(Authors Note: Not gonna lie—I kinda want to put this on Wikipedia. And if it seems cheesy...bring on the wine. I wanted to remember this, and hopefully it will help you too as well. This is a tribute to all you fine people who made it happen. Go Team!)
In the tedious droll of quotidian life, it is easy to forget the miraculous. If we are not on our guard, the daily grind can shroud one in monotony.
But I am here to witness to the power of current miracles, and of a story whose impact would go down alongside the accounts of the Odyssey, Daniel in the Lions’ Den, and the American Revolution, if our world was not so preoccupied with other news. Rarely do we encounter the stuff from which legends are made, even rarer are our chances to participate in these happenings. And yet.
The culmination of the events I am about to describe took place on the thirteenth of April 2010, year of our Lord, in the humble town of Provo. But the story begins long before, perhaps in late January of the same year.
The team had been christened H1N1 (or N1H1, no one quite knew which), and were known on and off the field as Team Swine Flu. They were a co-ed intramural soccer team, just like any other intramural team, but perhaps with one too many players. Despite their average skills, team swine flu began the season terribly, even appallingly, suffering through losses as great as 10-0. This continued through the season. 7-0. 8-1. It was as though they had condemned themselves from their name, for their losses could be compared to the death of the ravaging disease. One game saw them tying, but just barely.
The team, near to admitting total defeat, kept playing only maintain their honor, even as their players lost morale and appendages (not really the latter—but it was kind of like that to their souls.)
But then, in the first game of the playoffs, something changed.
Perhaps it was only the small changes made by each player, an added intensity with which they played. Perhaps it was a star that dislodged itself from the sky and touched each players head with the blessings of heaven. They might have thought, after that first win during the play-offs, that some of this was luck—the other team didn’t have enough players to sub, they were running themselves out, etc, etc. How could be anything besides luck and perhaps a minimum amount of skill? But after this game, no one on the team let off the gas pedal, the intensity grew and accelerated into something more. Destiny had a plan.
Because suddenly, the team that had been playing so foully up till that point began playing most fowl-ly—taking to the field like the once ugly ducklings who, upon realizing their destinies as soccer swans, fly the skies with an inborn agility and inherent grace. And the mantra, adopted from Helen Keller, echoed in the interiors of their souls: “How can one consent to creep, when one feels the impulse to soar?”
And soar they did, to meet the stakes which rose higher and higher, as they continued to win in the playoff games.
Think Mighty ducks. Think Angels in the Outfield. Think Remember the Titans. Think that movie about the Kentucky Football team. And then think better. This fortuitous event was better than all of them, because it didn’t happen on a big screen, book-ended by advertisements and credits. There was not an Aaron Copland symphony playing somewhere in the background, only the shouts of “Dang” and “Gosh” along with the pounding of hearts, echoing up and down through the expanse of the indoor practice facility. This event happened in the third dimension, with real blood, sweat and tears. It was as real as any history in a book... and even more real, because we lived through it. Let no one doubt the miraculous nature of what continued to transpire.
On Saturday the 10th, team Swine Flu played a team that, like Goliaths, marched out onto the field with a most assured smugness; their men were indeed, lithe, tall giants and their women were blonde, tan and quick. All wore actual cleats. But in the first minute of the game, through some deft passing and a stellar move by forward Jason Akinaka, Swine Flu put a goal into the opposite net, much to the astonishment of both teams. It is believed that this moment must have done something to challenge the expectations of all. Mentally, a table had turned. David’s sticks and stones were not to be trifled with. But the game continued, very tensely, as the team of Goliaths and Jezebels returned to the field to score four points, while Swine flu held the lead at 5. At this point, even the Richter scale could not measure the amount of energy caused by the friction and play between the two teams. Certain members on the sidelines could not repress the urge to jump up and down through the whole game, shouting recklessly at the top of their lungs—perhaps last-minute prayers for deliverance and salvation, for the field that day would be someone’s deathbed. Spectators and participants alike held their hearts in their hands, as though this sort of Faustian sacrifice might yield a victory. Indeed, there might have been a match of sudden death, for in a final effort, team Goliath had intensified their playing and put the ball up field. As everyone rushed to the ball-- goalie, defenders, offense, midfield-- the ball was lost and popped out from under a huge dog-pile that had formed just feet from it. It rolled, apathetically, beside the goal, so precariously—nearly kissing the white line. The strength behind a golf putt would have put the ball in. And both teams knew this, and a brief moment of silence stilled over the crowd before the storm of agony and clothes-rending. But a swift delivery from one of the prime defenders on Swine Flu found that ambivalent ball and expertly delivered the team out of danger, kicking it to the sideline as the buzzer rang, and Team Swine flu was hailed victorious, with a lead of 5.
But that had only been the semi final. The final, which took place, as aforementioned, on Tuesday, April 13th, was also quite intense. This was it. Some of the members of the team might have doubted their ability to compete with the other highest ranked team in the division, looking back and seeing how far they had come in so short a time. These individuals were lacking in faith, but this was made up for by the stalwart playing of the rest of the team, who were all still reeling from the thrill of defeating the Goliaths of Saturday’s game. After three goals by the exceptional Alissa, the Swine Flu was winning and holding their own. The intensity never died… this team had come too far to know that the game was not over until the very end. A very real magic was tangible in the facility that night, amplified by sweat, trepidation, and anticipation. So as Kristine Jaussi placed the team’s final goal into the net, finalizing the score at 8-2, the victory buzzer blared, and the crowds rushed the field in a cry and celebration of victory that lasted for minutes. Oh to be in that mosh pit!!! One could almost believe that the ceiling had opened up and fireworks fell from the sky while angels sounded celestial horns, or, to be creative-- theremins. Victory had never tasted so sweet, and probably would not for a long while to the team, and the members of which who would be leaving the ward in the following week, to follow the beat of their own drums, leaving the nest to fledge their separate ways. But one memento they would always have to carry, cherish, and wear: a generic shirt printed with the words of triumph: “BYU Intramural Champion.” And on the back: “Those who say ‘it’s just a shirt.’ don’t get it.”
It was a shirt that was more than a shirt.
And a game that was more than a game, a win that was more than a win.
It bore the mark of myth and legend, but also of religious testament. It was pure human resilience, betterment, and a refusal to accept fate. It was a stand against the odds, and the narrow limits of empiricist thinking: one that will never be forgotten as long as we have the gumption to retell and extol it for future generations. Ultimately, it is a story too exquisite to be cheapened by the structures of cinematic retelling. The only unfortunate part of this tale is that the greater part of Utah—nay, the World itself!--- will never know the miraculous comeback of the BYU 183rd Ward’s own: the Team Swine Flu.
No comments:
Post a Comment