The Ohio State/Michigan game was always something of a holiday growing up, a day regarded by residents of northwest Ohio as something sacred, even by those who were not ordinarily fans of the game. This annual ritual often set neighbor against neighbor, especially since Toledo was closer geographically to Michigan but firmly on Ohio's side of the border, which led to a red-blue division that runs much deeper than the other one, the one that gets so much attention in Ohio during election time. In fact, the 109-year-old rivalry between the Buckeyes and the Wolverines my be even older than that--some see it as a modern-day manifestation of the Toledo War, a bloodless but heated standoff between the state of Ohio and the territory of Michigan that settled the border between them. Ohio got Toledo (Go Bucks!), and Michigan got the Upper Peninsula, which I think was regarded as a consolation prize at the time, but now that means that while Ohio is stuck with an industrial wasteland with a high crime rate and a nightlife that even John Denver could make fun of, Michigan is crowned by some of the most beautiful and pristine land in the continental states and the southern shore of the largest freshwater lake in the world. Go Blue!

I must admit that I was a Michigan fan in my younger days--perhaps because I had been to the stadium in Ann Arbor, perhaps because Michigan was frequently cast as the underdog, perhaps because Bo Schembechler was so much more charismatic than Earle Bruce (I don't remember much of the Woody Hayes era), perhaps because Michigan's uniforms and mascot were so much cooler, perhaps because the University of Michigan was superior academically. Although today it would be an act of treason to betray my alma mater and root for Michigan, twenty years ago I was a wolverine. But I wasn't a rabid one. Living as I did on the front lines of this war, I knew not to talk about it too much. To treat it like people treat religion and politics, only in this case it was something that actually mattered.

Watching today's pre-game coverage I learned that the OSU/Michigan football game was just justly recognized by fans across the country as the greatest rivalry in college sports, which filled me with a sense of pride. I also realized that today marks the twentieth anniversary of my first kiss, which fills me with a sense of nostalgia. It might not have been twenty years ago by the calendar, but it was during the first quarter of the 1986 Buckeye/Wolverine standoff. I was in eighth grade and had been invited to watch The Big Game™ at the house of a girl whose name I guess I should probably change, or not mention, or allude to punningly somewhere because I wouldn't want to cast any more aspersions on her name than those that have been cast already. Anyone who knows me well enough or her at all probably knows who I am talking about anyway, so by not mentioning her name it might seem that I am ashamed to admit that the first girl I kissed kissed a lot of other boys as well. Though there was a time I might have felt a sense of shame, today I look back on that day at Becky's with nothing but fondness.

I know that I didn't tell my parents that Becky's parents weren't going to be home, or that I was the only invited guest, but I am not entirely sure whether Becky told me either. She was crafty, but not deceptive. She was the first girl who ever made it apparent at all that she had any interest in me whatsoever, and to this day she is one of the few women I have kissed who never played any games with me. One thing remains clear though--she knew better than anyone what was going on that day.

I rode my bike to her house, which was just down the street but seemed at the time like a far away place. It had once been part of the Underground Railroad, with a secret passage and a hidden room and everything. This will become important later. She was a dedicated Buckeyes fan; her father, a dentist, was an alumnus. Her mother might have been as well. Parts of the day are blurry, but others are as clear as yesterday. After a tour of her house, we made popcorn and watched the game on the couch in the living room, sitting more closely than I had ever sat with a girl. Ohio State scored twice in the first quarter, but I didn't see the second touchdown because right after her team's first she turned her leg over mine and put her hand on my pounding heart and said, "Our team scored." Before I could finish saying "Your team," she kissed me. I could identify from a lineup of thousands the smell of heather in her hair and on her breath, the taste of coconut and roses, the warmth of her cheek. I remember it wasn't long until she was leading me by the hand to her bedroom--her babysitter would be home soon and Becky knew better than to risk getting caught kissing on the couch. As I said, she knew what she was doing.

I won't narrate what occured in her room--even if it isn't illegal to divulge details of one's own underage amorous exploits, the scene was an embarrassing one. (Of course by not divulging details it makes it sound much more salacious than it was. Don't even think about it--this was junior high, after all, in an age where kids in junior high still managed to maintain some semblance of innocence.) Suffice it to say that she was pretty forward. What really took me aback, though, was that knowing way she had about her. It scared me a little, especially since I had no idea what I was doing. I was almost relieved when she announced with a voice that suggested equal measure of panic and familiarity that her babysitter was now parking on the street outside. In a rush I was escorted down the stairs, where she pushed the button to open the secret door in the wall and shuffled me off to the hidden downstairs room, through another passage, and up stone stairs to the back door, where I got on my bike and rode off, making sure I had first ridden around long enough for the game to be over before going home. Still blushing, though, I'm sure, and terrified that my parents were going to ask me about the game. I didn't find out until later that Michigan won, and didn't care too much that they did. It was the last time I ever rooted for the Wolverines.

The sense of elation I felt that day--one that I had not felt before and would not feel again for at least three years--dwindled over the next couple weeks and months, when it became more and more apparent that getting kissed by Becky was not really something to be proud of. Some of the things that boys would do to her over the coming years were truly shameful, and many of the girls in school were equally vicious. If I played a part in that I don't remember it now, and I hope I am not repressing a memory of some forgotten cruelty. I feel sorry enough that I can't remember ever standing up for her. The kindness she showed me that day is the only thing I remember about her now, and it makes it hard for me not to feel sorry for the girl at every school who ends up with a bad reputation before she knows it. It is sad to see the way people come to hate those who so clearly most need to be loved.

And in case the subject of this remembrance should ever stumble upon it, let me say that I am sorry people used you so cruelly. I am sorry for not doing a very good job of disguising your identity; I hope you do not mind. I was glad to see you whenever it was that I saw you last in a Perrysburg bar and glad that you are doing so well for yourself. I am glad that our team won today.

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