Our choices in Halloween costumes was fairly limited.  The box in the closet held a very small selection of tried and true pieces used by my older brothers.  There was a cape (suitable for vampire or zorro), the old suit jacket (hobo or Abe Lincoln), clown suits (twenty years old by the time that I got them), or a ghost costume that my brother Jack tried to make that Mom never let him wear outside of the house…it looked less like a ghost and more like a Klu Kluk Klan member.  While we wanted to scare people, there were some lines that just shouldn’t be crossed.

By the time I got to the costumes, they had seen their better days, and were pretty worn out and beaten up - both physically and mentally - there are only so many uses for a Zorro cape.

Which means that I had to get a little more creative.

In the fifth grade, not happy with the costume selection in front of me, Mom suggested Dad’s old army uniform.  Digging it out of the trunk, sure enough, it was a fit.  I had the green pants, the green jacket, and the green army hat, all circa the Korean War.

But I had to get a little more creative too.

The highlight of our fifth grade Halloween party would be the lip synch competition.  For those alive in the 1980’s, they would be aware that lip synch competitions, much like the art of the air guitar, were a very, very big deal back then.  You didn’t have to sing, you didn’t have to make a noise, you just had to look like you were singing the song.

Several rock bands of the time perfected this method.

I was bound and determined to win the competition.

And I was up against some pretty strong competition.  One group of guys in our glass was doing a Motley Crue song, a group of girls were doing Cindy Laupers “Girls Just Want to Have Fun.”

A few other folks were doing their singles as well.

I had the perfect song all picked out - the Marine Hymn.  It would match perfect with the uniform (army, marine, what’s the difference) and I knew the words pat - “From the halls of Montezuma to the shores of Tripoli, we will fight our countries battles on the land and air and sea….”

I felt assured of a victory.

This is where Mom and Dad put their coaching skills to great use.  They managed to conjole and convince me that this was not a good song to sing for a grade school lip synch competition.  They asked me to find something…anything else, and only the night before the big Halloween party.

Me, daring to be different, picked a ‘Weird Al’ song…much to my parents dismay…it was better, but not much.

But I practiced that night and I set my eyes on winning the St. Mike’s 5^th Grade Lip Synch competition.

The competition was stiff - “Money For Nothing and Chicks for Free” was first up, to much critical acclaim.  The girls that wanted to have fun were next.  A few other one hit wonders hit the front of the class.

Then, me, in my army fatigues, an empty 3 gallon ice cream bucket, and a very large spoon literally tore up the floor with Weird Al Yankovic’s classic, “I Love Rocky Road.”  It was pandemonium.  One minute I was strutting across the front of the class, the next, I was on my back pretending to pour ice cream over myself.  The class was in stiches.  The judges, Sister Baptist and Mrs. Speath were crying from laughing so hard.

Walking in, I think the deck was stacked against me to win the famous St. Mike’s 5^th Grade Lip Synching contest, but win it I did.  And the secret - the secret of my success in that high endeavour…well…truth be told, I really did love Rocky Road….

And now you know…..the rest of the story….

 We were either brave, or very, very stupid - we brave five NDSU fans that chose to make the trek to South Dakota State for our annual battle on the football field.  We were respectful adversaries.  Both were schools whose roots were firmly planted in agriculture and engineering.  Both had proud football history.  Both were filled with good natured country kids.  In short, while we cheered against each other on the field, we generally liked each other off the field.  In general, we both loathed our rival schools in each state - SDSU their archrivals the University of South Dakota, NDSU our archrivals at the University of North Dakota.

This day, SDSU’s homecoming, aka Hobo Days 1995, our five NDSU fans from the fraternity on College Street were pushing those bonds to the limit, sitting in the SDSU student section, surrounded by hundreds…wait…make that thousands of enthusiastic, perhaps partially inebriated Jackrabbit fans.

I will admit, there were a few of us that were naturally quiet and shy by nature…there were a few of us, that, well, were not prone to hide their light under the bushel basket….as a matter of fact, they were loud and very outspoken in their support of the Bison.  Not the respective, stand when a good play was made and clap politely, these were the chest bumping, fist pumping, yelling as loud as they could type of fans.

And they were dressed the same as me….in a sea, and I mean an absolute sea of Jackrabbit fans, I mean, we were in the SDSU student section of goodness sakes.

The first quarter in Coughlin Alumni Stadium on the SDSU campus was a good game of football.  The lead went back and forth through the quarter.  I think the SDSU fans tolerated us because both teams were playing well on the field.  There was that mutual respect.

Plus, we had that darn horn - the big green plastic horn that looked like a herald’s trumpet but sounded very annoying.  And the owner, Jason, was going absolutely mad with the thing.  I think the fans around us found it endearing.  There was good natured laughing and ribbing as the quarter wore on.  Our SDSU hosts formed a protective shield.

The second quarter things didn’t look good for the Jackrabbits.  There were a few errors.  NDSU took the lead and didn’t give it up. The cheering from the student section was growing less and less…except in our little nook, right in the middle, where two of us would politely stand up and clap the good plays…and three of us would continue to go absolutely mad.

The smiles and laughter at our antics from the fans around us grew slowly more hostile.  The buffer provided by our fraternity brothers from SDSU seemed to be growing smaller and smaller.  There continued to be some people finding us amusing…but those smiles were hard to distinguish from those that smiled knowing of places where they could hide our bodies….

We were saved by halftime.  NDSU was in the lead, but a manageable one for SDSU.  They could still come back.    

NDSU’s famous Gold Star Marching band took the field, one of the rare traveling appearances that they made, and the announcing gave them the introduction that made us sit up straight with pride…”Ladies and Gentlemen, the Pride of North Dakota…NDSU’s Gold Star Marching Band!”

The band played well and they did us proud. Old Doc Putnam, the founder of the band back in 1904 would have been proud.

Then SDSU’s marching band took the field…and the announcing said, and I quote, “Ladies and Gentlemen, please stand and give your attention to South Dakota State’s own, the PRIDE OF DAKOTA…Marching Band….”

“WHAT!”  All five of us said to the SDSU fans sitting around us, how can we be the pride of North Dakota, but they think they can be the “pride of DAKOTA!?!”

We were insulted and aghast.  Though truth be told…they were pretty good…actually, they were very good….

We shut up and got ready for the third quarter.

The third quarter was a repeat of the second quarter…only worse.  The fans around us grew surly.  The three other guys wouldn’t shut up, our protective screen of local fraternity brothers was breaking away….or worse…joining the menacing mob of increasingly agitated Jackrabbits.

The quarter ended 26-10, Bison in the lead and the Jackrabbits struggling to hang in there…and us five fans - all of us starting to fear for our safety and our lives.  There was a small section of NDSU supporters on the far side of the field - the band, the cheer team, and our trusty mascot (and fraternity brother) Thundar….we contemplated moving for our own safety, but feared it might be too late….

It was then that the “Pride of Dakota” played a popular little ditty all pep bands know and love, “Rock Riffs” - that goes, “Buuuump, Buuuump, Buuuump, Baaadaa, Buuump, Buuump, Buuump BAAADAAA, Bump, Bump Bump….(pause)…Bump, Bump, Bump.”  Continue to play and repeat.

In that pause, that slight pause in the song, we Bison fans had our conditioned response to say, “Sioux Suck S***” - referring to our archrivals the University of North Dakota Fighting Sioux.

The SDSU fans loved it.  I mean laughed hysterically.  By the end of the set, the entire SDSU student section was joining with us.  The balance of the 4^th quarter, we taught them all of our other anti-UND chants and songs.  Both bands took turns playing Rock Riffs and the cries from the stadium - students, alumni, and supporters from both sides, grew into a full chorus of “Sioux Suck S***” everytime either band played it.

It brought a tear to my eye.

NDSU was triumphant with a 26-17 win at the end, and we were greeted with backslaps and good natured ribbing as we walked out.  Long gone was ominous looks and the scowls of contempt.  In their place was the occasional chant of “Suck Sioux!” and a fair number of slurs against USD’s Coyotes.

It was a good win and a high note to end the game on….and we got the heck out of town before the crowd turned on us like some ferrel jackrabbit.

The crowning achievement came as we arrived back at the fraternity house, tired, but content and we were met by Thundar, our fraternity brother who had been leading the small band of NDSU supporters across the field.

“I never would have guessed, those guys hate UND as much as we do - you should have heard them during the 4^th quarter….”

Oh we heard Thundar.  We heard.

 There were going to be five of us packed into Jason Rohr’s Ford Taurus station wagon.  It was a good car, and had enough room for all of us and our luggage.  We were traveling to South Dakota State’s famed Hobo Days.  The fact that we were traveling and would spending the weekend sleeping on the floors like hobo’s was ironic, though I found quickly, only to me.

Jason made sure to take along his very annoying plastic green horn - like a very loud, annoying bugle.  He loved that thing.

The trip down to Brookings Friday night was filled with talk, jokes, stories, serious discussions around politics, student life, fraternity history, and flatulence.  Lots and lots of flatulence.  I mean roll down the window with your tongue hanging out flatulence.

Such is the life of college students, discussing the importance of Nixon’s US-China relationship and its impact on the global economy one minute…letting loose a silent killer fart the next.

The green Bison bugle made an appearance or two as well…much to everyone’s dissatisfaction, and some of us mumbled things under our breath about where potentially Jason could blow that thing…

We rolled into Brookings late, and boy, were our fraternity brothers down south excited to see us…especially the three that were working on the float and looking for an extra pair of hands.

I’m not sure what time the float was finished, but I know I enjoyed it when my head hit the pillow that night.

We woke to bacon and eggs the next morning, we also got a full tour of the house, a new building on the edge of campus.  Compared to our house, an old Copper Kettle restaurant built in about 1910 (the oldest section of four), it was a mansion.

Then it was time for the parade.  We hooted and hollered and supported our southern fraternity brothers.

It was interesting to see another homecoming parade, especially as they were preparing to play my team on the football field.

Every float showed a Jackrabbit (SDSU’s mascot) doing something hideous, unimaginable, and sometimes almost funny, to our mighty Bison.

We were pilgrims in an unholy land.

But yet, we stood tall.  We wore our fraternity jacket.  We wore our school colors proudly.  We were Bison.  And we had an annoying green bugle.

Our hosts were great, we were having a great time - the parade was over, there was a barbeque, life was good!

“So how do we get into the game?” Tony, the leader of the pack asked one of our fraternity brothers from SDSU.

“Oh, that’s no problem, we’ll get you into the student section.”  Came the reply…

We all paused for a moment…thinking of ourselves, in full Bison gear, cheering on our home team, letting loose for the green and gold…in the middle of thousands of ferrel Jackrabbits….

 ”Are you interested in a road trip?”

As a freshman in college, it was hard to turn down an offer for a good old fashioned road trip.  But due to circumstances at home, I had to explain it to the family back home - I wouldn’t be home for the weekend.

“Why?  What for?” Dad inquired, rightly wondering what would keep me from home.

“A group of us are going down to South Dakota State for the football game?”  I replied.

“Why?  What for?”  Came Dad’s reply, right back at me.  It was the first weekend that I’d spent away from home (and about the only one that semester), and there was a lot of work that needed to be done.  Even though we didn’t farm any more, Dad had his hands full taking care of little sister Margaret and Mom who was pretty sick at the time.

“Well, its Hobo Day’s down there, like their homecoming, and their chapter of my fraternity invited us down to celebrate.” I replied.

“Why?  What for?”  Dad replied.

 ”Well, no particular reason, just to see another school and how they celebrate their homecoming.”  I replied.

“Ah.”  Dad said, I imagined he was thinking of me looking to transfer schools from the hallowed halls of NDSU to the ag school in the deep south, South Dakota State University…practically in the banana belt….”So you won’t be home this weekend?”

“No, I don’t think so…”  I replied, waiting for him to throw out the question that I know I was thinking…so you want to go and have a good time as I fight through this at home…but I knew that wasn’t Dad’s style….he knew I had a life to live too…

“OK, well then, have a good time, OK.”  Dad said cheerfully.

“Ya, no problem.  I’ll call before I go, and when I get home.  I’ll get you the numbers on where to reach me in case something happens.” I replied, somewhat relieved.

“Oh, hey, ya - say”  Dad said suddenly.

“Ya?” I replied.

“Ya well, be careful then.  Ya never know what can happen.” He replied, with a sincerity and urgency in his voice.

“Ya Dad, no problem. You and Mom raised me right.” I replied.

“Ya, well, I know that, but still - just be careful.” He replied, insistently.

“Oh ya, no problem. Will do.  Talk to you soon.  OK.” I replied.

“OK, yup, bye then.” Dad replies.

“Yup, bye, goodnight.” I replied.

“OK, yup, goodnight….” Dad replied, finally hanging up the phone.

My first trip road trip in college was about to get underway…and the funny thing is that same conversation, 17 years ago…still happens at least once a week when I call home….

None-the-less, I was underway.

 My first and second hour my senior year were in theory, easy ones.  The first hour (in actuality, our ‘hours’ were forty-five minute blocks of time for each class) was in a study hall with my Ag Teacher, Mr. Erickson in the choir room.  It was a big room with a lot of people in study hall.  Mr. Erickson didn’t take any guff.

But he also knew his charges well.

He knew that many days I’d be home finishing up chores.  On the days that I wasn’t and actually was in class, he’d let me go the gym (a good excuse), or let me go down to work on projects in the Agriculture room.  He knew that things would be done, neat and tidy when he got back down there.

There was one week where I got to do a special role that fit both the study hall, as well as my duties as president of the local Future Farmers of America chapter.  There were dignitaries in town, and I was to be the welcoming committee.

Each year, the state organization of the Future Farmers of America sent out the student leaders of the organization, the six State FFA officers, to two of the eight regions to tour each chapter, visit with donors, school boards, classes, and local industry to talk about the importance of agriculture, education, and the FFA to the local and state communities.

My senior year, first hour, Mr. Erickson’s study hall, I’d be the official welcoming party to these distinguished visitors.

About nine o’clock, they pulled up to the shop doors.  Mr. Ertle the Minnesota FFA state executive secretary (the adult that pulled everything together), Fred Schliep, the Minnesota FFA Vice President, and Mike Stegmann, the Minnesota FFA Treasurer came in in their full dress uniform - black pants, white shirts, blue corduroy jacket, official FFA tie - they walked right up and shook hands with me.  I’d met Mike before at one of the contests.

We chatted for a while - talking about the town, the school, the FFA chapter and the audience that they would present too.  Though they were only a year or two older than me, as freshmen and sophomores at university, they seemed much older and wiser.  I’d rarely travelled beyond the county line, let alone the state, and these two men had travelled the world over.  It was a bit awe inspiring.

At 9:18, the Agriculture room would be filled to capacity as Mr. Erickson had gotten permission to get the chapter together and listen to these two young men speak.

And speak they did.  I gave them a brief introduction, then let them work their magic.  They had the crowd of almost fifty young people, from ninth grade up to seniors enthralled as they gave a talk about the wonders that awaited them in agriculture and in life if they worked hard, and were good leaders.  If they lived the motto of the FFA: Learning to Do, Doing to Learn, Earning to Live, Living to Serve.

I don’t remember everything that they said, but I remember being mighty impressed.

As the bell rang and the students ran for the door, I stayed back to thank our illustrious speakers and escort them out, as Mr. Erickson exchanged a few pleasantries with Mr. Ertl. 

“Are you running for state office this year?” Treasurer Stegmann asked.

I about choked back the laughter, “No, I really don’t think so…” I replied with some hesitancy.

“Why not?” Vice President Schliep asked intently.

I rattled off a list of reasons…I’d never been to a leadership camp or function, I’d be going to school in North Dakota, I didn’t know the right people…

“You really should think about it.” Treasurer Stegmann said with sincerity, “you’d make a good one.”

With that they were out the door and on to the next chapter.

I don’t know if they were serious or not.  At the time, I figured that they just said that at every chapter.  But it planted the seed….

The next eighteen months were turbulent ones for me, probably the hardest of my life.  I never would have guessed at the time that I’d be making that same trip, only two years later, visiting chapters, speaking to students, and trying to make a positive difference in the lives of students, as unworthy and undeserving as I might be for the honor, the seed grew and took root.  And it made all the difference.

 Most farm boys imagine life with the newest shiniest equipment.  Those were things that we most definitely didn’t have on our little home in Northern Minnesota.  We were perched on the edge of where the wide open prairies met the big woods of Northern Minnesota, not the heart of the Corn Belt, or the wheat belt, so we made due with our herd of Holsteins and a lot of manual labor.

Meanwhile, we would watch news clips from southern Minnesota, Iowa, Illinois, Kansas, and Nebraska with some longing, watching the big new equipment roll through the fields of waving grain or forests of corn.  John Deere Day - the day when the local implement dealer would lay out the latest and greatest mean green machines would make our mouths water.

We had a couple of neighbors that cobbled together enough land to buy the big machinery, so when a new combine or tractor rolled down the gravel road past our farm, our eyes would light up and work would stop.

“Is that a new 7700?” One of us would ask, referring to the state of the art combine rolling down the dusty road.

“Yup, looks like.”  Someone else would reply as we all looked longing down the road at the cloud of dust.

It was about this time that our family got the newest in home entertainment technology, a VCR machine, which would allow you to record things off the television and play them back, in addition, you could rent or buy movies and watch them too - it was a revolutionary piece of technology!

And just in time, for a special, made for television special called “American Harvest.”

It was a classic tale of families, farmers trying to make it during rough times, and like Shakespearean tragedy, it had the warring families, and the elements…

The base of the story was an honest American farmer from the heart of the wheat belt trying to make one last payday on a combine run by buying up a handful of old combines and hiring a hodgepodge of characters to run them from Texas to Canada, while having a running feud with his brother-n-law who has money, wealth, and new combines - also on a harvest run.

At least I think so.  To be quite honest, there isn’t a lot that I remember about the plot, except that it had a lot of combines rolling through wheat fields.  Big combines.  Sure sometimes scenes of the old combines suddenly turned into new combines in the middle of a scene…that didn’t matter to us.

Plus it had a bonus - what pulls a family together like nothing else in the middle of the Great Plains?  A tornado of course!

In the end, the farm is saved, everyone is safe, and the combines roll.  A beautiful tale.

At my brother’s house, he still has an old VCR machine.

“Do you still use that?” I asked one time.

“Once in a while.” He replied, “The boys (my two young nephews) like to watch a movie now and then.”

“What do you still have on VHS that the boys need to watch?” I asked.

With a bit of a grin, he replied, “American Harvest.”

 ”What is Blue Key?” I asked inquisitively of my senior roommate in the little room called ‘Middlenorth’ at our old fraternity house on College Street.  Being a freshman, I was still learning the ways of North Dakota State University system.  He was just getting geared up with his khaki pants, white shirt, and blue blazer with the badge on it that signified his membership in the distinguished society known as “Blue Key.”

“It is a great organization - dedicated to service, leadership, and scholarship.  They do some pretty neat things around campus, the homecoming show, Bison Brevities - they started the ‘Nickel Trophy’ with UND.”  He replied with great enthusiasm. “But they really aren’t your type of people, so I wouldn’t plan on getting in.”  He added, which felt like a bucket of cold water coming raining down out of the sky.

“What do you mean?” I asked, questioning what part of the service, leadership, and scholarship that I might lack.

“Well, they have a pretty stringent selection criteria, and there are only thirty members.  They are really strict about who they let in.  You have to be a junior or senior.” He replied, “But you wouldn’t really enjoy it anyway.  You wouldn’t fit in very well.”

Well, that’s that.  I thought as he turned heel and headed out the door.

There was little thought given to it.

Each year, a troop of Blue Key members would come into our old fraternity house on College Street in their Blue Blazers and khaki pants and announce the selection of one of the men from our house that was selected for membership.

My junior year, they made the grand entrance - about fifteen of them, marching into our Monday meeting, everyone wondered who it would be this year.

It felt like my jaw hit the floor when they called my name.  I don’t remember what I said, or did the rest of the meeting.  I’m sure I was beaming.

But there was that nagging doubt in the back of my head, ‘you really won’t enjoy it.  You wouldn’t fit in very well’ - the advice given years before echoed in the back of my head…what happened if I was, well, a little off key for this distinguished group?

The first challenge was the blue blazer…I didn’t own one, I hated shopping, and I had no money.  A quick stop to a local haberdashery - a traumatic experience - resulted in a proper blue blazer, complete with nautical buttons, and for a very reasonable $79, it wasn’t the best they had, but it was functional (and still is fifteen years later…).

My first meeting was a bit overwhelming.  It was a who’s who of leaders on campus, people whose faces and names that I saw every week in the campus newspapers, top fraternity and sorority members, leaders in student government and campus life.  And me.

What a diverse group it was too - people from big cities, small towns, farms, with a huge range of political views, cultural backgrounds, and thought processes.

It was a bit overwhelming.

I can’t tell you what was said or done, some things are meant to stay between members, but rest assured, it was, and is, a classy organization.  Though they were the big wigs on campus, they made a country boy like me feel very welcome.  They lived their motto - Serving I Live - words that they truly tried to live by.  Though they were a wide assortment of people with varying political and cultural backgrounds, this wove a tapestry that made them all the richer - the differing voices blended and rose the strain of “Serving I Live” - not a song, but a way of life, one that I could join, and never be off key.

 ”You are expected to be at the bonfire by 8:30pm.  Don’t be late.  This is a key part of the process.”  The student organizer for homecoming looked at us intently, and with much seriousness in her voice, knowing full well that the bulk of us wouldn’t be there anywhere close to that time.

I’ll admit, I wasn’t much of a bonfire guy.  Our idea of a bonfire on the farm was burning some piles of old hay, straw, and feed sacks or better yet - trying to blow up old kitchen appliances with the use of highly flammable liquids….

While it could very well make for a great spectator sport, it was not what was generally considered to be a good homecoming week festivity.

Being a “Homecoming King Candidate” for NDSU, complete with big green ribbon to remind everyone of that fact as we walked around campus (and we were scolded if someone from the organizing committee found us walking around campus without it), I was forced to get used to some of the timeless college traditions like bonfires, alumni gatherings, ice cream socials, and drinking heavily.

The bonfire kicked off sharply at 8:30, right as the sun set below the orange harvest skyline.  It was something to behold, a mass of timbers off next to the National Historic Site listed flax plots on the far west side of campus was stacked up high in a carefully engineered pyre.

Which was lit up and spewed embers into the night sky.  It was impressive.  In the back of my mind, I figured that the timbers were probably soaked in creosote…

Fraternities, sororities, and student groups competed in a challenge to sing a song or do a cheer.  Each fraternity was paired with a sorority, and my fraternity there on College Street was lucky to be paired up with one of the prettiest of the sororities on campus…but they didn’t help much with homecoming, so in their best down home homing coming spirit, the men composed a great song to the tune of Johnny Horton’s “Battle of New Orleans” that composed of fantastic lyrics telling the complex story of how our mighty Bison were going to go on to crush the lowly bears from Colorado the next day.

It was great, except much like the sage advice of never bring a knife to a gun fight…don’t bring a ballad to a cheer contest…

Needless to say, they didn’t win, but there was one in the homecoming court that cheered them to excess.  And he was the one sober.

After the cheering and singing, as the judges went to debate the merits of each rousing act, they introduced the homecoming court.

Now picture this if you will, a crowd of college students, in a death match to find out who won the song/cheer contest at homecoming, and the one thing standing between the rowdy contestants and results where ten seniors wearing big green ribbons….none-the-less, my fraternity brothers, and more than a fair share of the sorority girls let out a cheer as I walked over the rough field with the flames of the dying bonfire in the background.

Not much of a catwalk, but just right for a country boy like me.

I was a member of the speech team in high school.  When I joined our local Future Farmers of America chapter, I decided to merge the two interests by competing in the extemporaneous speaking contest.By competing in the contest, it would help to send me on to the Minnesota State FFA Convention the following spring.  But first, I had to win the regional competition held at the community college in Thief River Falls.

I had been told that it might be a long shot.  I was only a ninth grader and we had someone in our region that dominated the regional and had placed second in the state the prior year.  It was hard to compete with the experience.

The extemp speaking contest was a well run machine.  You walked into the room where about twenty topics were laying face down on a table.  There were about eight contestants, and every ten minutes, one of us drew a topic and then proceeded to research the topic we material we brought and prepare a five minute speech on the topic.

Waiting in the drawing room, I met my competition.  They were ruthless.  They leered down at me, a mere freshman.  The winner of last years competition came over to tell his tales of what it felt like to compete at state.  To tell me how well he did.  How well he expected to do this year.

With childlike innocents, I listened respectfully.  Not realizing that he was employing psychological mind games on me.

Looking around, it appeared that I was at a disadvantage.  Other contestants had boxes of material.  Binders filled with material pre-researched.

I had about three copies of AgWeek that I’d swiped from Dad’s magazine rack.  Though my pre-research was reading them cover to cover each week when they arrived.

I drew a topic on international trade and its impact on agriculture…

BINGO!  I loved this topic.  It was a dream topic for me.  As a freshman in high school, I was already an ardent free trader, and willing to debate it with anyone!  My first good break for the day.

For the next thirty minutes, I prepared my speech, then walking into a class room, I delivered it to three judges - and went just to five minutes.  Then, under the rules, they were allowed to ask me questions for five minutes.

They grilled me.  I answered their questions, but while some of the questions were in line with the speech…others made me wonder if they judges had been listening at all…

My FFA advisor and mentor, Mr. Erickson met me about thirty minutes after the contest.

“How did it go?” He asked.

“Not really well.”  I answered.

“Well, it is your first year - hopefully you did your best and we’ll see what happens.” He replied.

Before the awards ceremony, I ran into him again…he was acting pretty funny.  When the awards were announced, I figured out why - I had won.

I ran into the student that had won the prior year and his advisor in the hallway, they didn’t seem happy.

To hear Mr. Erickson tell it, it was a brutal experience.  “They are pissed off!”  Mr. Erickson said with glee in his voice.  “They think he was robbed!  Beginners luck they called it!”

I had to laugh with him.  And we were both laughing when I went on to get second place at state the next spring.

“They aren’t calling it beginners luck any more!”  Mr. Erickson said proudly.

 It was a bit of history really, something that hadn’t happened in decades.  And I was there.

North Dakota State University had a proud football tradition as the might Bison played their way to NCAA Division II championships throughout their history.  Some decades were better than others, but overall it had a history in Division II.

In a controversial move, the Bison decided to make the move one division up from Division II to Division I-AA, leaving their long running partners behind.

The newspapers called it a folly.  Some of the other universities followed, most chided them and called them fools.

But it lead to this day, this one day in history…when the might Bison would square off against the much bigger, much stronger, University of Minnesota Golden Gophers.

To Bison fans, who saw our first game against a larger rival - the Division I-AA national champion University of Montana end in a hard fought victory - we believed.  We knew that at a minimum we could play with them.

The Gopher fans called us nuts.  Famed and infamous Star Tribune sports commentator Sid Hartman called it a farce.  There was a reason that the University of Minnesota was paying us $400,000 to come down and play - because they knew it would be an easy victory.  It was a scrimmage.

They should have told that to the Thundering Herd of fans that made the trek down to the Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome to watch the game.  A crowd of Bison supporters that some estimates had as high as fifty thousand in the seventy thousand seat stadium.

The Gopher fans were out-numbered and out shouted by a span of over two to one.  It was a sea of Bison green and gold versus the maroon and gold of the Gophers.  With a good cadre of my fraternity brothers, we tailgated in the designated area, overflowing with exuberate Bison fans, we made our way to our seats.

And as the game wore on, it was clear that the Bison were not just keeping up, but were winning on the ground.  And the fans…well, the fans muted the mighty Gopher band!  Every time they started to play, a mighty cry went up from the Bison fans - drowning out any noise that the band could muster.

The Bison had the home field advantage.

In the end, the Gophers won, but it was a demoralizing victory for the Gophers…and a powerful win for the Bison, coming down and playing a Big 10 team to a near stalemate.  And getting paid $400,000 in the process.

After the game, a group of about twenty of us made our way to a classic German Restaurant/Beer Hall in North Minneapolis, and over a sauerbraten, spatzel, and meterbrats, we toasted our Might Bison.

As we drank our beers and ate our food, a wondering minstrel with an accordion wandered by.  Playing a few favorites, he asked if there were any requests…I slipped the man a $20, and soon we heard the bars to “Oh My Darling” and with one accord, the twenty Bison fans at our table sang with all their might:

On the plains of North Dakota
Standing there for all to see,
Is an old abandoned outhouse
And they call it UND

Hail the Bison, Hail the Bison
With their tails up in the air
University, University
You can kiss what’s under there!

I think it brought a tear to the old accordion players eyes, we sang with such gusto, such spirit, as a polka has never been played before.  We received a rousing round of applause from the neighboring tables, and even a fair number of standing ovations.

It was, as I fondly call them, a Bison moment.