Whispers In The Wind

Something whispers in the wind.

Nimbly and delicately sweeping through the Georgia pines, under the soft moonlight of a Southern sky, fleeting whispers of memories past shatter the silence of this slumbering modern day Garden of Eden.

The serene lull of a cool breeze transports the memories of bellowing roars of patrons. It carries the ghosts of Sarazen and Snead, Hogan and Jones. Under the stars and the moon it trundles down Magnolia Lane and over the old clubhouse, glancing the Crow’s Nest before exposing the sprawling sanctuary below. 

Through the chutes of trees, up and down the immaculately groomed hills and across the creeks. If you listen closely, you can hear the roars of Sarazen's shot heard 'round the world in ‘35, Nicklaus’ eagle in ’86 and Tiger’s chip in 2005. 

It creeps over the Hogan Bridge, where you can see the faint image of a young boy fishing in Rae’s Creek for his dinner.

It climbs the hill to the 18th green, where so many moments have been etched in time. That young boy, now a man, stands stoically by as his friend, Gentle Ben, finishes the tournament at the top of the big white leaderboard in 1995. The two friends embrace, overwhelmed with emotion. Twenty years later, on the same green, they embrace once again; one final time.

It wanders through the woods to Ike’s Pond where, amidst a hazy fog, the shadowy figure of a man from a bygone era materializes on its banks… 

In a few hours, the cool breeze will transform into a warm current of energy as the veil of darkness draped across the sanctuary gives way to light. The silence will be broken by thousands joined together once again, just as they do every second Sunday in April.

Something whispers in the wind. Its a tradition. 

A tradition unlike any other.

We Remember

The cold, dry air crept from under the attic closet door, over the footboard of the bed and somehow found its way into my sheets, assaulting my toes with its frigid malevolence. The temperature in Owasso had dropped into the 20s.

I had gone to bed in a foul mood. The “friendly confines” of the Coors Events Center in Boulder, Colorado had been less than accommodating to my Oklahoma State Cowboys. In fact, the Pokes were handed an old-fashioned Big 12 beatdown. 

Ricardo Patton, just 42 years old, had out-coached a legend of the game. He tactically sliced and diced Eddie Sutton's patented man-to-man defense for 81 points to earn one of Colorado’s five conference wins that season.

Andre Williams was a bright spot for the Pokes on a night where moral victories were few and far between, finishing with 15 points and 16 rebounds. Coach Sutton searched for energy from nearly his entire bench. Even Daniel Lawson and Antoine Broxsie played a few minutes for the desperate coach.

It was a night that we all wanted to forget. Match-ups with conference powers Missouri and Oklahoma loomed on the horizon. Coach Sutton wanted to get out of that dreary tundra as quickly as possible to focus on the next game. I, twelve years old at the time, wanted to fall asleep. Sunday school wasn’t going to be fun with my group of fellow grumpy Cowboy fans and the few crimson-hearted hecklers.

Attempting to ignore the impending frostbite on my toes, I forced myself to think tropical thoughts. As I’m wasting away on a warm, sandy beach, my paradise was interrupted by my father opening my door and sitting on the bedside. 

“Jared, there was an accident in Colorado.”

I knew about Evansville and Marshall. I had no inkling that it would ever happen to us, the Oklahoma State family.

The morning of January 28, 2001 wasn’t filled with trash talk from fellow sunday school members or frustration over the poor performance from the day prior. The chill I felt on my toes from the night before had enveloped the state of Oklahoma. The sunshine never managed to poke through the gray clouds and fall on the rolling plains of the countryside. It was as if Mother Nature sensed that our home was veiled with the dark, sorrowful mourning that can only come from tragedy.

We had lost ten brothers.

N81PF, a Beechcraft Super King Air 200 prop plane and one of three that the Cowboys basketball program flew (often), had gone down.

Kendall Durfey, Bjorn Fahlstrom, Nathan Fleming, Will Hancock III, Daniel Lawson, Brian Luinstra, Denver Mills, Pat Noyes, Bill Teegins and Jared Weiberg.

Ten sons, brothers and fathers. Ten Cowboys fallen in a snowy pasture outside Strasburg, Colorado.

I’ve made the pilgrimage to the small memorial placed at the scene of the crash, 44 miles outside of Denver. 

I’ve played pickup games on the same white maple floor that Daniel Lawson and Nate Fleming dripped sweat on every day, working their tails off for one of the most legendary coaches in the game.

I’ve sat at the scorer's where Bill Teegins used to make his iconic call, “He shoots, He scores, Heeeee’s fouled!”.

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There are moments surrounding this tragic event that will always bring us closer as an OSU family. 

January 26, 2011 - The day I wept at halftime of an Oklahoma State basketball game while I sat on the team bench and listened to Andre Williams, Desmond Mason, Doug Gottleib and Eddie Sutton recall that fateful day ten years prior. 

Eddie was the courageous man that led the OSU family out of those tumultuous times, even though it may have cost him more sacrifice than ever thinkable. Public address announcer Larry Reece said it best on that afternoon..

“Coach, you were our John Wayne back in those days."

November 17, 2011 - “God forbid this happen again.” Eleven months after the tenth anniversary of the accident, the unthinkable had happened. Once again I was awoken by my dad; this time was a phone call early in the morning.

I threw on a sweater and jacket and drove a half a mile to Gallagher-Iba Arena. The news trucks were already there. I remember having to choke back tears as I stood just off camera in the team film room as it was announced that there had been another crash. 

Behind the same podium where Mike Gundy once expressed “I’m a man; I’m 40!”, Oklahoma State University President Burns Hargis was telling the world that we had just lost four more members of our family.

Kurt Budke, Miranda Serna and Olin and Paula Branstetter had fallen in the Arkansas backwoods.

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Those tragedies, however unthinkably distressing they may have been, have knit the Oklahoma State University family together into an unbreakable bond. We know what it’s like to lose. We know what it’s like to win. But most importantly, we know what it’s like to rise above adversity with courage and valor. 

No matter where you are, in Stillwater or Dallas or Dubai or Orlando, when you see someone donning the orange and black, you know they’re a part of your family. You may never know their name or their life story, but they are with you in the part of the heart that pumps your orange blood.

Just smile and give them the Pistol’s Firing.

Not For College Days Alone...

As I sit in my apartment in Orlando, Florida, 26 years old and 1,196 miles from home, I find myself doing what I've done best for the last two and a half years: sitting on my couch, reflecting.

I am not ashamed that I often recollect my time at Oklahoma State University. After all, it was the most memorable five years of my life. 

I resided at 1123 W. University, 5th & Willis and 901 W. Will Rogers. Three addresses; thousands of memories.

Five years with intentions to study; five years of spending more time in Gallagher-Iba Arena and Boone Pickens Stadium than in Edmon Low.

I've been to many college campuses across the United States of America. From the vine-laced brick walls of Harvard to the burritos in Lubbock. The Southern Belles in Tuscaloosa and the Boys of Old Florida. The prestige and tradition of American institutions of higher education are compelling, but no campus can compare to the reverent, hallowed grounds of the old pasture on which Oklahoma Agricultural and Mechanical College was once founded.

Photographs, memories and references known but to Oklahoma State faithful are what I cherish the most. 

One of my biggest fears is losing these vivid memories over time. Hence, this blog. I don't expect anyone to read this, but if you do then I hope it will give you a sense of the reverence I feel for that university. My university.

Proud and Immortal,

Bright shines your name.

Oklahoma State, 

We herald your fame.

Ever you'll find us

Loyal and True,

To our alma mater,

O-S-U.

Call me nostalgic. Call me sentimental. Call me a homer.

Better yet, just call me a Cowboy.