A championship's bloom
- Joseph Bourg
- Jan 29, 2020
- 4 min read
A championship is forever. The pursuit of a title and the formation of the team that captures it are akin to the bloom of a beautiful flower. Sunshine, water, time and tender care are vital. Not every seed survives, however; only the perfect storm results in the most beautiful of blooms.
The cycle begins in January. A seed is planted amidst the biting wind that chills the ears. It is a rare month that Louisianians prepare for by stocking their closets with pants that reach the ankles. Among the shortest days of the year, a new battalion begins its pursuit of a championship. Chemistry brews behind closed doors as offseason practices begin in earnest.
The calendar affirms that more than 200 days separate the present from the first game of the new schedule. Those on the outside return, only slightly, to normalcy, biding their time until that first kickoff. It is in January, however, that the journey truly begins. It is football season.
February sees a team in search of strength. Offseason workouts begin, the roar of a pack of tigers echoing far and wide. Thousands of repetitions will be completed and millions of pounds will be lifted between now and the fall. Individual matchups are won in the weight room.
The roots of the flower take hold in March and April. Under a brutal sun that breaks the will of those who are unprepared, the tribe sharpens their axes. Fifteen spring practices brew an overwhelming wave of anticipation among diehards. On the day of the final spring showcase, a passionate crowd gets its final look at their beloved crew. Then, as quickly as they appeared, the team retreats to continue their work.
May is quiet, but not silent. Those eager to join the team's ranks in due time are recruited; speculation grows over the shape of future classes. There is still work to be done in the present, nonetheless. The roots spread, strengthening their hold in the ground with a vice-like grip.
The sun beats the ground like a drum in June. It is in this month that the prelude to the stories of some are written. Wide-eyed athletes arrive to prove their skills -- some just beginning elementary school, others on the cusp of going off to college. Legends are born here. Bonds are forged here. Just over the fence, the team continues its work, supervised only by those within its ranks.
July is akin to the night before Christmas. A select few venture out to declare what their campaign will bring. Forty, fifty, sixty points will be scored per game, plentiful as raindrops in a thunderstorm. Leaders will emerge. A championship is in the crosshairs. Anything is possible.
August brings the heat, both literally and metaphorically. Wars are waged on the practice field as the team prepares for the road ahead. Hours, bodies and minds are spent. Four weeks pass by in a grueling cycle. Then, the time comes. A hint of green breaks through the soil.
The floodgates burst open in September. Fifty-five points stand like The Iron Giant over the opponent's measly offering of three. Forty-five more in enemy territory, baking in triple-digit heat until just right. The win is a statement. Sixty-five at home, then sixty-six more on the road for good measure. This team is different. They knew all along.
October is a four-round fight. The first Saturday of the month brings with it a blanket of suffocating heat that could easily be mistaken for a Saturday in July. Those who brave the rays of the sun witness a massacre. A wave of offense hurtles down the field with little resistance while a troop of defenders relentlessly pursue the opponent. Final score: 42 to 6. The next week is an act of revenge, and under the bright lights of the valley of death, revenge is found in a two-touchdown triumph. By the end of the month, eight opponents have fallen in rapid succession. The autumn sun has made the flower strong, ready to brave the coming chill. All eyes turn eastward.
November brings the rain. Two-hundred and ten points, pelting the flower in rapid succession. A bucket of rain and a bucket of Gatorade, a win for those back home who have cared for this flower and each one that has come before it. The team is determined; no one will stand in its way. There is work to be done; there is a job that is unfinished. Enemy brigades are silenced each Saturday. Twelve have tried and twelve have failed.
In December, the team barrels toward its destiny in a brilliant blaze. Twice, a fourth-ranked opponent is called to battle. Twice, they are sent away, surrendering 100 points in a span of three weeks, all on the same field. The team is bestowed with numerous honors, recognitions of the strength of its roots. The flower has nearly bloomed.
January comes again, as does a final test. An opportunity for glory awaits; a chance at full bloom. Under the eyes of millions, the team faces its stiffest competition yet. Despite its best efforts, the challenger fails, crumpling under the same onslaught that felled every challenger before it. The flower has bloomed. Fifteen purple petals capture the hearts and minds of those who have cared for it since the day its seed was planted. The polished silver of a championship trophy reflects the golden confetti that rains from above. It is a moment of pride; a moment to appreciate the beauty that has grown to completion.
In the blink of an eye, the cycle begins again. A new team returns home, eager to carry out the same mission. The wind is blowing again. A new seed is planted. It is football season.
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