­­­­­­The Game

🐖    Pigs and Pigskin, A Family Retrospective   🏈

            You may think The Game refers to Michigan-Ohio State or USC-UCLA or even Harvard-Yale. Not in our clan. When we became the family outcasts and moved to Iowa, The Game occurred when Iowa and Michigan played football, but it didn't happen in Michigan or Kinnick Stadium. No, the real game took place off the field. Unlike many family traditions, I can pinpoint the perp, the day, and the venue when this one began.

            The perp was my brother-in-law, Mike, a quiet man and not known as a trickster or instigator. Heaven knows we have many other candidates for those positions in our family. The day was a September football Saturday in the early ‘70s. The venue was Gianettis Hole-in-the-Wall in Northville, Michigan, not far from Ann Arbor. After Michigan once again trounced Iowa, about 25 extended family members gathered at Mike’s favorite restaurant. It was a big, family-style Italian place. You didn’t order food there; they just brought it when they were good and ready. Served the whole place at once. They brought what they wanted you to eat and in large quantities. The Gianetti family members were servers, and they were loud. They slammed big platters of gooey Italian food on the tables, and they sang and yelled smart-ass comments to one another. After dinner, one of them took a mic, and the rowdy crowd quieted down.

            “Anyone go to that game over in Ann Arbor today?” he asked. Our table raised hands and cheered.

            “How’d that turn out?” he asked. Some of us cheered; some of us whimpered.

            “Anyone here from Ioway?” he asked. A fifth of our table reluctantly raised our hands.

            “Okay, boys,” he yelled to his staff, “you can take the silverware off those tables.” He then proceeded to malign us in a hilarious routine. Since he had been informed there was an actual Iowa professor at the table, Bruce became his special target for the rest of the evening.

That was a fun and unexpected event. All weekend, Mike looked permanently satisfied. I am sure the phrase “can of worms” (or “Pandora’s Box”) never crossed his mind, but it should have. My family does not go quietly into that good night, and it certainly does not go quietly into the kind of night when one is pranked.

Each year, 3 generations of Gilberts and their unfortunate, innocent relatives caravanned to Iowa City or to Ann Arbor for The Game. These were the years of Hayden Fry and Bo Schembechler. Naturally, a humongous, gaudy plaster pig named BoFry became the loser’s trophy. We painted the years and the scores on his side. The losers had to house the monstrosity, which took up half a back seat. Mike’s little surprise caught on, persisted, and grew. Inexplicably, the victims of these intensifying pranks became brothers-in-law, Mike and Bruce. Maybe that was just safer than irritating a Gilbert.

Ever seen the endless airplanes circling Michigan Stadium pulling ads and political banners? Ever see one pulling a disparaging message with your name? Round and round and round?

No way in my family does that call for an equal and appropriate response; it calls for something more akin to scorched earth. So, the next year, off I went to a West Branch, Iowa farm where a confused farmer rented me a young pig, about the size of a Cocker Spaniel. I got to choose from about 5,000 of Iowa’s finest, as this was a huge confinement. I needed to sequester him until game time, so one of Bruce’s colleagues volunteered. She took him home, gave him a bubble bath, and made him a nice warm bed.

Next day was a beautiful fall day, a great day for our tailgate picnic along the Iowa River. About halfway through, we heard an odd commotion in the crowd of tailgaters, a kind of squealing and crowd murmuring sound. It was getting louder. Then, as planned, out of the crowd came said colleague carrying said pig. He was wrapped in a baby receiving blanket.

“You Mike?” she asked as she approached him. He nodded. “Well, this is your pig.” And she placed the sparkling clean little guy in Mike’s arms. Surrounding Michigan and Iowa fans cheered and clapped. The li’l pig continued to squeal, probably because everyone was toasting him with brats. Mike suddenly pushed the animal out to arm’s length, and it dropped a large piggy puddle at his feet. On his feet. Another cheer from the crowd. Aunt Ellie fell laughing onto the tailgate full of potato salad and pickles. Photos were taken and the pig went back to bed for the game. That evening, as the pig was being lavished with affection by nieces and nephews in my basement, Mike and my sister had an extended discussion about the pig’s future. Mike had become attached. Since the little fella could grow to 800 lbs., my sister thought Iowa might be a good venue. I was helpful by explaining it was actually just a rental pig. My sister smiled. What are sisters for, really? “Well, not really a rental,” I explained.” “I did buy him."  Now, Mike smiled. Again, what are sisters for? ( I didn't mention that the farmer had agreed to take the pig back if Mike didn't want him permanently.) Deep down inside, Uncle Mike knew Babe was going back home to West Branch, just like Herbert Hoover. He, pigless, was going back to his bacon-eating life in Michigan. I always pictured that little pig walking back into the barn, shaking his little piggy head, and saying, “You guys won’t believe what happened to me this weekend.”

And so, it went on for a couple of decades. We had a nice post-game dinner at The Ronnenburg restaurant in Amana, Iowa, with a large man in lederhosen playing the zither in the corner. A family restaurant. I was so surprised they agreed to my request. As dessert arrived, a door opened nearby and a beautiful girl emerged and slithered over to Mike. He turned the color of his strawberry-rhubarb pie. She was a belly dancer, not a cheesy belly dancer but a professional and an expert, a professor of the history of dance. She was however, not dressed like a professor. No, she wore the traditional veils and sparkles and well-placed swatches of gauze. It was black and gold gauze with Hawkeye touches here and there. She danced right in Mike’s face, draping veils around his head. The zither player froze mid-stroke. I have photos with other diners in the background, forks held aloft and mouths agape. Son Jake slid under the table in embarrassment, and Aunt Ellie did another laughing face plant, this time into the sauerbraten.

As elders were lost and a few members moved or lost interest in football, some games went by without fear and mayhem. The tradition quietly ended. And so it should be. If that trajectory had continued, it’s hard to imagine what might have been required to up the ante every year. But, weren’t we lucky to have those days? And those resilient brothers-in-law who graciously accepted their fates? Graciousness sounds nice, but personally I think they had a deep-seated fear of what might have happened if the Gilberts had turned upon one another instead of them. Because of their sacrifice, after The Game this October 5^th, we shall toast them, and not burn one another. To the Brothers-in Law!