A Cowboy’s Call to Action

Phog Allen was the first to lose in this building. 

He was also the second to lose in this building. 

Soon after, Dean Smith and John Wooden followed. The names go on: Don Haskins, Jerry Tarkanian, Norm Stewart, Tom Izzo, Tubby Smith, Bob Knight, Roy Williams…

All have entered and all have succumbed to the relentless strain of mayhem that is brewed inside those walls. 

Gallagher-Iba Arena. 

Madison Square Garden of The Plains. 

Mr. Iba’s House of Horrors. 

The Rowdiest Arena in the Country.

People call me a skeptic. I call myself a realist. Either way, it’s hard to deny that this year's basketball team just isn’t very good.

I don’t think it’s for lack of effort. They fight hard. I’m not a coach and I don’t want to pretend to be. I’m not here to pinpoint the issues of a program that I’m not a part of day-in and day-out. 

What I do know, though, is that we have failed them. We have failed that team as alumni. Our hypocrisy stretches even to our alma mater, where hallowed but hollow words droop off the tongue of the masses, “Ever you’ll find us, Loyal and True…"

My roots go way back in Gallagher-Iba Arena (for a guy my age). My earliest memories of being in that building are filled with the likes of Robisch, Webber, Adkins and Mason. My first Cowboy jersey was a Chianti Roberts No. 23.

I remember the original Oklahoma earthquakes; when 6,381 people would literally shake the rafters of the old house. When the enemies were LaFraentz, Stone and Najera.

I remember the jealousy that welled up within me when Mom and Dad called me from their seats during a delay late one game, the staff frantically mopping up glass, looking for a replacement goal and picking bloody shards out of Big Dady’s bald head. I could only watch on and dream of one day owning a piece of shattered backboard from the grand re-opening…the perfect Cowboy keepsake.

I remember the first time I stepped foot on that white maple floor, a self-proclaimed Bryant Reeves-reincarnate at Eddie Sutton's basketball camp… the same camp that McFarlin, Williams and the Graham twins became my heroes.

I remember fighting the urge to vomit for the entire second half of a game in 2010, trying to discern if it stemmed from a brutal bout of the flu or the fact that I was a first-time scoreboard operator at Gallagher-Iba and we were on the verge of knocking off the No. 1 team in the country.

I remember the emotions that overtook me as I sat on the Cowboys' bench listening to Doug Gottlieb take the public address mic at halftime during a game ten-years removed from January 27, 2001, recalling the strength and courage of Coach Sutton during that fateful period.

I remember playing three-on-three pick up games as a college student, recreating all the great moments on that court: Big Country’s half court shot; Victor’s Bedlam bank shot; Byron’s over-the-shoulder circus shot.

I remember ups and downs, but what I remember most is the life that was breathed into the place each time the lights were turned on. 

The place didn’t get its reputation from the teams that wore orange and black. It got its reputation from you and me. From the students and from the band. From the fervor and passion that has been wildly discharged in that building for 77 years. 

It sickens me to imagine Gallagher-Iba Arena clad in anything but orange. When Travis Ford and his team take the floor on Wednesday night, I want it to be vintage GIA. We can be a variable. We can make it hell on our opponent. 

Be Loyal. Be True. Be so loud that the soul’s of Mr. Iba and Bob Kurland are awakened in the rafter’s among the championship banners. 

When Larry Reece takes the mic, I want his eyes to glance around the building and he can say with a full heart and a booming voice, “Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to Gallagher-Iba Arena, THE ROWDIEST ARENA IN THE COUNTRY!"