Rex Steele was waiting for me when I arrive to Centennial Bank Stadium, a half-drained beer in one hand. I put myself in the queue, prove myself an adult, and got us a couple cans of the new Howlin Pilsner and we stood in the concourse, drinking beer and drinking in the view on the field, where both the Red Wolves and the Golden Hurricane were engaged in drills.
“Offensive line looks huge,” says Steele, pointing to the men in red. “God, who’s 72?”
I don’t have the jersey numbers memorized. I have to look it up. “That’s Noah Smith. Broke his leg in the Spring.”
“He’s massive…check out those guys.” Steele points to three middle aged men making their way through the stadium seating. They look like three men with strong opinions about riding lawnmowers.
“Looks like trouble,” I joke. Ten minutes later, we see them again. They’re singing the National Anthem, and they’re knocking it out of the stadium.
“Holy shit,” says Steele. “Those guys killed it!”
The Box of Porn Guy
I’m here to cover the Tulsa versus Arkansas State game, and I’m lugging my laptop bag, but I decide to join Steele in the stands, where he and his wife have season tickets. His wife, a grad and a fan, couldn’t make it, so I have a legit seat. By the time we arrive to our seats, the Golden Hurricane are already in field goal position. I’m unbothered. The weather is too perfect.
“I doubt if these guys score a touchdown all night,” says Steele with confidence that can only come after a couple Howlin Pilsners. I’m inclined to agree, because I too have had a couple Howlin Pilsners. Tulsa settles for a field goal, and suddenly, a stranger joins sits down next to us.
“You remember me?” he says. Immediately, I consult my mental Rolodex for people to which I owe money.
“Noooo…” admits Steele.
“Box of Porn Guy?” he says, and it clicks. He’s an old friend from our college days; a fun-loving, gregarious, and highly affable guy who just so happened to own a cardboard box of pornography back in the day – which he made graciously available to his friends. He’s moved on to bigger things, we learn. He’s a successful business and family man, enjoying a beautiful evening at Centennial Bank Stadium. We shoot the shit, catching up. I haven’t seen or heard from him in nearly 30 years. And here we were, back at Arkansas State. Meanwhile, Jaylen Raynor connects with Adam Jones for a 35 yard touchdown.
“That’s Red Wolves football!” declares Steele, and the three of us share an old-man high five.
Is This Year Zero?
Hemingway said “At first, you go broke slowly, then all at once.” However, the Red Wolves seemed to have gotten bankrupt of their skills all at once after the Jones’ touchdown haul. Snap are missed. Penalties accrue. Kamdyn Benjamin, the speedy Tulsa wide receiver, is left inexplicably wide open for a 39 yard touchdown.
“How do you not put a man on Benjamin?” I ask with the assurance of a guy who is bumming a season ticket off his brother. It gets worse. The Red Wolves defense forces Tulsa to punt, and the usually ultra-reliable Courtney Jackson allows the ball to drop. But instead of getting way from the ball’s unpredictable path, he sticks around, perhaps with designs of picking it up and bolting. The ball ends up caroming off his leg, and Tulsa pounces on it. My thoughts turn dark.
In my head, I’m already writing a scathing story about Butch Jones and his team in Year 4 of his tenure. I feel duped. You hurt my feelings, Butch Jones! I pick up my computer bag. “I’m going to the press box,” I announce. Three beers slosh inside my bladder as I set my computer up in the press box. Everybody seems to be in a grouchy mood. The Red Wolves commit an illegal formation penalty and follow it up with an illegal false start, and the half ends.
“I’m hitting the can!” I tell nobody in particular. I soon discover chaos outside the bathroom. It’s so serious, a police officer is posted at the door. “Sorry sir. We’re have trouble with the water pressure. You’ll have to use the bathroom in the concourse.”
“What is this? War Memorial?” I should have said, but I wasn’t clever enough to seize the moment.
I see Rex Steele in the concourse bathroom.
“I’m joining you for the rest of the game,” I tell him.
That’s Red Wolves Football
Tulsa gets the ball to open the second half. Rex Steele is draining a water bottle. “If Tulsa scores, we’re dead,” he says grimly.
The Red Wolves are on the sideline, and they look different. They’re bouncing up and down. They’re yelling encouragement. They’re focused on halftime drills. They don’t seem like a team down by ten thanks to some boneheaded football. Meanwhile, the student section – historically a venue for sheer apathy – is both full and boisterous. The crowd begins to shed its chagrin.
“The team seems in good spirits,” I offer. Tulsa does not score on its possession. The defense, which seemed overpowered in the first half, forces a three-and-out. Raynor then orchestrates a 60-yard drives that ends with him running the ball into the end zone himself from the 15 yard line.
“THAT’S RED WOLVES FOOTBALL!” Steele and I declare in unison.
The Red Wolves defense once again stops Tulsa, and Courtney Jackson jogs out to accept the punt. I’m still a little sore at Jackson. However, Jackson could care less about my feelings. He’s hungry for touchdowns. He takes the punt 77 yards to the house, and now the Red Wolves have a 21-17 point lead.
Nice to See You Again, Dr. Jekyll
Even when Tulsa muscles their way into the end zone to take a brief lead, the Centennial Bank Stadium attitude remains of good cheer. The “Arkansas State! RED WOLVES!” alternating cheer is of the finest quality. Raynor rewards the passion with a 79 yard, go-ahead touchdown drive culminated by a five yard TD toss to Corey Rucker. It’s not the biggest crowd (19,316 official), but it is among the best crowds the program has seen in years. I’m happy to be among us.
Tulsa’s last offensive possession is a three-and-out. Kara Richey notes that after allowing the third quarter TD to the Golden Hurricane, the A-State defense surrendered a mere 21 yards for the remainder of the game. When Arkansas State assumes victory formation, Rex Steele is a little shocked.
“It’s been awhile since we’ve seen that!”
A woefully dismal half of football transformed into an excellent 30 minutes of pigskin to finish the game. Coach Jones, who has been diligently working the community and the students, joined the Naked Guys for celebration. During the post-game presser, Jones is generous with the hugs and the compliments. His coach speak calmly says “On to Michigan,” while his demeanor beams with a pride in his young men.
Until we see fewer appearances from sloppy Mr. Hyde and extended periods of good Dr. Jekyll, every Red Wolves game will require a purchase of Tums. The difference between this year’s team and of teams past is a resilience against adversity. In the first years of Jones’ tenure, a mistake like a botched punt return or even an ugly three-and-out would have sapped the entire team of its spirit. This team seems to relish the challenge. Down 10 points at the half? It’s just an opportunity to make a comeback.
Steele and I trundle back down into the concourse. I have to hurry to the press box and crank out a story for Howlraiser, so we part ways in an appropriately manly manner indicative of our generation. There is a twinge of cold in the air, almost like the world would like to welcome Autumn, but I’m in too big a hurry to make it upstairs to appreciate it.
PHOTOS: Mostly iPhone shots and A-State Athletics
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