So, before he had his little intern incident, I was a huge fan of Bob Greene (no, not that Bob Greene), and made a point to always read his latest column. In fact, one of the best books I’ve read in years was Fraternity: A Journey in Search of Five Presidents, which came out post-scandal.

Over the years, I had saved two columns of his, as they, to me, fundamentally articulate the meaning of honor, and family, and what it means to grow up in that special place we like to call Central Ohio. I recently rediscovered these two columns as I was cleaning out old email folders, and thought that they should be reposted, at least so people could read some true words from a man who was once the great columnist of the day.

THE LOVELIEST MOMENT THAT NEVER HAPPENED
Bob Greene (Chicago Tribune)
Published: Sunday, June 22, 1997

Of all the things I’ve ever wanted to do, I don’t think I’ve ever been
sadder that this one didn’t happen.

The two people for whom it was intended didn’t know that it was coming. In fact, when they read these words it will be the first that they know. I got the idea on the night before. I had been invited to be the commencement speaker for the graduating class at Ohio State University this year. The ceremonies were going to be held in Ohio Stadium.

Ohio Stadium–the huge old football horseshoe next to the Olentangy River– is the most famous structure in Ohio. I began going to Ohio Stadium as a child, when my mother and father would take me when they could come up with an extra ticket for me. The first time I walked into Ohio Stadium– through the dull gray concrete bowels, up the stairs and into the sunlight, with that beautiful green field, and the colors of the clothing of an unimaginable number of people stretching into the blue Ohio sky, Woody Hayes and the Buckeyes running from their locker room out onto the grass . . .

That place represented all of life’s possibilities to me. All that life could offer you, all that was out there, the size and the scope and the infinite chances before you . . .To be invited to be the commencement speaker in Ohio Stadium was thrilling enough. At Ohio State, more than 50,000 people attend graduation every June. For me to be asked to speak in that stadium was an honor unlike any I have ever had.

But that’s not what I was thinking about on the night before.

My mother and father have been going to those Saturday football games in Ohio Stadium for more than 50 years. Think of that–more than 50 years of football Saturdays, together. It’s like everything else they do together–they do it because they love each other so much, and they enjoy each other’s company so much. They have a date together every night–whether they leave the house or not. Every day, every night, each of them is with the one person they would rather be with than any other person in the world.

My father is 82. My mother is about to turn 78. My dad, especially, does not get around as easily as he used to. Ohio Stadium on a football Saturday is difficult for him now. After the Michigan game last November, they decided that they would not be coming to the stadium any longer. Last season was it. More than 50 years–over.

But when they heard that I had been invited to give the commencement address, they made plans to come sit in the stands one more time. To see me speak in Ohio Stadium. The night before, I went from my hotel and up to the campus. I found an open gate in the stadium. I walked inside. Ohio Stadium–empty at sunset. I stood on the field and looked around, and I decided what I was going to do. During my speech, I was going to tell the people in the crowd–the 50,000 people–about my mom and dad. About those 50 years of football Saturdays that would be no more.

And I was going to ask those 50,000 people to do me a favor. It was something a son gets only one chance in his lifetime to do. I was going to ask them if they would be kind enough to give my mother and father a standing ovation. In Ohio Stadium.

The next morning was one of the worst rainstorms anyone in central Ohio can remember. The 50,000 people showed up, took their seats in the stadium. For more than an hour they waited for the ceremonies to begin. Waiting with the official procession underneath the stadium, I thought about my mom and dad sitting in that unrelenting rainstorm. I didn’t know what to do. We finally marched in; the rain only intensified. I tried to find them in the crowd.

Minutes into the ceremony, Ohio State President Gordon Gee called it off. The weather was just too severe. Graduation would have to be canceled. I found them beneath the stadium– soaked to the bone. Broke my heart. Made me want to cry. Fifty years into my own life, and here they are, sitting for an hour in a rainstorm for the chance to watch me do something. What else matters in life? The people you can count on like that–what else matters?

I didn’t tell them what I had planned to do. But I’m telling them now–here. President Gee has invited me to come back and deliver the commencement address next June. Next June in Ohio Stadium. Hope this will give them one more reason to want to stick around.

The column the following year:

A SON, HIS PARENTS, AND THE END OF THE RAINBOW
Bob Greene (Chicago Tribune)
Published: Sunday, June 21, 1998

If you wait long enough, the sun will come out.

Last year, in one of the great honors of my life, I was invited to deliver the commencement address at Ohio State University. For a boy who grew up in central Ohio, the idea of speaking in Ohio Stadium–the legendary football stadium where the Ohio State Buckeyes play–was overwhelming, thrilling almost beyond description.

Ohio Stadium–the massive gray horseshoe on the Olentangy River, the stadium inside of which Woody Hayes walked the sidelines, inside of which generations of Ohioans have gathered on football Saturdays for most of this century–is the single most famous place in Ohio. When you grow up in the middle of Ohio, your world at times feels small and constrained and quiet.

And then, one Saturday, your parents bring you with them to Ohio Stadium. On that day you walk through the dull and dingy concrete bowels of the stadium, up a short flight of stairs and into a tunnel and then into the sunlight–and all of a sudden your world changes. You are still in the middle of Ohio, but for the first time in your life you are in a place so huge, so filled with color and noise, so exciting, that you instinctively have new knowledge of life’s possibilities. Of size, and scale, and potential, of infinite horizons about which you had previously scarcely dared to dream.

Ohio Stadium, to me, has always borne more symbolic weight than the White House, than Buckingham Palace. Ohio Stadium, to me, was the end of the rainbow. The perfect place. To be invited to be commencement speaker there had a meaning I could not come close to articulating. Spring graduation at Ohio State is said to be the largest in the United States; 50,000 people gather for the ceremonies. But that’s not why last year was going to mean so much to me. And that’s not why, when what happened inside Ohio Stadium last year happened, it hurt so much.

My mother and father, for more than 50 years, went together to Ohio Stadium every football Saturday. They have one of the closest marriages I have ever observed; they do virtually everything together. They have a date with each other every night, whether they leave the house or not.

My sister and brother and I moved away from Columbus; now it’s just my mother and father in the house. Those Saturdays in Ohio Stadium were the cement that connected the weeks and months and years of their life in Ohio. Think about that: going to that stadium together for more than 50 years.

In 1996, they had to stop. They are no longer young; my dad is 83 now, my mom will be 79. He, especially, doesn’t get around as easily. Ohio Stadium on a football Saturday was too hard.

Last June, they made plans to come to the stadium one more time. They came to see me speak. I had my own plan that day. Without telling anyone about it beforehand, I was going to ask the people who had come for commencement exercises to do me a kindness. I was going to tell them about my parents, and about those 50 years of football Saturdays that were now over. And I was going to ask the crowd to rise and honor my father and mother with a standing ovation–a standing ovation in Ohio Stadium.

It didn’t happen last year. Central Ohio was hit by a terrible, torrential storm just as graduation began. The people waiting in Ohio Stadium were drenched; the storm became so severe that the ceremonies were called off before the speeches, before the graduates could be presented their diplomas. I found my parents in the dim concourse under the stadium that day, soaked to the bone. Broke my heart– made me want to cry. Fifty years into my own life, and there they were, having sat in the unrelenting rainstorm for an hour for the chance to watch me do something. What else matters in life? The people you can count on like that–what else matters?

Last week, Ohio State held its 1998 spring commencement. It was to be the last commencement in Ohio Stadium for a while–repairs are scheduled to begin on the mammoth old place. I was invited back to deliver the commencement address. My parents had made it through the year; they were in the crowd again.

The morning began with rain, but it stopped by the time we marched onto the football field. I looked into the stands. More than 50,000 people, stretching all the way to the sky, were there. Ohio Stadium, on a joyous and sunny June day. I told the crowd about my parents. I explained about the year before. And I asked the 50,000 to do me the favor. They did. In Ohio Stadium–the place where for years the crowds have risen to cheer for the football teams–on this day they rose to cheer for my mother and father.

The roar filled Ohio Stadium. It will sound in my heart forever.

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