Although I’ve hit the point where I have difficulty remembering what I had for lunch as I’m days away from marking my 70th trip around the Sun, there still exists a moment in time where the details are indelibly etched into my memory. The recollection of this event evokes emotions that are hard for folks to comprehend if they haven’t had the opportunity to experience it themselves. Hopefully, this remembrance will give you a little taste of what it felt like to suit up in a Cotton Bowl locker room on the second Saturday in October…and then take a walk with me and my teammates down…
…The Tunnel
I've experienced the walk down the Cotton Bowl tunnel first as a young ballboy for many years and then as a player in three Texas-OU games, followed by a couple of stints as a student coach, equipment manager, and now working with the TV end of things. The intensity of emotions and excitement cannot be adequately described in simple words; I have multi-level goosebumps as I type this even though it's been almost 50 years since I last made that walk as a player.
This is how it used to be back before trash talk and taunting in the tunnel was in vogue; I remember this as how my final trip down that ramp as a player felt…
When you're given the final word by the TV guy to leave the locker room and head down the short flight of steps to the top of the tunnel, you step out into a surreal, confusing world of childish taunts and many an inverted "Hook Em" hand sign being hurled from the walkway above ... stadium security personnel in cheap windbreakers and several members of the Dallas P.D. man the long tarp-covered gate behind you ... you recognize a couple of the motorcycle cops that led the police escort through the streets of Dallas a couple of hours ago; an officer smiles as he gives you a quick salute and a "Hook ‘Em." You return the salute and nod a quick acknowledgement to the officer.
We're told by the TV guy to wait at the top of the ramp....there's no breeze...it's really hot…
Someone steps out of a black limo just outside the gate and is quickly escorted by Texas DPS troopers through the gathering mass of humanity and hurried down the ramp. Must be the governor…or a senator…or Willie…you can't really see over the glare of all the glistening white helmets with the dark brown Longhorn decals shining in the October sunshine.
The smell of diesel fumes, horse crap, and fried food wafts through the air, mingling with the sulfur smell of residue from the Ruf/Neks' shotguns and Smokey's pre-game cannon shots. You can always smell the State Fair of Texas.
The ticketless, orange-clad fans behind the chain link gate, trying to get a quick look or a fingershake from a player or coach, are the only friendly voices you hear at that end of the Cotton Bowl.
"Get after 'em, Darrell!"
"Go Horns!"
"Anybody got a ticket?!"
"Can I have your chinstrap?"
No "OU Sucks" chants; these were the days before that sentiment became the norm.
Strangely, above the yelling, the dull din of bus engines, police motorcycles, and the screaming siren from a ride over on the Midway, you can hear the clicking and clacking of the candy wrapping machines behind you in the Salt Water Taffy booth just across the walkway beyond the gate...
You've been taught to keep your focus...keep looking toward the light at the bottom of the tunnel as you move slowly downhill...you're wedged so tightly together that your feet are barely touching the ribbed, dirty concrete below. It's like you're slowly floating down the ramp suspended among your fellow team members.
You look around at the old grey concrete walls to each side of you and up at the ceiling above and think of all the players those walls have seen pass by throughout the years…your personal Texas heroes like Bobby Layne, Walter Fondren, Tommy Ford, Duke Carlisle, James Street, Chris Gilbert, Bill Bradley. Guys from other teams like Doak Walker, Roger Staubach, Bob Lilly, Steve Owens. Coaches like Lombardi, Landry, Bryant…and Royal. The list is endless, but you realize you’re walking in the footsteps of legends…
Now, in the shade of the tunnel beneath the stomping, screaming Sooner fans in the south end of the stadium, it’s seemingly cooler, but you're still having trouble catching your breath. The enormity of the moment is as inspiring as it is intimidating.
You can't help but steal a glance at your opponents as they assemble and begin to move down the ramp on the opposite side. You've seen them all through pre-game warmups, exchanged subdued good luck wishes to a misguided former high school teammate that wandered across the Red River, but suddenly, this image is etched forever in your mind. The very sight of the crimson helmets with the white interlocked "OU" really pisses you off at this moment and the sudden contempt causes the bile to rise in the back of your throat. You feel…like…you might… lose your steak and scrambled eggs you ate four hours before in the quiet banquet room at the Hilton Inn. You don't want to puke on your facemask…or on your teammate's back.
Instead of letting the remnants of your pregame meal fly, you choke it back and begin to yell out an unintelligible guttural sound to relieve the pressure…your teammates join in and the sound reverberates in your helmet ....your mouth is dry...your chest is pounding ... all of a sudden, your uniform is too tight ... you feel enormous ... you think of a cup of ice water…a huge groundswell of noise begins to engulf you as you move closer to the light...louder and louder....you're glad you have your helmet on, not because you think that one of those overserved, jeering Okies will lob a half-eaten Fletcher's Corn Dog at you, but you feel secure and impervious when you manage to reach your hand up and snap your chin strap snugly as you move into the sunlight at the bottom of the ramp. You realize then how much you've been sweating as the swirling breeze on the floor of the stadium finally gets to the back of your neck and cools you ever so slightly.
The roaring sound echoing in your helmet reaches what you think to be a crescendo as the TV guy tries to hold back your screaming, snarling teammates….You look around and the sudden reality hits you: this is IT. This is the last time you'll ever experience this feeling as a player in what you have grown up knowing as the greatest football contest in the universe. You may get a chance to walk the ramp again, but not wearing this uniform ... with these guys ... against those guys.
Tears well in your eyes…not from fear, but from anger and anticipation. A huge lump rises in your throat as you begin to hear curses being hurled at the TV guy to let you go; just let us run out on that hallowed turf one more time. You hear TV Guy yell something about the baseball game being nearly over and to just hold on for one more minute…then, one of your larger teammates instructs TV Guy to perform a physically impossible task with a baseball. TV Guy looks terrified.
We surge forward, frenzied and frothing ... I look toward Coach Royal, who has appeared just to my left...he looks to be alone in his thoughts. His jaw is set...he has to hear the taunts of, "Traitor!" and the like directed his way...I feel more contempt for the red-clad fans leering over the tunnel walls as they wave red and white pompons at my coach's face. I wish the fat woman would fall over the wall as she screams, "Darrell, you ain't shit!" He is perturbed at the delay...he gives a simple nod to our captains….the human dam breaks; TV Guy is left to fend for himself. He may have been trampled; we don't really care at this point. Smokey sounds out a huge cannon blast; a perfect white smoke circle materializes from the barrel of the cannon and rises above the sweltering field. You imagine a football sailing right through the center of the white circle as you see it emblazoned against the clear, blue North Texas sky. You hear the Longhorn Band playing "Texas Fight" at what seems like an impossibly fast tempo and an ungodly loud volume in your helmet. At last, it’s finally drowning out the repulsive, repetitive strains of “Boomer Sooner” that have been echoing up the tunnel for what seems an eternity.
You’re finally free. You run. The dissipating cacophony of booing from the enemy end of the stadium energizes you as you sprint toward the raucous cheering emanating from the friendly half of the stands.
Your teammates are jumping all over you and each other. You feel like you can carry them all day long.
You aren't alone.
The swelling noise from both ends is louder than ever as you run out into that sunlight…one…last…time.
You'll never get to feel that way again.
Hook ‘Em…
…with much malice.🤘🏼
…The Tunnel
I've experienced the walk down the Cotton Bowl tunnel first as a young ballboy for many years and then as a player in three Texas-OU games, followed by a couple of stints as a student coach, equipment manager, and now working with the TV end of things. The intensity of emotions and excitement cannot be adequately described in simple words; I have multi-level goosebumps as I type this even though it's been almost 50 years since I last made that walk as a player.
This is how it used to be back before trash talk and taunting in the tunnel was in vogue; I remember this as how my final trip down that ramp as a player felt…
When you're given the final word by the TV guy to leave the locker room and head down the short flight of steps to the top of the tunnel, you step out into a surreal, confusing world of childish taunts and many an inverted "Hook Em" hand sign being hurled from the walkway above ... stadium security personnel in cheap windbreakers and several members of the Dallas P.D. man the long tarp-covered gate behind you ... you recognize a couple of the motorcycle cops that led the police escort through the streets of Dallas a couple of hours ago; an officer smiles as he gives you a quick salute and a "Hook ‘Em." You return the salute and nod a quick acknowledgement to the officer.
We're told by the TV guy to wait at the top of the ramp....there's no breeze...it's really hot…
Someone steps out of a black limo just outside the gate and is quickly escorted by Texas DPS troopers through the gathering mass of humanity and hurried down the ramp. Must be the governor…or a senator…or Willie…you can't really see over the glare of all the glistening white helmets with the dark brown Longhorn decals shining in the October sunshine.
The smell of diesel fumes, horse crap, and fried food wafts through the air, mingling with the sulfur smell of residue from the Ruf/Neks' shotguns and Smokey's pre-game cannon shots. You can always smell the State Fair of Texas.
The ticketless, orange-clad fans behind the chain link gate, trying to get a quick look or a fingershake from a player or coach, are the only friendly voices you hear at that end of the Cotton Bowl.
"Get after 'em, Darrell!"
"Go Horns!"
"Anybody got a ticket?!"
"Can I have your chinstrap?"
No "OU Sucks" chants; these were the days before that sentiment became the norm.
Strangely, above the yelling, the dull din of bus engines, police motorcycles, and the screaming siren from a ride over on the Midway, you can hear the clicking and clacking of the candy wrapping machines behind you in the Salt Water Taffy booth just across the walkway beyond the gate...
You've been taught to keep your focus...keep looking toward the light at the bottom of the tunnel as you move slowly downhill...you're wedged so tightly together that your feet are barely touching the ribbed, dirty concrete below. It's like you're slowly floating down the ramp suspended among your fellow team members.
You look around at the old grey concrete walls to each side of you and up at the ceiling above and think of all the players those walls have seen pass by throughout the years…your personal Texas heroes like Bobby Layne, Walter Fondren, Tommy Ford, Duke Carlisle, James Street, Chris Gilbert, Bill Bradley. Guys from other teams like Doak Walker, Roger Staubach, Bob Lilly, Steve Owens. Coaches like Lombardi, Landry, Bryant…and Royal. The list is endless, but you realize you’re walking in the footsteps of legends…
Now, in the shade of the tunnel beneath the stomping, screaming Sooner fans in the south end of the stadium, it’s seemingly cooler, but you're still having trouble catching your breath. The enormity of the moment is as inspiring as it is intimidating.
You can't help but steal a glance at your opponents as they assemble and begin to move down the ramp on the opposite side. You've seen them all through pre-game warmups, exchanged subdued good luck wishes to a misguided former high school teammate that wandered across the Red River, but suddenly, this image is etched forever in your mind. The very sight of the crimson helmets with the white interlocked "OU" really pisses you off at this moment and the sudden contempt causes the bile to rise in the back of your throat. You feel…like…you might… lose your steak and scrambled eggs you ate four hours before in the quiet banquet room at the Hilton Inn. You don't want to puke on your facemask…or on your teammate's back.
Instead of letting the remnants of your pregame meal fly, you choke it back and begin to yell out an unintelligible guttural sound to relieve the pressure…your teammates join in and the sound reverberates in your helmet ....your mouth is dry...your chest is pounding ... all of a sudden, your uniform is too tight ... you feel enormous ... you think of a cup of ice water…a huge groundswell of noise begins to engulf you as you move closer to the light...louder and louder....you're glad you have your helmet on, not because you think that one of those overserved, jeering Okies will lob a half-eaten Fletcher's Corn Dog at you, but you feel secure and impervious when you manage to reach your hand up and snap your chin strap snugly as you move into the sunlight at the bottom of the ramp. You realize then how much you've been sweating as the swirling breeze on the floor of the stadium finally gets to the back of your neck and cools you ever so slightly.
The roaring sound echoing in your helmet reaches what you think to be a crescendo as the TV guy tries to hold back your screaming, snarling teammates….You look around and the sudden reality hits you: this is IT. This is the last time you'll ever experience this feeling as a player in what you have grown up knowing as the greatest football contest in the universe. You may get a chance to walk the ramp again, but not wearing this uniform ... with these guys ... against those guys.
Tears well in your eyes…not from fear, but from anger and anticipation. A huge lump rises in your throat as you begin to hear curses being hurled at the TV guy to let you go; just let us run out on that hallowed turf one more time. You hear TV Guy yell something about the baseball game being nearly over and to just hold on for one more minute…then, one of your larger teammates instructs TV Guy to perform a physically impossible task with a baseball. TV Guy looks terrified.
We surge forward, frenzied and frothing ... I look toward Coach Royal, who has appeared just to my left...he looks to be alone in his thoughts. His jaw is set...he has to hear the taunts of, "Traitor!" and the like directed his way...I feel more contempt for the red-clad fans leering over the tunnel walls as they wave red and white pompons at my coach's face. I wish the fat woman would fall over the wall as she screams, "Darrell, you ain't shit!" He is perturbed at the delay...he gives a simple nod to our captains….the human dam breaks; TV Guy is left to fend for himself. He may have been trampled; we don't really care at this point. Smokey sounds out a huge cannon blast; a perfect white smoke circle materializes from the barrel of the cannon and rises above the sweltering field. You imagine a football sailing right through the center of the white circle as you see it emblazoned against the clear, blue North Texas sky. You hear the Longhorn Band playing "Texas Fight" at what seems like an impossibly fast tempo and an ungodly loud volume in your helmet. At last, it’s finally drowning out the repulsive, repetitive strains of “Boomer Sooner” that have been echoing up the tunnel for what seems an eternity.
You’re finally free. You run. The dissipating cacophony of booing from the enemy end of the stadium energizes you as you sprint toward the raucous cheering emanating from the friendly half of the stands.
Your teammates are jumping all over you and each other. You feel like you can carry them all day long.
You aren't alone.
The swelling noise from both ends is louder than ever as you run out into that sunlight…one…last…time.
You'll never get to feel that way again.
Hook ‘Em…
…with much malice.🤘🏼
