Nothing But Iron: Wow of Silence by Steven R. Lagman, M.D., C.A.S.W. January 14, 2007 I am damn proud to be a Badger fan these days. That has less to do with my self-invented ties to a highly successful basketball team, than my membership in a cheering fraternity that can best be described as, well, brilliant. It was a brilliance so bright that I failed to appreciate at first. I take you back to the Dick Vitalized ESPN marquee match-up with fellow single-digit-ranked Ohio State, The, last Tuesday evening. From the opening tip, the atmosphere was electric, which is a term sportswriters use when they can’t think of a more original way to describe really really exciting, the last-resort literary equivalent of a player calling time out when falling out of bounds. Anyway, the night was electric. At one point in the second half, when the Badgers were in the midst of a brutal onslaught that left their juvenile opponents rattled, not to mention 16 points down, the Kohl Center was the loudest I have ever heard it. It was so loud that there is only one superlative suitable to describe it, and I cannot legally use that here because anyone reading it would immediately go deaf. My malpractice insurance doesn’t cover injury due to negligent sportswriting. So it was really loud. Electrically loud. Then, shortly after the UW student section taunted the young Buckeyes with chants of Florida Gators! and Just like last night! the momentum shifted, as it often does in basketball games. A dunk by Oden the Giant, a three pointer by a human-sized player, a couple of vintage Big Ten officiating gaffs, and the Buckeyes converted the rout into a bonafide fight-for-your-life Kohl burner. That was where the crowd took over. It didn’t happen in the conventional way of rekindled loudness, but therein lies the beauty. Our fans responded to OSU’s run with unprecedented, well actually not unprecedented, silence. More accurately, it looked like silence, but was really a technique developed around 200 A.D. in Southeast Asia called r%**rjkrsjrttc (pronounced joh-vit-zhu-ka-lo-mein-sun). Loosely translated, it means meditative cheering or, more tightly translated, loud apathy. At this point you might ask one of two questions: 1) Huh? or 2) What? Join the crowd, no pun intended, because at first I didn’t get it either. I couldn’t figure out why our crowd could be so supportive when things were going great, but unwilling to grab a bailing bucket when the boat was taking on water. In fact, as I looked at the mildly comatose freeloaders in my section, my first response was to vomit through both nostrils and one ear. I almost spoiled the whole strategy. Like an idiot, not well versed in modern use of ancient cheering techniques, I stood up to clap and cheer and urge my team to persevere several times, which, as it turned out was wrong. Even so, I stuck with it. At 24.2 seconds, a man behind me asked me to sit down. Without looking at him, I said no, which was not a proper reply, because the man who had made the request was a close friend of my in-laws, including the most primary of in-laws sitting next to me–the one who made it possible for me to marry into season tickets by marrying me. In fact, Kip was one of Kelly’s early tennis mentors–the guy who helped take care of her when she played a match with a bloody hand. Kip was not a Kohl Center regular, but was given tickets as a special gift from my brother- and sister-in-law. Kip and I had met for the first time that evening. I was not making a good first impression. I felt a gentle tug on my pant leg, and I responded like a well-healed dog on a short leash by sitting down. Then, like a dog who was expelled from obedience school, I turned to my wife, whose expression was one of I do understand your passion but you’re embarrassing the hell out of me, and spewed my thoughts with a furious phrase about copulating male cow feces in a voice that could not have been heard minutes before, but was quite audible in the meditative cheering portion of the game. Not my best example of good judgement. As it turned out, the lack of crowd noise was so curiously unsettling to the inexperienced Buckeyes that their run to tie the game failed by a full three points, and the Badgers took the first step in establishing conference supremacy. There are those who might think that the end game would have been less dramatic with traditional loyal supportive cheering, but duh. Would not have. Even if would so have, imagine how much more motivated the OSU players would be in the rematch on February 25 at Ohio State if the beat down had come to its full hemorrhagic fruition. A mere three-point loss will likely inspire The OSU Buckeyes to substantial complacency. It was one of the smartest strategies I have seen employed since George W. eliminated the threat of WMDs in Iraq. Cameron Crazies, watch and learn. The next morning Catholic guilt (which has persisted long after the Catholicism itself ran its full course) took over, with a little prompting from my wife. After the kids had gone to school we exchanged heated words. Kelly left for work at least as angry as I was, but the conflict continued in my head. I got on the exercise bike to pedal off some steam. About the time I smelled burning rubber, the perspective that had escaped me at the 24.2 second mark returned: This was a basketball game, and no basketball game could justify insulting behavior toward someone my wife held in high esteem. I knew an apology was indicated, so I called Kip and left a detailed message on his voice mail. He called back with the kind of warm acceptance that confirmed all suspicions that I had been a jerk. We chatted cordially about his time as a college basketball player. He said he understood the heat of battle. I guess he would. He himself played for the Buckeyes about forty years ago. Kip told me his time with the team was so far removed that he now pulled for the Badgers. He said he believes Bo Ryan is the best coach in the country. Guys don’t get much nicer than that. I had called to make him feel better, but I felt better too. We should not forget the power of apology. I was wrong about Kip. He was just an innocent bystander trying to watch the game, and undeserving of my wrath. In long retrospect I was wrong about our crowd too. It was simply practicing the ancient, yet proven art of r%**rjkrsjrttc. I will return to the Kohl Center with a renewed sense of brotherhood. Next time the game is tight, and it’s so quiet I can hear the ice melting in my Bucky cup, I will turn around in my seat, check carefully for the absence of any family friends, flash a knowing smile and display the secret sign of r%**rjkrsjrttc: index finger and thumb at 90 degrees, held against my forehead. They’ll know what I mean. _____________ Nothing But Iron is an amateur sports column. This issue is dedicated to Kip, for letting the author off so easily, to the author’s forgiving wife for tolerating the author’s many imperfections and to fellow Badgers fans, who cheer brilliantly. ©2007 DrTM Enterprises. All rights reserved.