Dark Days: May They Not Last Long
The long dark weekend – the first of what figures to be many such weekends, folks, brace for it – continues amid the spread of Covid-19.
No sports. No firm expectations for a return of sports. No sunshine outside, with rain washing away plans to at least get outside and be active. And I so wanted to head out and hit the links.
More rain in the forecast, too.
Fitting, for this suddenly surreal existence that plops us in the middle of some 12 Monkeys redo.
It’s been said, and it’s true: we are in unchartered territory.
My students at the O’Colly ask me if I’ve ever seen anything like this before. Since I wasn’t around in 1918 for the Spanish Flu epidemic, although that isn’t clear to them, the answer is obviously no.
There’s been nothing like this, not in the U.S.
Now, the pall of this, yeah, it’s reminded me of two periods, although those were far more short-term.
The first was the bombing of the Murrah Building. I was working at The Oklahomanat the time. Terror came to our back door. Everyone was touched by that dark day, whether you knew someone lost – I did – or knew someone who knew someone, or simply were struck by the senseless loss of life, children among them.
During a time like that, there’s an all-hands-on-deck approach to covering the story. So sports writers jump in to help with news, as I did in the in the days following.
My job: calling family members of the victims for stories we called Celebrations of Life.
Gulp.
I was terrified, feeling that it was totally insensitive to make such calls in a time of grief. Would I be adding to the grief? What would the reception be on the other end of the line?
Turns out, I was so mistaken.
Almost across the board, folks wanted to share stories about their loved ones, welcoming the opportunity to let everyone know what made them special. There were touching stories. Funny stories. Inspirational stories.
There was even a sense that allowing these people to share was somehow therapeutic for them. And knowing that these stories would be shared with others seemed to please them.
I would thank them for their time, and many times they thanked me for the opportunity.
I remember, too, driving the highways around downtown, being able to see not the torn remains of the Murrah Building, but the glow in the sky from the intense lights at the scene, knowing that the search for survivors, or later, bodies was taking place.
It was a time of great distress and sadness, but we rose up from it.
There was a similar distraught tone in the aftermath of 9/11.
At the time, there was a feeling that more acts of terror on our soil were forthcoming, that the hijacking of planes was just the beginning. And we braced for it, and feared it.
Games were postponed, much like they have been now. Eventually they resumed, although with a new set of concerns of safety and hesitance to return to the stadiums and arenas where we formerly strolled in without a care.
I was on the OSU football beat then, Les Miles’ debut season, and the Cowboys’ first game back was the Big 12 opener with Texas A&M, in College Station. I remember sitting around a conference table in the office, Berry Tramel, Mike Baldwin and myself, debating on whether to fly or drive.
All commercial flights had been grounded for a period. Driving home to Edmond from Stillwater after watching practice or talking to players and coaches, I’d see the jets in the distance at Tinker Air Force Base and be struck with the thought that military planes were the only ones flying across the country.
It was chilling.
The airlines were back in business after a while, yet consumers were slow to get back on board. Ultimately, we decided to fly, and part of that decision was the thought that carried throughout the country: We wouldn’t live in fear.
We boarded a Southwest flight to Austin.
Us and five other passengers.
I’m not going to lie, it was unnerving.
We were greeted and welcomed by the crew. Then, just before takeoff, the pilot came on to welcome us well, before closing with these words:
“Folks, remember, you are the last line of defense to the cockpit.”
Then he clicked off.
The events of 9/11 sparked the reinforcement of the cockpit doors on planes, but those adjustments were yet to come. And the pilot must have figured he needed to remind us of the brave passengers who took on the hijackers of Flight 93, resulting in that plane crashing into a Pennsylvania field and away from harm.
Our flight went off without incident, of course.
At the game, the sense of national pride and toughness shined as the stadium was striped red, white and blue, through an incredible student effort to sell red, white and blue t-shirts according to stadium sections.
It was an incredible sight, and feeling, at a time when the nation was wrestling with recovery.
Ultimately, we rose up from it.
And here we are again, with a new challenge.
One we’ve never experienced before. It’s unnerving and unsettling.
But here’s betting we rise. Again.
