21

I was happy because I love underdog stories.

Even though they roared through the season undefeated, the Hoosiers never seemed like the favorites. The losingest major college football program in history, they had to fight and scrap for the signs of respect naturally and normally offered to other schools with more illustrious gridiron histories.

Even though I am not an IU alum nor, for that matter, much of a college football fan, I found it easy to root for a school and a fan base that had hung in there and battled through disappointment after disappointment.

They deserved this moment in the sunshine.

But there was another, deeper reason I was pulling for IU. That reason also had its roots in my affection for underdogs.

As the season went on, I began to read and hear from some sports commentators who were complaining about the age of the players on IU’s roster.

The Hoosiers had many fourth, fifth and sixth-year seniors on their squad. The team’s average age was 23.

In the eyes of the critics, this somehow seemed unfair. They carped that it was like having grown men compete against young boys—a contention that managed to insult both the IU players and those against whom they competed.

Unless football players are much, much different than the male students I work with where I teach, they likely would resent being called “boys,” young or otherwise.

And they’re ready—no, eager—to compete with anyone.

But that’s not my point.

What I loved about IU’s victory was that it represented the triumph of the late bloomers, the young men who took a little while to grow into their gifts.

To discover just what their capacities might be.

Years ago, when my son played travel baseball, I had a conversation with a coach that’s stuck with me.

“With some kids,” he said, “you can tell they’re going to be all-stars when they’re getting off the bus.”

He paused.

“And they’re fun to coach.”

Another pause.

“But the ones who are the most fun to coach are the ones who don’t look like all-stars getting off the bus. They’re the kids who surprise you. They’re the ones who just seem to explode in front of your eyes.”

One more pause.

“Those are the kids that make you want to coach.”

I thought of that conversation often as the Hoosiers worked their way through the regular season and the college championship playoffs. I remembered it when they mowed down schools that have been football powerhouses ever since Red Grange wore cleats.

Many of those rosters were loaded with players who were blue-chip prospects, football prospects who had been recruited so determinedly by big-name universities that one would think they were bringing cures for cancer and surefire plans for world peace to campus rather than skill at playing a game.

I don’t begrudge those guys—the players who looked like all stars getting off the bus—their free rides. Anything that helps a young person who wants a college education to get one I’m in favor of.

But I’d be lying if I didn’t say that my heart was with the other guys.

The ones who didn’t look like all-stars getting off the bus.

The ones who had to prove themselves starting on day one and had to keep proving themselves every day after that.

IU didn’t have a single blue-chip player—not a single top-tier recruit—on its roster. They fought their way onto the bus, then onto the field.

And—ultimately—into the champions’ circle.

It takes a little longer for life’s late bloomers to taste success.

My guess, though, is that the guys on IU’s football team would tell you that it was worth the wait.