finishes the regular season at 8-4 with a chance to get to 9 wins in their bowl game. But then the rumor-mill starts. In an interview with Jim Rome, Sark denies gossip that he’s leaving for the USC coaching vacancy and stoically proclaims, “We’re building something at Washington.” The next day, I see the news: Steve Sarkisian to USC. I guess 8 wins was enough for old Sark (and USC to their alumni’s regret). But it actually works out in Washington’s favor. The vacancy allows us to hire legendary coach Chris Petersen from Boise State.
Rumor has it that the Boise State Athletic Director heard that Petersen was in negotiations with UW during the middle of a Boise State basketball game. He frantically left the gymnasium then drove around town for an hour dialing Petersen’s phone. I imagine his voicemail going something like this:
“Hi Chris, this is Bob, it’s uhhh 7:40 p.m. on a Thursdayyy, and uhhh just wanted to check in buddy. Hope the fam’s doing well. Anyways, I know I told you this week that the Athletic Department wouldn’t pay for a hot tub inside your office, but I went back over the numbers, and we can spare a few dollars. Heck, you know that iguana terrarium you mentioned, throw that in as well. You’ve been good to us Chris, and I just want you to know that if there’s anything else on your wish list this year, we’ll make it happen. Well give me a call when you get this, as soon as you get this…”
I don’t think Petersen got the message. All he saw was purple.
Seven-win Steve
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The Petersen hire pays off.
It’s 2016 and the Huskies have ripped off five in a row. They’re the #5 team in the nation after dominating #7 Stanford 44-7 the week before, and now they’re playing Oregon. Through an unprecedented run that included two national championship appearances, multiple top ten finishes, and a disgusting amount of Nike cash flowing under the table to who knows where, the Ducks have beaten the Huskies 12 times in a row. It’s been a sickening streak where the worst stretch in program history has coincided with the Ducks' best. But today, the tide is shifting.
I’m in my tiny Okinawan apartment watching the game on my laptop half-a-world away. Friends invited me to join them for sushi, but I told them, “I’m busy, I have an important engagement I need to attend.”
Oregon Coach Mark Helfrich looks like an accountant that somehow stumbled his way into a head coaching role. He’s nervously fingering his play sheet on the sideline as he eyes the imposing Washington defense. Budda Baker. Sidney Jones. Greg Gaines. There are NFL players everywhere. The wheels have come off for the Ducks since they lost Heisman trophy winner Marcus Mariota two years before and Helfrich, seeking a spark, decides to start promising freshman Justin Herbert. It’s a mistake.
On the opening play, Herbert throws a wobbly pass that’s intercepted by Budda Baker. It’s the equivalent of a senior ripping away a freshman’s lunch money. It sets up a quick Washington touchdown where QB Jake Browning runs into the endzone, taunting his receiver with a pointed finger as he does. The ref throws a flag for unsportsmanlike conduct, but no one cares. It’s instantly iconic and sets the stage for what’s to follow.
The Dawgs win 70-21. The largest amount ever scored in Autzen stadium.
I tune into the post-game Oregon press conference.
Accountant/coach Mark Helfrich faces the reporters.
“First off, I apologize for that score.”
The University of Oregon accepts his apology by firing him.
Washington rolls to a 12-1 record, a conference championship, and a final four playoff appearance. The opponent? Alabama.
That Team Down South
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It’s January 2017, and I’m in Seattle with friends. We head to a bar downtown to watch the playoff game. The Huskies are one win away from a national championship appearance. In their way stands the Alabama Crimson Tide. After a few scoreless back-and-forth series to open the game, Washington delivers a beautiful corner touchdown. The ESPN announcer is shocked.
“Into the hands of Dante Pettis, Huskies strike first!” Except it sounds almost like a question.
The bar explodes. Tables are pounded. High-fives are given. We’re gonna do this thing.
Except the Huskies don’t do the thing. The Alabama machine grinds to a monotonous 24-7 win.
It’s been a great season, I think, and we’ll be back.
Bama Blues
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But we don't go back to the Playoffs.
It’s September 2018, I’m with the love of my life, and we’re engaged to be married in October. Mary Frances is an Auburn grad, so I have a brilliant idea: #7 Washington is playing #10 Auburn in their opener in Atlanta. I get us tickets for the game. It'll be a great memory in our relationship, I think.
Things get tense quickly. We’re sitting in a section surrounded by Auburn fans. I’m a speck of purple in a sea of orange. Washington stumbles out of the gates but slowly builds a tight lead into the fourth quarter. To my fiancé’s horror, I’ve gotten into a shouting match with the people around us. Auburn scores a touchdown and the orange horde cheers. The Dawgs return the favor with a one-handed touchdown grab and I shout back. Mary Frances is increasingly uncomfortable as my volume tries to match the crowd around me.
In the fourth quarter, a bad defensive set leads to an Auburn touchdown and Washington falls behind. There’s enough time for a final UW drive. Jake Browning marches the Huskies down the field. They’re a play or two away from a touchdown and a win.
In the defining play of the game, Browning snaps the ball and scrambles with the mobility of a geriatric. He’s pummeled by a sasquatch-sized defensive linemen and fumbles the football. I think I hear circus music in the background. The Auburn fans go berserk. The game ends. Final score Auburn 21, Washington 16.
I’m incensed. Mary Frances turns to me and says, “I thought your team played well.”
“I DON’T NEED YOUR SYMPATHY!” I erupt. Houston, we have lift off.
It’s a quiet walk back to the car, and I'm dreading what’s next. I sing the Auburn fight song to Mary Frances. A bet lost and my obligation fulfilled with all the maturity of a petulant toddler.
Our parents wonder if the engagement will survive.
Love and Football
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It’s August 2021 and the COVID lockdown is finally over. After an excruciating stretch of no normal games, regular college football can finally resume. Like an addict who’s long overdue for a hit, I’m at the edge of my seat. Washington is playing Montana in the opener. It’s going to be a blowout, but I’m grateful for the game.
Kickoff. The Dawgs drive down the field barreling over their smaller opponents to an easy touchdown. I turn to my wife, “You know, they really shouldn’t schedule these games. They’re just not fair.”
After those immortal words everything starts going south. Montana starts scoring, and the Washington offense becomes inept. As the team struggles to gain an inch, the camera pans to Offensive Coordinator John Donovan on the sideline. He looks dazed, as if his mind holds the equivalent of a monkey banging a cymbal (the rest of the season will show that it does). By the fourth quarter the Dawgs are still down, and Head Coach Jimmy Lake is anxiously pacing the sidelines. The Huskies are on the verge of their worst loss in program history.
It’s 1 a.m. east coast time and I’ve stress-eaten a pound of baby carrots. Mary Frances forbids me to eat chips because of my anxious, in-game eating habits so I’ve been given vegetables instead. I pray for a turnaround. It doesn’t happen and the Dawgs lose to Montana, an FCS opponent.
The next day, I go to the emergency room. I’m rushed into surgery because of a blockage in my small intestine. The Doctor tells me it’s something I was born with, but I know different. That loss to Montana really did a number on me.
I recover from the debacle and watch a terrible season of Washington football. During the Oregon game, Washington falls behind and Coach Lake maturely responds by smacking a player on the sideline. The Dawgs lose the game and Jimmy Lake is fired shortly thereafter. Like the horrific 2008 season, Washington is back at the bottom.
That winter they hire some guy named Kalen DeBoer. I’ve never heard of him.
Baby Carrots
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The morning I left college, fingers of purple and gold light stretched over the horizon as if Don James was manning Husky Stadium’s version of the Bat Symbol. I exited southbound on I-5, climbed the onramp, and gained a brief glimpse of everywhere I’d been and lived and walked the past four years. It was as if my college experience was encapsulated in one shining view.
To the east I saw Red Square, the Quad, and the roof of Husky Stadium. To the west were Gas Works Park, Lake Union, and Queen Anne Hill. Memories cascaded into my mind while Semisonic’s "Closing Time" reverberated through the car –– okay, not really but that’s how I like to remember it. College was over and as I traced the contours of the Puget Sound I thought in my head, someday I’ll return for good. But in the nine years since I’ve left, I’ve never moved back.
I love college football because it reminds me of home. It brings me back to Washington autumn when the leaves have turned orange and the scent of evergreen trees are in the air. It reminds me of road trips to Corvallis to see my cousins and watch Oregon State in the “Civil War.” And it brings me back to those special four years of college where we’re thrust outside the familiarity of our roots into the wider world. Where we meet and connect with others and form new friendships and communities that last a lifetime. Each year, college football is how I reconnect with that community.
But tragically, the sport is changing.
It’s 2023, and college football is growing increasingly unrecognizable. Name Image and Likeness (NIL) laws have enabled boosters to pay players, the “transfer portal” resembles professional free-agency, and conference realignment––driven by ESPN and Fox in a tactic to maximize TV dollars––is destroying traditional rivalries and the regional nature of the game. On August 4, UW along with west coast counterparts Oregon, and a year earlier USC and UCLA, announced they would leave the Pac-12 conference for the media rich BIG 10. The shocking announcement resulted in the immediate collapse of the 108-year-old conference that I grew up watching and loving. The chain reaction that follows will dramatically reshape the sport into a few super conferences consisting of the top college brands. What happens to the other schools is anyone's guess.
I'd be lying if I didn't admit some excitement about UW's move. It's an acknowledgement of Washington's legitimacy as a west coast football power and will result in some amazing matchups: Ohio State, Michigan, Penn State, and others. It could even provide enough juice to eventually propel Washington funding and recruiting to a national level where it can truly compete with the behemoths of the South. But I can't help lamenting how it will also destroy many of the features that made me fall in love with the sport in the first place. The type of sport where, sometimes, even a Montana can take down a Washington.
I don’t blame anyone who’s disgusted with the state of the game. And while I’ll always continue to watch and love the Huskies, in many ways, I’m viewing this year as something of a last dance. The final year of the Pac-12. A season for the ages, where half of the teams in the conference will be ranked in the top-25, setting up a showdown worthy of the conference's rich history.
And right now, the Dawgs are loaded. After an 11-2 season, (a complete 180 from a year earlier, classic UW football) words like “National championship run” are starting to be thrown around casually like someone who asks for ranch with French fries –– never mind that a west coast team hasn’t won it since USC in 2004. The odds of UW making a title run are better this year than they’ve been in two decades.
Realistically, I give them a puncher’s chance. By opening day, after guzzling copious amounts of UW flavored purple kool-aid, that puncher’s chance will have grown to unrealistic optimism. But that’s how it is with Husky football. You’re never too far from the top, never too far from the bottom.
2023 is our year. Because as a Washington fan, it’s always our year.
Our Year
Matt Hartley is the is the co-editor of The Hart & The Cur.
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