A Letter to Oklahoma State Football Players (From a Fan)

Dear Oklahoma State Player,

I've often wondered how you feel as you walk down Hester Street on Saturdays. How it feels to have hundreds of people wave and cheer, offer high fives, and hold up signs with your name on them. I've wondered what you think when complete strangers ask for your autograph or hand you their orange-clad babies for a picture.

photo: http://www.okstate.com/

As a fan and alumnus, I've even wondered sometimes whether you feel used. If, perhaps, you're walking along thinking, "These people don't know me. They can't possibly care about me as a person...or know what I've gone through to get here. They're only cheering because I give them wins."

The truth is I'll never know how you feel when you make that walk on game days.

But I can tell you what it's like to watch and cheer and offer high-fives to the young men who've chosen to play football at Oklahoma State.

I'm delighted when one of our Cowboys makes good--whether that's getting signed to a pro squad or being hired to coach high school ball. Come to my house on Sundays and you'll see me cheer like crazy when Kendall hits the gap in San Franciso, when Dan drills it through the uprights in JerryWorld, or when Dez drags defenders ten yards after making the catch. Like the rest of the Cowboy Nation, my husband and I shed bitter tears when Darrent Williams was killed--then wiped our eyes for a different reason when Donovan Woods earned his Super Bowl ring. (I still have your jersey, Number Eight.)

I don't know how you feel about us--the fans and Alumni. But here's how we feel about you:
                                                                         

Good looking kids, huh?

 

 

The day you chose Oklahoma State, you became family.

You're family because we realize you had other options. Some of you committed to Oklahoma State when our stadium was a joke (Rust-Oleum, anyone?) and our record was worse. And even after we started winning, we understand that a kid growing up in Houston or Dallas could opt for the 'bright lights, big city' experience at a larger school.

Yet you chose Oklahoma State.

And that makes us family.

Are families perfect? Heck, no. We mess up sometimes. We struggle and make mistakes, especially when we're young. (I've always claimed partial credit for Eskimo Joe's phenomenal success. Thankfully, I've matured since.) We're not perfect. We don't expect you to be perfect, either.

And we don't stop loving you when you're not.

Ask anyone from the O-State family about Prentiss Elliot (former player who got into legal trouble) and you'll get: "I heard he's doing better now, and I'm glad." Even after the furor this week over the Sports Illustrated article, an alum tweeted about Artrell Woods (a major source): "Makes me sad. I cried when he caught that catch (after coming back from a terrible back injury)."

We want you to succeed. We're sad (for you) if you don't.

Because you're family.

So when you see me cheering for you on Saturday, know this: I'm cheering because you decided to work, sweat, and study at the university where I met my husband, earned my veterinary degree, and where I want my children to attend.

Because you chose Stillwater, we've heard the same chimes ringing from Edmon Low, walked on the same sidewalks (with their goofy chalk reminders), and sat in the same freezing classrooms. You know better than to swim in Theta Pond (and to visit Voodoo Village if you got suckered into it), and you've felt Gallagher-Iba rumble when the Sooners came to town. Like me, you've waited in line at Whitehurst, cussed the walk from Morrill to Ag Hall, and wondered what genius came up the name Classroom Building.

That makes us family.

After college, whether you wind up in Houston or Chicago or Los Angeles, try this experiment:

Put on your OSU gear and walk around. See how long it takes until someone flashes you the 'Pistols Firing' sign or says "Go Pokes." It's happened to me in places like New Orleans and San Diego and Seaside, Oregon. I guarantee it'll happen to you.
                                                    

photo: http://www.pistolsfiringblog.com/

 

 

 

If you're the gregarious type, stop and tell the person you played football--then get ready to be peppered with questions about your life and career and whether you have kids and how often you get 'home' to Stillwater.

Because that's what family does.

How does it feel to be a Cowboy football player? I'll never know. But I can tell you how it feels to be an OSU alum...

...it feels like coming home.


Cheers...and Go Pokes!

-T

Three Yards and a Cloud of Dust...

Football (the American kind--with a weird pointy ball made from the skin of unfortunate pigs) is often called an analogy for war. But as a lifelong fan, I think it makes a great analogy for almost anything--especially writing commercial fiction.

Think of it this way: NFL players prepare at least forty hours for every hour they play.

That's forty-to-one ratio.

This means that if I hope to 'win the game,' for every hour I spend creating new material I must devote many (many!) hours to sharpening my skill, and even more to checking, revising, correcting, formatting, summarizing and pitching that new creation.

Sometimes the words grind out slowly, inch by sweaty inch. Each sentence feels like 'Three yards and a cloud of dust.' A paragraph takes an hour, a single page consumes a whole frustrating day.

Then, like the receiver who breaks free and catches a perfectly-timed throw, scenes unfold in flowing detail, and pages appears on my laptop as if by magic. At the end of these 'bursts' I sigh, close my computer, and think, "Wow. Now that the chapter/scene/book is finished, the hard stuff is over."

Except it's not.

Like a long pass that nets huge yardage, a super-productive day simply means there's more work to do. If a completed scene is a successful scoring drive, I still need to play defense and clean up the manuscript. Another score (a polished draft)? Now it's time to run it by beta-readers and see where the thing drags--in other words, to play more defense.

Offense (writing) and defense (revisions) look good? Now we work on special teams, because we'll never sell our beloved creation unless we successfully pitch to editors and agents (or market the thing ourselves, which is probably harder.)

No football team can win the big prize unless they develop all three phases of the game (ask Boise State, who broke my heart last season. Go Broncos!)

I'm headed to the lake this weekend to work on my passing game.

Come Monday, I'll be back to playing defense.

Cheers...and happy writing!

-T

Shoot for the Moon...

...then work on building your rocket!

Last night I witnessed a remarkable display of hard work, determination, and courage by a bunch of seventh-grade football players.

Yes, both teams fought through the suffocating heat. Both teams made mistakes, both got a few lucky breaks. And it was razor-close: The decisive play came when the opposing team completed a long pass that would've put them in position to take the lead. Their talented receiver caught the ball then fumbled, and our team (okay, it was my kid. But as you'll see in a moment, it really was a team effort) covered the live ball.

Thirty seconds later it was over. Our side cheered. Their side graciously congratulated us, loaded their thirty or so kids onto the bus, and went home.

The same thing happens nearly every night in this part of the world. Our sons (and a few daughters) don helmets and pads and fight their guts out for ten yards of dried-up turf on an unlit field in the middle of nowhere. Win or lose, parents are always proud of their kids--and rightfully so. It's hard work.

But what made last night remarkable is this: Our team suited up twelve players.

Twelve.

Since we play eleven-man football, that means most of the players--including the undersized, intellectually gifted kid wearing the number ten jersey--played the entire game without a break. Offense, Defense, Special Teams.

Every snap, every down.

It was over a hundred degrees when the game started, ninety-seven when it finally ended a few minutes after sundown.

We have a few talented players--and some wonderful kids who excel at things other than football. But what I saw last night reminded me that hard work and determination CAN make a difference.

When my husband and I saw all those opposing players pile off the bus and jog to their sideline, we looked at each other and said, "This isn't going to be pretty."

At the end, I'm not ashamed to say I had tears in my eyes.

From now on, when someone tells me it's impossible for an unknown author to get published I'm going to smile and say, "I thought so, too. But my son taught me otherwise."

Cheers...and happy writing!

-T