Plain and simple, Senior Day is important. Senior Day is the pinnacle of fan engagement. It is the day when for a moment, we, the fans, do not try to do witty things to take an opponent’s focus or scream encouragement for our team to do better. Instead, we say thank you to our players. Thank you for these years, whether it has been a full ride from freshman to senior, or the shorter term we take with a transfer. Thank you for the effort. Thank you for the sacrifice. Thank you for choosing to be part of something that means a lot to all of us gathered here.
It’s a very reflective moment for me, because it’s one of the few arenas in life where a goodbye is scheduled. There a lot of instances where the goodbyes we would like to have never get to happen. Even though this isn’t a permanent goodbye, there is still a change coming and things won’t ever be the same after this is over.
I was in this reflective mood as my senior years at Ohio began to wind down. When Senior Day came that winter, I felt as one with those guys on the floor being appreciated, as if the Convocation Center was saying thank you to me for my years of standing in the bleachers, living and dying with the bounces of a dirty orange ball.
And then the band played Light Up during halftime. I never felt particularly drawn to that particular anthem. I really wasn’t a tremendously active participant in those sorts of activities. Certainly not when a game was on the line. There needed to be a certain mood, and that mood was certainly not present in the bleachers.
But it wasn’t the tune, or its implied meanings. The song is by Styx. Named for the River Styx; the mythical barrier between the world and the underworld. The journey across the River Styx must be taken by all the departed souls. We, the seniors, were about to cross the River Styx.
That thought did not last long. The second half began and a thrilling game came down to a final possession. The Bobcats prevailed and we marched up Richland Avenue to celebrate with legal beverages. We walked high over the empty river bed, a marsh of tall reeds striping the center. The River Styx returned to my mind. Dennis DeYoung was telling me – no, demanding – that I need to cross a river. As I left behind the insulated world I knew in college, I would cross the Hocking and encounter the unknown.
A plan took shape at the bar that afternoon. Once the winter snows had melted and the Hocking was no longer a raging torrent, I (and every other soul in the room) would shed our Bobcat coil and cross the river. We would not walk over a bridge like some pansy, but by walking through the water.
All in attendance agreed it would be so. But in early May, when I set the date we would make our crossing, only my friend Roger, a man with an exhibitionist tendency to take his clothes off at socially awkward times, dared join me.
I cursed all those who abandoned us, and Roger and I set off for the banks of the Hocking. We were followed by several curious onlookers. They stood with towels, on guard for the probable intercession of campus police. Roger was quickly naked. I, being a much more modest sort, wore a concert t-shirt and cut off jeans.
The mud of the river’s bed was soft and cold. I shivered, but the flask I had packed in a back pocket fortified me. Roger had no pockets. As we waded deeper in the water, Roger faltered, muttered an obscenity, and turned around for the warmth of the towels. I would have to make my journey alone.
All of the meaning the crossing held was lost when I reached the other side. All my friends were still on the other side. So I crossed again to the northern bank, declaring that I was not returning because I was afraid of what I found on the other side, but because I needed my shoes back.
I had done it. I had crossed over. And things would never be the same again.