Football in Ohio meets the Webster definition of religion: the belief in and reverence for a supernatural power or powers, regarded as creating and governing the universe. Football there is not just a game; it is a cosmos with its own gods, saints, and commandments.
There is an old story about a Michigan man who died and went to heaven. At the Pearly Gates, St. Peter introduced him to an animated, Jabba-the-Hut-like creature—yelling, screaming, ripping his own clothes and contorting his face. Astonished, the man said, “I didn’t think Woody Hayes (the famous Ohio State Coach) would ever make it to heaven.” St. Peter gently took him aside and replied, “My son, that’s not Woody Hayes—that’s God. He just thinks he’s Woody Hayes.” That joke was never told in Michigan during the years Ohio State won The Game.
Football in America, at all levels, grew up in one Ohio county—Stark County. It is home to the Massillon Tigers and the Canton Bulldogs and to the Pro Football Hall of Fame in Canton. I played in Massillon Tiger Stadium, and so did Jim Thorpe. The coaching tree that began with Paul Brown at Massillon and runs through Col. Earl “Red” Blaik at Army, the Stoops brothers, Pat McVay, Don Shula, Urban Meyer, and scores of other Division I coaches is a testament to the “supernatural powers” who created and now govern the football universe.
I played high school and college ball in Ohio. I was an average player who played and started on two state championship teams in high school. My freshman year at Wittenberg, I played on the scout team for the first Division III national champions in the Amos Alonzo Stagg Bowl. I was fortunate to be around great players and great coaches, including three Hall of Famers—Marv Moorehead, Dave Maurer, and “Bull” Edwards, the godfather of Bill Belichick.
Because of that, I have lived inside many great rivalries and “hate games.” Most of the time, my teams won; a few times, we lost badly—including one championship game, 32–0. Fifty years after that drubbing, I came into possession of a letter our coach wrote to the winning coach. It was a gracious, thoughtful note of congratulations. For the next 365 days, Coach Moorehead never spoke the other school’s name in public. A year later, we returned the favor, beating Watterson by almost the same score and winning Upper Arlington’s first state championship. Again, a letter crossed in the mail—this time from the losing coach to the winner. Respect and respect.
The tone of our politics today, at every level, is anything but magnanimous or gracious. This is not just a Washington, D.C. disease. In Idaho’s state and local politics, the same spirit prevails. We recently went through a land-division and special-area permitting process in Garden City. Even after all the votes were taken and approvals granted, the group supporting the developer continued its propaganda campaign against the neighbors who had opposed the project. It turns out it can be just as hard to be a good winner as a good loser.
Every coach I ever had taught the same lesson: you must respect yourself before you can respect your opponent. Judging by how we talk to one another, and how quickly we demonize adversaries, we do not seem to respect ourselves very much these days.
More than fifty years after my Upper Arlington team avenged that 1966 loss to Watterson, and just a week after our court case for declaratory judgment was dismissed in Ada County, I am reminded what it means to be both a good winner and a good loser. Any hard-fought contest—especially in politics—ought to be played and end the way our games did; with unflinching effort beforehand and unflinching respect afterward.
Below is the poem I wrote about how any competition should end, followed by that long-ago congratulatory letter from a losing coach to the victor. In any walk of life, the victor and the loser can only earn the respect of the other side if they respect themselves and respect their game.
