Before I can really appreciate Northwestern’s new stadium, I have to go back to an old wooden sign.
Grandpa George would tell me to pick out our games.
That was our tradition. I was a college football obsessed kid growing up in Vernon Hills, and nearby Evanston offered something wonderful: an affordable way to see some of the best teams in the Big Ten come through town.
We would look at the schedule and decide which games we wanted to attend. The sign looked like it belonged in the 1970s or ’80s, even though we were well into the ’90s. In my memory, it practically explained Northwestern football all by itself.
Still standing and still serving its purpose. Nobody particularly concerned about bringing it into the present.
I loved it.
I loved going with Grandpa. I loved seeing those helmets and uniforms I watched on television turn into real people right in front of me. I loved that college football was close enough to touch.
But old Dyche Stadium was rough.
It had that mean, unforgiving artificial turf that looked capable of removing three layers of skin if you tripped walking across it. The place felt old, dirty and unwelcoming. Charm was something you brought with you.
The old joke was that Northwestern students went to football games because, on Saturdays in the fall, the stadium was the quietest place to study.
That gives you some idea of the atmosphere.
For the people who played there, coached there and loved the place, it mattered deeply. To much of the world around it, Northwestern football simply existed.
Then came 1995.
And a team I had grown accustomed to watching lose did something that has stayed with me far longer than any score.
It made me believe.
