Nothing But Iron: Desert Storm by Steven R. Lagman, V.M.D., C.A.S.W. September 21, 2004 Wet. Cold. If you had told me I would be subject to either of these sensations while watching Wisconsin play Arizona in Tucson, in September, in the afternoon, I would have replied with unbridled ridicule–yeah right, and maybe the Bears will beat the Packers in Lambeau Field. If you would have told me to bring a rain jacket, a towel and a plastic bag to keep my camera dry, I would have offered lessons in geography, meteorology and statistical probabilities. If you had told me that the extra shirt and shorts I had packed to relieve myself from the stickiness of my sweat-laden post-game body would instead provide coveted warmth and dry relief from the most penetrating rain I have ever endured at a sporting event, I would have flashed you a condescending smirk and a patted you on the top of your marginally-intelligent head. If you had told me any of these things, you would have been right. The day started predictably enough. I arrived in Tucson, with my Mom, her husband Ken–an Iowa fan who wore a Wisconsin cap in support of his marriage–and my three brothers, at 9:30 a.m. As we parked, I slathered the reachable exposed parts of my body with heavy-duty sunscreen. It had rained in the wee hours, so the expected hot was accompanied by a familiar Midwest-style mugginess. It was the first omen that unpredictability would serve as the prevailing theme of the day. We found Jeff Schwantes’s Drunk Cloud Tours tailgate party, where we were treated to oh-so-good bratwurst, bottled water and beer, which I consumed in 1:1:1 ratio, as recommended by one of the locals. We nodded approvingly as we lounged next to Jeff’s RV, as a blanket of gray clouds erased the blueness of the sky and added increments of SPF that would surely remove the home-weather advantage held by our desert-dwelling opponents. As we walked to our gate sun bathed us briefly, but by the time we reached our seats, just before kickoff, the clouds reconvened. Then, as if Mother Nature’s number had been called by Barry Alvarez himself, it began to sprinkle. Refreshing, I thought. Then came the thunder. I peered over the concrete barrier in the direction opposite that which the stadium’s flags were pointed to see a wall of vertical water occasionally pierced by volleys of white electricity. By the second quarter, the rains came in earnest, and the thunder was loud and close, forcing the players to the locker room. We endured the onslaught for several minutes, but realizing the delay would not be brief, and fearing the threat of electrocution we retreated to the cover of concrete. The surge of rain water cascaded after us as we descended the steps leading to the stadium concourse. In a brilliant stroke of irony, I realized that my bladder had reached the absolute limits of its capacity. Unable to reach a stadium bathroom, I decided to seek out a nearby portable toilet that I had noticed on the walk from the tailgate party. It was then that I gained a complete understanding of Tucson’s strategy for managing runoff: 1) It doesn’t rain here. 2) If it does, the water will eventually evaporate. With nowhere to go, the water went up, forcing me to wade two blocks in an ankle-deep flood to reach my destination. Once there I achieved a profound sense of relief, then waded back only to find that my brothers needed to go too. Partly because I am a generous sibling and partly because I thought it was a blast sloshing my way through a flooded street, I showed them the way. An hour later play resumed, but not that well. Though the lightning had stopped, the rains persisted. The Wildcats played inspired football, as if they fully intended to win the game. The rain continued. The Badgers responded with one part adequacy and one part sorcery to ultimately capitalize on Arizona’s biggest deficit–that lingering amnesia for winning that all losing programs must shed before they emerge from the depths of futility. I was impressed by the regularity with which the supposedly underpowered Wildcats beat the Badgers at the line of scrimmage, but by the end of the third quarter the Arizona defense looked as if it was wearing down. It kept raining. Finally Booker Stanley punched it in to tie the score, assuming that Mike Allen could punctuate the score with the appropriate extra point. Allen missed. More rain came. For the second time this year I predicted the end of his tangible career as a Badger. The rain was unrelenting. Soon enough Allen would prove me wrong by connecting on a chip-shot field goal to give Wisconsin a two-point lead. Rain soaked us. Arizona rolled on its final drive only to stall–or rather be stalled, at the outer limits of field goal range by what my brothers and I prospectively deemed to be a tactical error by Coach Mike Stoops. Why stop when you have your opponent reeling? Kicker Nick Folk’s would-be game winner sailed just wide to end Arizona’s chances. Five yards closer and the kick would have been good. And still, it rained. We squished our way back to the parking lot, twice subjected to rude dairy slurs. “Go back to Wisconsin, [copulatory expletive] Cheese!” shouted one university intellectual, who could finish his degree as early as 2024. My brother suggested I retaliate by calling him “Cactus” but instead I slapped my knee and feigned uncontrollable laughter. Cheese! That is so great! God are people clever here! We reached Mom’s minivan, where she and Ken (a.k.a Corn) had sought warmth and shelter for most of the second half. They had already changed into their yellow Hawkeyes shirts. The heater running full blast. I did not complain. We shed our wet garments, each of which by now weighed about twice as much as the average UW linebacker. Those of us who brought dry clothes changed into them. Bruce had only what he was wearing, so Matt offered him a yellow tank top, which, along with a pillow case and a belt, he configured into something that looked like a cross between a toga and a cloth diaper. I was amused enough to take a picture, which I will post on a Web site someday. I have to admire his resourcefulness. Such a fashion innovation would never have occurred to me. An hour into our return to Phoenix, the sun, as if to further taunt us, fell below the line of clouds on the western horizon. To the east was a vibrant rainbow with mountains behind and saguaro cacti in the foreground. It was the most stunning image of the day on a day that was anything but ordinary. We were pleased to hear radio reports that the ASU-Iowa game was to be delayed for 45 minutes, giving us just enough time to get Bruce a fashion upgrade, grab some rain coats–we would not be wet again–and reach the game by kickoff. Ken, who quietly tolerated our mass of cheese people, not to mention our miserable weather, all afternoon, was happiest of all. I was hopeful that Iowa would represent the Big Ten a little better against the Sun Devils, than our team had against the Wildcats. By the end of the first quarter it was clear that this would not be the case. I favored Iowa, or at the very least, a good game, not only for Ken and the conference, but for four of my Iowa friends (who have never missed an opportunity to send congratulatory notes after each milestone of modern-day UW athletics) sitting in the upper deck. I went to visit them at half time, and ended up staying for the rest of the game. Brent told me he was not having much fun, which was an understatement akin to “It rained in Tucson today.” Many of the Iowa fans had vacated the stadium, so I was able to keep my borrowed seat. After another Arizona touchdown I had a whole row. The Hawkeyes had no solutions on either side of the ball. My explanation was a marked disparity in team speed. ASU’s players were simply getting there first. It reminded me of Wisconsin’s game at Colorado just eight months after the Badgers won the Rose Bowl. The Buffs pummeled our helpless players with stunning velocity. It was the worst drubbing of a Wisconsin football team this side of Antwaan Randle El. The ASU-Iowa game was not a total loss. My brothers, who have, over the years, become honorary ASU fans, were thrilled with the local team’s prospects. While ASU’s starting quarterback stayed on the field in a ridiculous, classless and artificial attempt to surpass Jake Plummer’s touchdown passing record (I rarely wish for a player to suffer an injury, but this would have been an appropriate indication for a low ankle sprain), my friends and I filled the void with talk of wives and kids and jobs and yellow eye shadow and flying lessons and other things that probably mattered more than football anyway. At my request they posed for pictures, smiling smiles that made me think they had forgotten their surroundings, even if for only a few seconds. We said our farewells looking forward to our next gathering when the Badgers travel to Iowa in November. As I waited in the parking lot for the rest of my family I pondered Iowa’s lopsided loss and realized that an ugly, luck-enhanced, two-point, soaking-wet win wasn’t so bad after all. I considered Wisconsin’s list of needed repairs–Stocco’s passing accuracy, its marginal, fumble-prone running game, Allen’s unreliable place kicking, occasional receivers left wide open. I reminded myself of one of the most endearing Badger teams in history as I know it, led by Mike Samuel in the 96-97 season, and wondered if this team could be as likeable on the strength of barely succeeding, but always trying. Then, almost as if on cue a man about my age rolled by in a motorized wheel chair. He was hunched forward and his right arm was shriveled close to his body. Yes, perspective is never far if you choose to see it.  ____________ Nothing But Iron is an amateur sports column written by vacationing author and mountain biking novice, Steven R. Lagman, who, after going precipitously to ground, was recently overheard saying to his sibling riding partner, “This mountain biking thing would be a whole lot easier without all these rocks.” This issue is dedicated to my wife, Kelly, who stayed in Wisconsin to manage our children and my garden, one of which she actually enjoys. Next issue: “Bear Necessities.”©2004 DrTM Enterprises. All rights reserved. Quotable: “Steve, what does hypothermia feel like?” (Brother Mike in fourth quarter) “It’s a wet, cold, dry heat.” (Unknown UW fan.) “36-3 Wisconsin.” (Pre-game prediction by tailgater)  “I check the weather forecast every single [bleepin’] day, and the one day I forget, this happens.” (Bruce, the brother who predicted the two-point game just fine, but neglected to bring dry clothes.)  “Can I use some of your [SPF 50] sun screen?” (Me to brother Matt) “We suck.” (Loyal Arizona fan in reply to my compliment while the Wildcats were driving the ball with surprising proficiency) “I harvested the tomatoes, and watered the spinach and the radishes and the carrots and the blah, blah, blah. I was out there for a frickin hour!” (Kelly, walking half a mile in my gardening shoes)