TCU Football: The Undefeated
In this story:
Dear Mr. Duggan,
People forget Rocky lost. Perhaps it is the natural optimism of our national character, and that of athletes everywhere, but when we think of Rocky, the images most present to mind are not of him, bloodied in defeat, but of his triumphant journey, as iconically exemplified by Sylvester Stallone clambering each of the 72 steps leading to the Philadelphia Museum of Art, and dancing at the pinnacle of his achievement. At that moment, victory is already permanently his, his defeat at the hands of Apollo Creed a matter of fact, not of truth.
Similarly, there is another film about a great loser, my personal favorite, Martin Scorsese's Raging Bull. And there is a scene, my favorite in all of cinema, wherein the decision of judges descends to inconsequence: the great Jake La Motta lets fall his blood-dark gloves and takes the beating of his life. And what a beating it is. Filmed in black and white, a splash of chocolate-dark fluid slaps the faces of spectators watching--reminding us that the glory and barbarism of sport are not contained in the ring, nor on the field. We watch as a seemingly dismembered glove devastates La Motta's face. His knees quiver, polka-dotted with black blood drops that seem to suck at his skin, like bugs. A punch. His face goes right. Another punch. His face goes left. Cameras flash, sparkling supernovas. An anonymous commentator: "How he does this nobody knows . . . nobody can withstand this punishment." And at the end of the match, when the inevitable decision is made, the title changing hands to Sugar Ray Robinson, La Motta approaches his rival and says: "You never got me down, Ray. You never got me down."
In that moment, defeated, La Motta stands triumphant.
I am going to try my damnedest to preserve the etiquette of an author refusing to confuse himself for his subject, but to some extent, it cannot be helped. You see, I have spent most of my life not only indifferent to sports but frankly resistant toward them. One year ago I wrote an article about how Gary Patterson taught me to like football.
Over the last few months, you and your teammates have taught me to love it.
This is no small matter for me, as my father had always hoped I would be a great athlete. Indeed, when I was in junior high, relegated in disgrace to the C-team, I remember thinking I had a chance of being promoted to the B-team when one of my coaches deigned to (affectionately) refer to me as "Downtown Tyler Brown" (it never occurred to me that certain coaches have a soft spot for sweet, studious little bumblers).
Anxious to tell my father that I might be promoted to the B-team, he calmly said: "No, son. Tyler Drew Brown. Touchdown Brown."
And that was a revelation of my father's hopes for me from which I'm not certain I ever recovered.
Why is this important? Because, a bachelor, with no children (that I know of) there is no one I love more on this earth than my father--a quiet man, a dignified man, of wisdom and grace and extraordinary tolerance. I demonstrated other talents, as a musician and a writer, and to this extent, my absolute incompetence as an athlete at every discipline I painfully attempted proved a benefit. Had I possessed a modicum of talent for athletics, had I so much as made a team, of any kind, I would never have picked up a pen or guitar.
Over the course of the last three months, I have hugged my father and mother more than I ever have, have yelled, screamed, cursed, jumped, and many times thought I was going to die of cardiac arrest, all because of a stupid game that you and your gallant teammates continually gave the illusion of having almost mythic importance.
Half-jokingly, I predicted at the beginning of the season we would go undefeated. After the victory against Tarleton State, we might call it only a quarter of a joke. After SMU, I was all in. Your victory against Oklahoma proved what a powerhouse team you are. When we won in overtime against Oklahoma State, it became clear, and indubitable, you were one of the great teams in the country. After Kansas and Kansas State and West Virginia, your worth became clearer. But the triple knockout against Texas, Baylor, and Iowa State proved your greatness.
The whole country was watching and, with the small exception of our opponents by the week, they were all rooting for the mighty UnderFrogs (not least of all Dez Bryant).
And I've never felt closer, more rooted in mutual understanding with my family in my life.
Max, guys, if you read this, from the bottom of my heart, thank you. What you have given my father and mother and me is the stuff that poetry itself is made of.
In this life, we have many heroes. You are mine, and I believe I speak for all of us Horned Frogs, of all ages, you are ours.
Keep your chin up, Max. They never got you down.
They never got you down.
Best,
Tyler Brown
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