"Is this Heaven?"

When I was in Sunday School before fifth grade - I'm not sure when exactly, but know it was before confirmation classes started - our class was asked to draw what we thought heaven would be like. Some of us drew a picture of our family in a big house. Others drew streets with gold bricks. And one boy drew a picture of a really large pizza. I don't remember what I drew, but I know now my picture would be vastly different today than whatever it was then.

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Every Saturday, except one, I will make a point to be in front of a television for about four hours no matter what I'm doing. When I lived in DC, that meant driving to Mackey's in Crystal City, Virginia (a part of Arlington,) and joining fellow alumni from the University of Oklahoma in watching the Sooners play. In Chicago, it's a plethora of options because I live so far from the alumni association's locale. Once last year, because of the campaign, I watched the game on ESPN360 in the campaign office before a tele-town hall conference with voters. But I rarely, if ever, miss a Sooners game.

There are a rare exceptions where I have not been able to watch Oklahoma play online or on television. The first was in 2004 when I was in Wolfeboro, New Hampshire, running a phone bank for a campaign, where no television in miles carried the game. The second was the week after watching the Kansas game on ESPN360 last year when the Kansas State game wasn't online while I sat in the office running another town hall conference. The fourth was while I was in Liberia, but this is a technicality because my dad recorded the game and I watched the game after my return (and after I watched the Bedlam Series against Oklahoma State.) But the last time was the most magical one.

Last weekend, instead of going to the bar in Chicago to watch the Pay-Per-View game, instead of going online in hopes of catching it, I drove to Norman and went to the game. For the first time since I was a college student I handed my ticket to a gate official and walked into Oklahoma Memorial Stadium (technically, it is the Gaylord Family-Oklahoma Memorial Stadium, but most of my time in school it was just OMU. From now on I'm just calling it Owen Field, which is the playing field's name.)

This was the most amazing experience I could remember. The lights, the sounds, the upgrades! Never have I seen so many students spoiled over the toys they get to enjoy now versus what I had just six short years ago. The upper deck is complete. The north scoreboard is not a color screen (it was a yellow-light LED display before and just a clock with the score when I was a freshman.) The south scoreboard, which is the main one, now is one large HD television - and how amazing of a television!

But what doesn't change is the tradition. The band still performs the same opening rituals; the intro to Oklahoma! (the state song) their rendition of You're a Grand Old Flag, the band outlining OU on the field, the national anthem. The fans still energize with the drum major bending backwards to where his British Guard-like hat barely grazes the grass as he marches from one end zone to the next. The team's intro video still electrify the entire city before the team takes the field, which is never complete without James Garner proclaiming "This is Oklahoma Football!" at the end of the video as he has done for years now (my favorite part, really.) And for me, this is what I wanted more than anything.

Watching the game on television gives me the perfect view almost every time. I can see the replay without worry and can have a beer during the game, which is not possible when you are at most college football games. But I don't get the pregame traditions. I don't get to set with 85,000 of my closest friends as we scream bloody murder at the opponent's offense.

Yes, it is always perfect weather when you're watching the game inside, and yes it saves a lot of money. But you can never experience the thrill of a game like you do when you are sitting in the stands staring at Owen Field, hoping your quarterback will make the next big play or screaming your face beet red to help the defense stop the drive on Fourth and Inches. And for me, that was what had been missing since my last game at Owen Field in 2003. If this was my heaven, I'd take it and never look back.

I just hope it isn't another six years before I go back.

"(I) want to build a university our football team can be proud of."

Nearly 64 years ago, shortly after World War II had ended and America was breathing a sigh of relief for the boys who returned back home, one state was stuck in turmoil. From the late 20's on into the 40s, and even 50s but we'll get to that in a bit, Oklahomans had suffered through much. The Depression destroyed families and ruined economies. Drought led to the Dust Bowl, eliminating farms in the blink of an eye, if you were lucky enough to blink during the dust storms rolling through the plains. More than a million fled west to California, where they were treated with derision, called "Okies" with the same venom as African-Americans were called--well, you know what they were called--and segregated just the same. Once the Dust Bowl subsided war struck. Just like Americans from the other 47 states, Oklahomans left in droves to protect the world from the evils of Hitler's Third Reich and Hirohito's Empire. And just like everywhere else, many of the young men never returned home. But this isn't about why you should feel sorry for Oklahoma. Instead, it is about how Oklahoma turned their fortunes around all by themselves.

Sometime after the war, the Regents at the University of Oklahoma recognized the state was in a perpetual state of depression, and not just financially. They, along with the university's president, George Lynn Cross, decided the best way to lift up the school's spirits was through football. The teams of old, before the war, before the dust's plague, were tough teams that brought great entertainment to those living in Norman, Oklahoma City, Stillwater and Tulsa. It seemed football would be just the thing to make them happy again.

Searching far and wide, the team landed upon Jim Tatum, an assistant coach at the Iowa Pre-Flight School. Tatum would do exactly what the school needed, bring in the highly-talented war veterans. When the Regents met with Tatum, and his colleague whom Tatum insisted on bringing along, the board knew they had their coach, but it was their assistant and not Tatum himself. Listening to Cross, they extended the offer to Tatum but demanded that he is only allowed to take it if he brought his assistant along. A year later, Tatum left and the assistant, Bud Wilkinson, took over.

Fast forward six years, to 1953, and Wilkinson has taken the Oklahoma Sooners from a good squad of soldiers who could win the Big Seven Conference with regularity and beat upon Texas with emotion and transformed it into a national program, with its first Heisman Trophy winner in the form of Billy Vessels in 1952 and had already won 31 games straight and a national championship in 1950 (before falling to Kentucky in the Sugar Bowl.) But it's what happened that year and the next several years that transformed more than a football team.

In 1953, Oklahoma was a team on the brink of something special and the men and women in the state could feel it, too. As the team, first led by Gene Calame, fell early to Notre Dame to open the season followed by a tie against Pittsburgh, few outside of the state thought Oklahoma was poised to do much that season. But then Oklahoma rolled through Texas and cleared away the competition in the Big Seven Conference. The next year saw little change in the way of the excellence, despite a new class of players with Jimmy Harris as their leader, as OU cruised through their schedule without a blemish.

1955 saw the most powerful team Oklahoma and Wilkinson had put together yet. After blowing by a non-conference slate of North Carolina, Pitt and Texas and then throttling the Big Seven, Oklahoma faced their old coach, Jim Tatum who was now leading Maryland, in the Orange Bowl. Prior to the game, many thought OU had no chance against an East Coast team and that their No. 1 ranking would be given to the deserving Terps after the bowl game. Unfortunately for the prognosticators, Oklahoma upended Maryland, surprised America and put the Sooners on the brink of something thought unachievable: this football team had just won 30 games straight.

The next year can be labeled by many as a repeat season, but you can hardly label anything as repetitive when you are talking about doing something no one else did. The sporting world no longer remained the only section that knew Oklahoma was more than dust and turmoil. With the musical Oklahoma! becoming a movie, Mickey Mantle a fledgling outfielder with the Yankees and the Carl Albert the Majority Whip of the House, Oklahomans were making a name for themselves as a hard-working lot that refused to take anything standing down. When the season ended on the Sooners, not only had they captured another conference title and beat up Texas yet again, but they refused to let more than half of their opponents score upon them and snapped Washington's old winning streak of 39 games. As impressive as the winning streak had become, it was even more impressive when you realize that the graduating class of football players that year never lost a football game during their collegiate careers. One player, Jerry Tubbs, lost his first game of his life in 1957 as a linebacker for the NFL's Chicago Cardinals.

The streak continued for seven more games when Oklahoma faced Notre Dame, the very team they last lost to in 1953. After the first half, with a scoreless tie glaring at the team on the new electronic scoreboard, Wilkinson prayed the team would escape with a 7-7 tie. In the fourth quarter with just under four minutes left, David Lynch ran the ball around the right of the line and punched into the end zone for the game's only score. With the streak stopped at 47 games the stadium, and nation, fell into shock. The fans didn't know what to do. Shortly after the teams were shaking hands on the field, the stadium opened into applause congratulating both the Sooners and the Irish. A half-hour later, fans still sat in their seats hoping for a few extra minutes of play.

And while the streak ended on that day, November 16, 1957 (which was also, incidentally, the 50th anniversary of Statehood,) the passion and pride Oklahomans felt afterwards for their team, their school and their state never died. Today, after highs and lows in Oklahoma Football, after tornadoes have ripped through the state countless times and one deranged man tried to cripple a city that fateful April morning in 1995, pride in being an Oklahoman continues unabated.

"There's no crying in baseball!"

There is a dark curse that looms over me. No matter how hard I try to shake it, the demons of my past haunt me constantly. This curse has survived my ventures in Oklahoma, Washington, and Chicago. The horror it brings me and those around me are frightening. What curse? The Curse of the Cubs.

I'm not talking about how the Cubs have never won a World Series while I've been alive, or anyone else in my family, for that matter. It goes without saying that something is wrong there and entirely external to my frustration for the moment. My beef with the Cubs is that they have never won a game I've attended. Ever. As in I'm starting to think I'm destined to never see them win.

I initially thought this was a general curse, where no matter what sporting event I attended, the team I root for would fall. Part of that problem was living in DC when where the Nationals don't know what winning means. But that wasn't the truth when I've seen the Orioles win over the Royals (like that game mattered to me, though) and then the Bulls victorious over the Pacer earlier this year. In fact, I've seen every team I root for win at least one game in my life. This includes the newly established Oklahoma City Thunder, and I've only been to one of their games!

When I lived in Washington, Baltimore was the nearby team early on. There was no real chance for me to see the Cubs unless I travelled to Chicago to watch them play. Then the Nationals arrived and my excitement grew. As bad as the Expos, the team moving to become the Nationals, were in Montreal it almost seemed assured that I'd not only get to see the Cubs play, but I'd see them win a game or two. That first February after the Nationals arrived in the Capital City I in front of a friend's laptop, waiting for single game tickets to open up. When they did, my fingers rapidly navigated through the windows to buy tickets to the first game of the only series the Cubs would play in town.

When that day came, I excitedly drove to Hill, meeting another friend for a quick bite at Tortilla Coast (which many Hill staffers and former interns will remember fondly and, yet at the same time with disgust.) While indulging in the "fine" food, the clouds began to gather and the thunder rolled through the city streets. By the time we were supposed to head to the stadium, the heavens let loose and there was no chance of making it to the game. We waited for a half hour before deciding to head back to Virginia and find something else to do, anticipating a rain out for the game. Two hours later, with the rain still falling, a group of us decided to watch a movie and call the night a wash. Afterwards, however, we find out that they decided to play after all (who plays after a 2 1/2 hour delay anyway!?) and the Cubs were winning. Angry at the officials for having the audacity to play the game despite the torrential downpour that deterred hundreds (because no one really went to a Nats game) of fans from showing up, I proceeded to buy two more tickets. I couldn't get seats for the Saturday game, but I scored a couple for Sunday's series finale.

Sure enough, the Cubs fell to Washington that afternoon, setting the streak at four. The next year, I organized a group of co-worker to go to the Independence Day game against Washington at RFK stadium. It was an exciting day, with patriotic energy flowing through the stands and people actually showing up for the game. It was energetic as fans cheered and yelled and celebrated a National's victory. Of the four games played that weekend, I went to the one where the Cubs lost. Later that summer, I took a trip to Chicago to watch them take on the Giants. Barry Bonds was playing, not that it mattered, and was vociferously booed during his only at-bat. Not that it mattered. The Cubs still fell to San Francisco and I still left without a victory.

Last year was my first year living in Chicago. I managed to grab tickets to two games for their amazing season. This was a season of great hope. The Cubs ended with the best record in the National League, far and away beating opponents with breath-taking talent. There was the first no-hitter since Milt Pappas by Carlos Zambrano in a road game against Houston played in Milwaukee. And there was a great chance for me to finally see a Cubs win.

The first game I attended was the second game of the season. The Brewers were the main team to watch out for all season and they proved it that day, as the Cubs didn't show up at all, falling to Milwaukee, taking my streak to nine. In the next month I tried my luck again, and the Brew Crew was again the opponent. After the game, where Chicago came from behind in the seventh and creating a glimmer of hope, I became a life-long enemy of Milwaukee. My streak was at eight and I didn't have an opportunity to see them play again that season.

Which brings us to last night. The Nationals were in town and I landed two tickets to the game from an alumni association of mine (not the OU alumni association but from an internship I was a part of in 2002 called The Fund for American Studies.) I know the Cubs have been playing poorly as of late, but the Nationals were the worst team in baseball. Plus their manager is Jim Riggleman, the guy who lead the Cubs to their 1998 postseason appearance and then fell to mediocrity the next year. It was destiny. I sat as Carlos Zambrano gave up the first run of the game, feeling a little let down. I grew excited as Zambrano tied it up with a home run over the left-field ivy, just a few rows above the basket. Then the fifth inning arrived and I witnessed my first even grand slam. Unfortunately, it was off of a Zambrano pitch and put the Nationals up for good.

Nine games, no wins. Nine times. I can hear Principle Rooney right now, saying one more and I'll have to repeat my senior year. They are the Lovable Losers, I realize this. But there is no way that any person could possibly make it to this many games and see one team lose. It wasn't even in the same season, at the same ballpark, against the same opponents. There was variety to ensure that someone, anyone, would fall to the Cubs with me watching. But, sadly, I am a dark mark. Another plague that curses the Cubs.

I still have hope, and will still continue going to games. Because one of these days, they'll win. I can only hope.

"We choose to go to the moon...not because (it) is easy but because (it) is hard."

I'm jealous of my parent's generation. They were fortunate to experience something that we can only dream about. Forty years ago, they were able to sit in their living rooms with the television on and watch Walter Cronkite comment while the world watched and listened to the first men touch the surface of the moon. They witnessed history that cannot be described. And 30 years after the last Apollo mission, we haven't returned.

This may go against any political philosophy I supposedly subscribe to, but there is something devastating about humanity's failure to continue our curiosity of the universe. We haven't left orbit since the Apollo missions and have only now discussed the possibility of moving beyond the International Space Station. Where is the passion? Where is the dream? We've been waiting for it to come, only to be placated by Hollywood special effects and the literary imagination from the likes of Arthur C. Clarke and others.

When President John F. Kennedy declared that we would reach the moon by the end of the 1960's, he gave NASA, and America, a mission; reach the celestial body and prove to ourselves that we are still the explorers that define our heritage. It seems to have been the last time anyone pursued the unknown in this country. After we landed on the moon NASA lost a purpose and, consequentially, public funding. No longer did we have a dream to explore a new world. Now we had a dream to do something else. But that something else was never defined. And with Congress balking at space exploration in the name of bailouts for banks who took too much of a risk and buying companies that didn't know how to run a business there is little hope that the something else will ever be realized.

It's sad to think that Kennedy's speech at Rice University could be the last time anyone laid out an exploratory goal so moving that it captured all humanity. That moment, those words saying we will go to the moon, could not only be the birth of the mission to accomplish the impossible but also be the death of human's greatest distinction from animal life: the desire to explore.

Every place on this planets was discovered by someone who wanted to see what was out there first hand. Early history has people moving from Africa to Europe and Asia to find out if there was a better place. The Americas were inhabited by people for the same reason and then discovered by those who wanted to see if there was another route, another way. Lewis and Clark gave us a glimpse of what was beyond the Mississippi while Magellan made the world smaller in his circumnavigation nearly 300 years earlier. But each exploration, each discovery, was continued by someone else. Columbus' incidental landing in the Carribean gave new impetus to find out more about the New World. Lewis and Clark gave way for Zebulon Pike to find out what was in the southern part of the Louisiana Territory. Men and women continued to push the limits and discover new realities. But not any longer.

When the frontier was declared vanished by the U.S. Census bureau for the 1890 census, the idea of exploration seemed to start its death. There were advances in flight in the first half of the 20th Century, with Wiley Post, Amelia Earhart, and Charles Lindbergh, but even these explorers couldn't carry the excitement long after the fatal crashes of both Post in 1935 and Earhart in 1937.

But one thing held true out of all these explorers; their achievements led to future adventures for many people across the world. People now live virtually anywhere on Earth and flying is now a common occurance for millions daily. Our world changed dramatically because of the actions of these heroes. So why has space exploration died?

When men landed on the moon, it seemed only natural that we would soon expand our world to encompass our natural sattelite. But nothing came of it. Government deemed it too expensive and no private venture has taken its place. We are left without the imagination and are stuck grounded on Earth, doomed to stare at the brightest object of the night sky and wonder what could've been. If only we would make it back to the moon, travel to Mars, or try to see what else we can do in this great big universe.