I Wish Michigan's Championship Meant More

When Blake Corum rumbled into the end zone to put Michigan up 34-13 with three minutes left in the National Championship, I pumped my fist. After a few seconds, the fist pump turned into a subtle shaking (as if I were about to roll dice). This shake seemed to embody my need to hold and cradle the present. This moment - the moment I knew Michigan would win the National Championship - had been in the making for over a decade. 

It was February 2013 when my sister, Rebecca, texted me that she got accepted to the University of Michigan. At the time, she was a freshman at Bucknell, but, because it was too small and not a good culture fit, she was submitting transfer applications to other colleges. At this point, she had already told me her choices were between Brown (where I was currently a senior) and Michigan. But since my sister is a stronger and better human than most of us are, she opted against choosing a school because of its “Ivy” prestige and chose Michigan because of their renowned psychology program.

I was certainly excited she’d be going to a school that was a great fit for her, but selfishly I was just as excited for myself. 

Given Rebecca’s choice to attend Michigan, I now had a real college football team. My sister had given me the prestigious Power Five conference school I had always lacked, considering no parent or grandparent had attended a school that gave two shits about sports on a national landscape. 

Having adopted Michigan football, I was delighted I could now root for a well-run organization or, as they say in college football, “program”. Contrary to the Wilpon-Mets, Dolan-Knicks and Johnson-Jets, I didn’t have to pretend that the high- ups at Michigan actually cared about winning. Michigan won a lot, always recruiting strong and putting competitive teams on the field. They weren’t underdogs, but they weren’t top dogs either. Having not won a national championship in 16 years, Michigan had a chip on their shoulder and therefore, could become the first team I root for that might win a title. 

Along with the Mets, Jets, Knicks, and Islanders - teams that hadn’t won a championship since 1990 (the year I was born), I now had Michigan football who had not only won in my lifetime, but could give me hope in seeing a championship before I die.

Through my sister’s matriculation, Michigan had been anointed as the messiah to deliver me to the sports fan’s promised land. 

Two months after Rebecca texted me, entering my final month as an undergraduate, I found myself rooting for Michigan’s basketball team during March Madness. I had never followed a single team during March Madness, but now my sister was a Wolverine, so I was a Wolverine. The Sheinmans were a Michigan family and I rode our family’s first seat on the bandwagon. Michigan’s basketball team kept winning, moving on through each round, and I kept having these oscillating emotions. 

On one hand, I was ready to root for a champion but on the other hand, I needed to pump the brakes. 

My sister hadn’t stepped foot on Michigan’s campus, yet her association with Michigan would already produce a title…my first title. I hadn’t had enough time to be emotionally invested. I hadn’t incurred any disappointment, anger or even resentment in Michigan. How could this basketball team be the ones to pop my cherry and make me a winner?!

Michigan made the Final Four, but lost in the Final. I remember feeling that if I was that sports fan to reach nirvana if his team ever won a championship, then I was not ready. 

Michigan was simply a team I rooted for, but not yet my team. Furthermore, this team I had just voyaged with was playing on hardwood not the gridiron. However much improved Michigan’s basketball program had become, the sport Michigan is most heralded for and what people really identify “Go Blue” with is football. 

So when the basketball team came up just short for their championship, I channeled my inner-Buddha and chalked up the loss as the first ripple in the ocean ... Be patient. My time will come. 

Rebecca’s first months at Michigan were my first months without schooling. I was living my post-graduation life in New York City with newer responsibilities, such as having a job - one that you actually have to show up for - and was getting started with this chaotic endeavor known as “being an adult”. 

Fortunately, New York City has several neighborhoods that are good for weaning post-college kids into the real world - one of which is Murray Hill in Manhattan. Murray Hill is sort of this experiment in when happens if kids continued with social atmosphere of college and combined that with their first ever paychecks. It's a place of youthful innocence - for early 20-somethings who have jobs, not careers; who think their college sweetheart or first love will be their forever; an overall great place to still congregate with fraternity brothers and sorority sisters. 

Although I would go on to live in Brooklyn for seven years, it was those first three months post-college where I lived in a Murray Hill sublet. 

Strangely enough, it couldn’t have been a more apropos spot for my new found Michigan fandom. 

I reconnected with my middle school and high school friends who had graduated from Michigan, sharing my excitement to now watch Michigan football with them. With their friends they made from Michigan, they took me under their wing and I was able to tap into my newfound responsibility as a Michigan fan to consistently watch on game day. 

I’d watch with them at bars like Brother Jimmy’s and Professor Thom’s, a sea of maize and blue jerseys and decor, rife with Coors light pitchers and Bud Light buckets. I loved Michigan fan’s camaraderie, exuberance, and passion. Considering society was a few years away from us all being glued to our phones, everyone was still locked in to each snap.

This immersion into Michigan football continued later that fall, when I visited my sister to attend a game. I fell in love with tailgating, the fact that parents were just as spirited as the students, and perhaps that I saw my mom attempt to drink a beer (a sight akin to seeing BigFoot). I loved the inebriated march from the Greek Houses to the Big House, with each step getting closer to one of the largest cathedrals in the world. I even remember shedding a tear as I entered the historic stadium for the first time.  

The irony of getting excited for Michigan football was that this program was enduring their leanest seasons in recent memory. Led by this lame duck coach Brady Hoke who had an odd refusal to wear a headset, Michigan played uninspired football. The first two years I followed the team, they went 7-6 and 5-7. 

Nevertheless, I continued to follow the team week in-week out for the next few years until Rebecca graduated in 2016. The year before her graduation, I was elated when Michigan signed Jim Harbaugh to be their head coach. There was no doubt he’d turn the program around and, in doing so, overcome the Adam Sheinman hex. 

I was excited to keep rooting for Michigan football and felt it symbolic that my last memory on Michigan’s campus was at Rebecca’s graduation which was held at - where else? - the Big House.

After my sister graduated Michigan in May 2016, my Michigan fan friends and I were transitioning life stages. We were all shifting into our mid and late-20s and with that came new priorities. Some moved cities, settled into relationships, worked on the weekends. In other words, come that football season, they were no longer the tight-knit pack committing to boozy Game Day Saturdays.

I had new priorities as well. I was working sales jobs at fitness clubs so had to work Saturdays. Plus living in Williamsburg being mid-20s, I wanted to socialize and explore the city rather than sit inside just to watch Michigan whomp also-rans like Rutgers and Northwestern. 

Being locked into the Big Ten industrial complex no longer suited me. I still rooted for Michigan, but aside from spending time with new friends doing new activities, there were other reasons why remembering kickoff times and checking box scores were no longer priorities. 

I had two epiphanies.

Epiphany No. 1: I no longer had the bandwidth to watch football both Saturday and Sunday. I already had a lifetime commitment to the Jets. Although the early Harbaugh years produced a lot of wins relative to those years of the Jets, my loyalty to Gang Green was established and ironclad. 

Epiphany No. 2: Michigan football wasn’t that important to my sister. I had to take a refresher in one of the reasons why normal people choose teams - bonding with one’s family. At Michigan, Rebecca enjoyed going to games socially, but her passive fandom never took flight. It wasn’t contagious enough to get my dad to watching games, which in turn didn’t make my mom print out (and memorize!) Michigan’s schedule like she did with the Jets. If Michigan was the yarn connecting the four of us together, Rebecca had to be the knitter.

It was always okay for her not to be an avid fan. But if she wanted to be the center of Sheinman sports fanaticism, this was her chance. 

Having this epiphany also made me realize that Michigan fandom wasn’t my experience, it was Rebecca’s experience. 

My watching Michigan play on Saturday was more enjoyment than commitment. Rooting, not responsibility. 

I thought emotional investment was something that you could manufacture, but just like the hard truth about investing in a long term career or romantic relationship, you can’t force it. 

Since that exuberant peak when my sister attended college to post-graduation, I’ve watched around 2-3 Michigan games a year. At the very least, I’ll watch their Penn State matchup, Thanksgiving game vs Ohio State, and their matchup in the CFB Playoff. 

Michigan was like that cute friend that I get really excited for…but can’t get that next level attraction. 

I’ve felt this way about the Wolverines for the last four years.

After not watching the early games this season, I watched the last four games. Their drubbing of Penn State, rivalry win against Ohio State, OT thriller vs Alabama, and their never-in-doubt National Title victory against Washington. 

So here I have witnessed the first team I rooted for - one that’s my unequivocal favorite within its sport and has credibility on a national level - win the championship. 

As a sports fan, I’ve been thrown into this epic of the seeker searching for his first championship. But while I once thought a Michigan title would end the saga, it was merely a milestone.  

I could tell because when Blake Corum scored that touchdown, and I was holding my trembling fist tightly, I was holding onto a simple feeling - happiness.

The happiness was for my sister and her college friends who I’ve met over the years. The happiness was for my friends from the Murray Hill days who watched games with me. The happiness was for every Michigan alumni who I’ve tried bonded with by name-dropping campus staples like Zingerman’s and Rick’s.  

I’m sure the National Championship meant the world to you, but when the clock hit double zeros and the maize and blue confetti streamed across my television, there was no transcendent moment for me. Forget an ascension into a higher ground, I wasn’t even lifted off my couch.

Once again, I am on the outside looking in, because I had not paid the price of admission in terms of emotional investment. A Michigan loss - no matter how brutal - had never made me cry, ruined a weekend, or made me act destructive and dysfunctional. 

My Michigan fandom could be summed up with the motto: “I’m just glad to be here.” It’s never laid my emotions on the line; It’s always been rational - like pride.  

And don’t get me wrong, this victory gives me pride. 

That pride will lead me to purchase Michigan National Champions merch, make a cheesy post on Instagram, and do whatever one else does when they want to bask in reflected glory ... make it about themselves. Hell, I wrote this essay didn’t I? 

My pride will also give me bragging rights, considering I “predicted” this back in August, when I bet a Ben Franklin on Michigan +900 to win the National Title. 

Winning money is nice, but it’s not my end game of being a fan of a team. There’s a big difference between picking a winner and being a winner. This time I picked a winner. 

I am still searching for that ineffable feeling.

When the shaking of my clenched fist has ceased, I transitioned into a wry smile - a smirk conveying what I already knew and perhaps what I didn’t need eleven years to teach me. 

The wait for that otherworldly feeling would have to continue. 

Hail to the Victors!