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Death or glory. The Clash's pissed-off punk anthem has been pinballing around my lizard brain since The University of Oregon finished its Rose Bowl beatdown of Jameis Winston and his tomahawk-chopping Florida State probation buddies.
That win was the most glorious of all for diehard Ducks fans like me—high fives and euphoria crescendoed in its wake—but there was an even bigger game to come. Hours after the Oregon's win, the college football's first playoff champion was set. The Ducks would play Ohio State…again. How perfect.
My dad took me to my first Ducks game when I was seven. The Ducks were routinely dismal then, with only rare glimmers of the brilliance to come. But even with all the great moments in the 20 years since âThe Pick,â the Ducksâ appearances on the grandest stages have ended ignominiously. Like when Oregon got beat by Auburn in their first Natty appearance in 2011 and when the damn Buckeyes lit up the Ducks in the 2010 Rose Bowl. Trust me, I lived and died at both these games. If the final scores werenât bad enough, the âthere, there little Duckâ condescending consolation from the winning fans left me as cold as any corpse. If you canât relate, go back to your Tolstoy novel or work some more on that new soccer chant.
Bitch all you want about the big money that pervades the modern college game. All the dollars in the world can't bring back the chunk of your spirit that dies when the squad you've been rooting for since the advent of color TV fails to summit the highest peaks.
The glorious poetry of the Ducks in 2014—of Marcus Mariota and his Heisman Trophy and boundless humility, and the team's carefully choreographed offensive frenzy, resurgent defense, most-ever wins and unabashed embrace of its Team Nike haute couture preeminence—has me on the road to Dallas again in pursuit of revenge and, coincidentally, a reprise of the first NCAA mens's basketball playoff championship in 1939 in which Oregon's Tall Firs toppled the Buckeyes.
I opted for a Saturday afternoon departure to the sprawling Dallas Metroplex, giving me most of Sunday to steady myself for game day. In the old days, this meant swilling high-proof whiskey from wake up (N.B.: Wild Turkey 101 is just as effective as traditional mouthwash to kill oral bacteria) until oblivion whispered howdy, then starting over again on game day. Toxic good fun with the immediate downsides being a sweaty pounding headache and brown-spotted memory.
As a twenty-year teetotaler, my comparatively ambitious Dallas activities involved checking out the local coffee scene and snagging some serious barbecue. NFL playoff football provided a fortuitous backdrop for the day's doings.
Consensus best Dallas barbecue is a place called Pecan Lodge in the Deep Ellum neighborhood. This is not the Deep Ellum of the African-American-dominated blues era of the 1920's and 30's that Garcia and the Dead once celebrated in song.
From what I could see, it's now mostly white kids and cute boutiques. But the barbecue, served up in a big, square, high-ceilinged space, is outstanding. They were already out of beef ribs when I arrived to an hour long line full of Ducks and Buckeyes faithful, but the peppery, chewy burnt ends, smoky sausage and pink-tender pork ribs made an exceptional consolation prize. I followed a local tip and hit the express line for large orders only. So what if I ordered more than three hungry fat guys could possibly consume. I didn't have to wait.
You're not coming to Dallas for the coffee scene, but when Duck fans like me are on the road, that morning shot is still critical. Fortunately, the third wave has washed gently inland to the Metroplex. The most renowned purveyor is Houndstooth, an Austin import in the bohemian Knox-Henderson neighborhood, barely distinguishable from the best in the Northwest. Quality beans, careful roasting and an attentively pulled shot made for a fine macchiato. It was even hard to get a seat due to the proliferation of zombie-like twentysomethings staring vacantly into the retina displays of their Mac Books. Just like home.
After a stop back at the hotel to see Andrew Luck and the Colts offer Peyton Manning a hands-on lesson on the virtues of retirement, I headed out for a steak dinner at Knife. The owner, John Tesar (who also owns a place called Spoon), is now best known for last year's ugly verbal rock fight with the venom-tongued (and, some say, ethically-challenged) restaurant reviewer for the Dallas Morning News. Both emerged from the spat looking like adrenaline-dosed ten-year-olds. As for Knife, it was fine, unspectacular steakhouse fare. I left thinking I should have gone back to Tei-An instead, my favorite spot in America for refined Japanese cuisine.
Sport Center was on the tube when I got back to the hotel. They were counting down the hours, minutes and seconds until kickoff. The talking heads were analyzing themselves into a frenzy. I'm nervous and will probably need an Ambien.
I can barely wait for tonight's glory.
WWeek 2015