Tuesdays with Torbee

In the year 2025, there existed a proud kingdom perched on the banks of the Iowa River. Its people hardy, its corn tall, and its football team renowned for brawn, bravery, and the ability to strike fear into the hearts of even the greatest of other gridiron warriors.

In this kingdom lived a figure of legend. Not a single man, but a collective entity identified by a striking gold image of a bird upon a night-black helmet. This legend we call Hawkeye.

Hawkeye was a noble spirit, but one vexed for eternity to atone for its transgressions. Hawkeye was not cursed by the gods for actual sins such as hubris or cheating. Rather, something far more offensive to the football gods: the audacity of hope.

In antiquity—a time known as the Era of the Big 10 West—Hawkeye was among the strongest and most favored. For nigh on two decades, its foes trembled and rent their garments in fear of the wrath of the mighty Hawkeye, particularly its fierce and ferocious defense. Many enemies—be they man-rodents such as gopher or badger, or men of labor such as huskers of corn or makers of boilers—fell before the mighty black and gold onslaught.

This gave rise to hope in the chests of the followers of Hawkeye. A yearning that Hawkeye might reach the pinnacle of heaven, the abode of blue bloods, known as the CFP.

As the campaign calendar flipped to 2025, this hope buoyed the kingdom of Iowa football, giving rise in its people great ardor and fervor.

But alas, the football gods are capricious and without mercy. And lo, Hawkeye—like his cousin Sisyphus—hath been condemned to fall back down the mount of hope under the weight of expectation time and time and time and time again. Yea, on four separate occasions the ring was within grasp, only for cruel fate to snatch it away, leaving the supporters of Hawkeye to gnash teeth and ask for succor.

Tribulation 1 – the Grimness of Ames

On the dismal and loveless plain north of the metropolis of Des Moines squats a fetid and squalid hamlet whose denizens are rumored to lie with beasts of the field. This disfavored place is called Ames and its long-suffering warrior known as Cyclone. For nearly eternity, Cyclone was a weak and punchless adversary, having tasted of championship nary a time since early in the prior century. On a warm afternoon this past September, Hawkeye stood poised over Cyclone, readying a death blow sure to send Hawkeye supporters into throes of celebration.

Alas, the rock wobbled, tackling angles lost, and Cyclone snatched victory from the jaws of defeat on the unlikely right foot of a mere lad. Despair washed over the masses who had been ready to declare, finally again, that this indeed was the “Hawkeye state.”

Tribulation 2 – the Perfidy of Indiana

Still stinging from the defeat at Ames, Hawkeye returned home to the fields of Kinnick, where an opportunity to slay a rising giant called Hoosier, awaited.

The people of Iowa muttered among themselves, invoking ancient omens, beseeching the gods to allow a smoother ascent.

And for a time, it seemed the gods relented. Inside the sacred temple of the black and gold—Hawkeye surged. The line held firm. The defense struck foes as if forged from the same iron that chained Prometheus. The kingdom roared, for the mighty Hoosier, ranked second in all the land, appeared shaken, down on one knee and ready to fall.

But as the summit appeared within reach, once again the cruel grinning gods of the gridiron laughed, saying “not yet.”  In mere seconds, a busted coverage as loathsome as Odysseus’s trickery led to a kick that split the uprights with the precision of Apollo’s arrow. The Kinnick crowd fell silent, knowing the shape of the tale too well.

Again, the rock slipped and shuddered. Again, Hawkeye sank to the base of the mountain.

Hawkeye sighed — stubborn, doomed — and trudged downward to try again.

Tribulation 3 – The Sorcery of Oregon

Hail the hearty Iowans. Despite two crushing defeats and a stinging freezing rain soaking the field of Kinnick, they once again donned their ponchos and girded their flasks for battle.

Here came the fleet-footed Duck of Oregon and his minions, resplendent in bright and gawdy garments bestowed upon them by the Knight of Nike. The Duck swept in confidently, sure his mercenaries would make quick and easy work of the twice-defeated Hawkeye.

Yet Hawkeye flinched not. Blow for blow, rush for rush, Iowa’s defense smothered the Duck’s spells. Hope surged again, the taste of victory mere inches from hungry mouths.

For a heartbeat the kingdom glimpsed the summit. The boulder steadied. The gods stirred uneasily.

But the gods are vain. They do not allow mortals to command the narrative.

Once more, in the waning minutes, the Duck conjured a magic most foul. A late drive, crueler than any Hydra’s bite. A kick that tore the breath from the faithful. And before the people could even curse the heavens, the boulder again threw Hawkeye down the mountain, yet again into the valley of Almost.

Tribulation 4 – The Mirage of USC

By the fourth ascent, even the most faith-filled follower of Hawkeye trembled in dread. For ahead lay a date with the mighty Trojan, on the typically sun-kissed battlefields of Los Angeles, where Hawkeye dreams go to die.

Yet Hawkeye – bruised, bloodied but undeterred – sallied forth to battle inside the coliseum where a rare stormed raged. For three quarters, Hawkeye dominated the field with the relentlessness of a scythe clearing an autumn field. The run game churned. The defense feasted. The people of Iowa – ever hopeful, ever doomed – began whispering of breakthrough. Of destiny. Of finally reaching the summit.

Hawkeye heaved the rock unto his shoulder. It quivered. It neared the crest.  

Then – as if scripted by sadistic fate – the Trojan rose from the dust and swung his sword at the death. With a single late touchdown, the gods poked the boulder with one amused finger.

Down it tumbled. Down it crashed.

The followers of Hawkeye again writhe in the pit of despair.

Eternal Condemnation

Is it fate for Hawkeye to climb forever, straining against the unyielding wall of expectation, never to reach the summit?

If there be glory in pursuit without culmination, Iowa fans stand among the most glorious in the land.

The punishment is eternal, yes. But so too is the will to climb.

The followers of Hawkeye understand this. Our faith is not born of easy victories but of the sacred, ridiculous, beautiful struggle.

One day, either soon or in some distant season, the football gods will be distracted. The rock will once again wobble, but Hawkeye will plant his staff on the mountain. And the nectar of victory so long delayed, will be sweet.

Follow me on BlueSky @torybrecht.bsky.social and tune in to the 12 Saturdays podcast on all platforms.