An Ode to the Hoosier Spirit

A lyrical essay on memory, fandom, and endurance.

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Oh, Bobby, how I wish you would’ve witnessed it last night, pal.
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The clock struck midnight as crimson-and-cream confetti fell onto the field. Yeah, it looked beautiful. It felt as if a sea of happiness had burst across the sky, reminding us, finally, that we’d been victorious.
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We Are the Champions played, as Freddie Mercury made sure champagne bubbles were properly serenaded across the state.
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Oh, Bobby, it was simply magical. It reminded me of your ’76 team.
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We won it all too. You know? Sixteen wins. Zero losses. And a warmth spread through the frozen heart of Indiana on January 19, 2026. The kids did it all. They even won our first outright Big Ten championship since 1945. Yes, they did.
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Of course, Bobby, you heard right! IU won its first national championship in football.
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Why shouldn’t I come out and tell them? Don’t you think they ought to know who I am? They’ve seen flashes of me at least five times in basketball. Why would they think I can’t do the same in football?
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This is not a story about Queen or even what we witnessed Monday night. This is a tale about not losing faith and persevering. It’s a warning about never quitting, even if you fail seven hundred and fourteen times.
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Wait, what? You think I should start at the beginning? Like, way, way back?
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Oh, Bobby, no one cares about how we started more than a century ago, in 1885. No, they don’t, sir.
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Yes, they’ll reckon I shouldn’t be alive, because dead things, like terrible memories, often last longer than life itself.
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No, Bobby, they don’t believe spirits persist. Now it’s all about “vibes,” something they call TikTok that’s not a clock, and social media. No one believes something can exist longer than the body is supposed to, rotting on schedule, while its soul waits patiently for a miracle.
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Sure, I’m certain they’ve heard of Dante’s purgatory, but we aren’t particularly near the nine circles of hell, and heaven isn’t a place all of them believe in either. After all, I’ve been written off, buried, and declared finished for decades. And yet, I’m still here.
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But what if I tell you that last night, I helped the Hoosiers capture the championship? Do you think they’ll believe in me then? What if either of us, and whatever else was present, is more than a harbinger of bad omens and instead a generator of joy?
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Of course, Bobby, there are people who say all spirits apart from angels are demons, evil ghosts meant to spook, like Stephen King’s poltergeists. Very few of us are stuck in one place long enough to suffer, and even fewer survive long enough to remember what victory feels like.
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Fine. I’ll tell them.

They’ll learn I became a spirit quite young. I was the farmer who dreamed of glory, the son who never missed church. Some say I’m the young man who went to war and never returned from Normandy but now rests in Monument Circle. I’m the nurse who remembers every class she took, the mother who once dropped her freshman daughter at the dorms when she turned eighteen. I wasn’t reborn as them, but I wore them. And regardless of who I was last, I always remained the same. From the first game until last night, regardless of the outcome, I showed up.
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Oh, Bobby, they don’t care what position I played. Whether my jersey showed a 0 or a 67. I was none of them and all of them at once. Over the last one hundred forty years, I’ve learned almost everything, from jumping into the air for a catch to tackling a runner. But more importantly, I learned how to stay quiet instead of angry, humble, and always hungry.
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It wasn’t all that bad. And for thirty-eight seasons, we finished as winners. We had that long stretch with Coach Mallory. Do you remember? Those were spectacular days.
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I know, Bobby, none of this would’ve happened without Coach Cignetti. Within two years, he changed everything. During his first season, people traveled from everywhere again, and we filled The Rock for every home game. Ultimately, our dreams ended at Notre Dame. It was brutal, but we learned from our mistakes.
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And then came the season. The one with confetti and champagne baths. We raised the Big Ten trophy again by beating Ohio State in Indianapolis, the number one team at the time. What a cruel joke it would’ve been to lose the next game. But the kids didn’t fold. They kept grinding. They got better.
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Soon after, our QB, Fernando Mendoza, became our first Heisman winner. Did you hear that, Bobby? A two-star prospect no one saw coming was now a potential number-one draft pick. Hard work and belief carry you further than complacency ever will.
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No, Bobby, I was just dormant, like a volcano waiting to erupt. I didn’t need an earthquake to wake me. Belonging did that. The roar of every Hoosier carried me. At first, no one believed except me. But we brushed off the doubts and ignored them when they called us a basketball school or a fluke.
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And we quieted all the doubters. Alabama. Oregon. Game after game, we delivered—not just better rankings, but better football. And the kids weren’t alone. I was haunting them.
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Oh, Bobby, of course it was me who ignited them. With every snap, I swapped in. I felt their hunger. Sacks, fumbles, tackles, blocked punts. I just used my old tools. Smith. Ponds. Black. Sarratt. Hemby. Cooper Jr. Kamara. Each name stitched into victory. The more we played, the more we proved ourselves.
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The doubters didn’t think a spirit could change history. Coach Cignetti didn’t care. He showed the world we belonged, and more importantly, that we weren’t afraid.
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The championship game was fearless. I was everywhere. Inside Kamara blocking the punt. Assisting Becker’s back-shoulder catch. Urging Fernando to fly toward the goal line without hesitation. Pressure mounted, and we answered.
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Oh, Bobby, of course they didn’t believe in us. They didn’t when you won it all three times, either.
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You see, people don’t believe in me because I shouldn’t exist. They don’t believe in me because of our previous failures. But I’m no longer a farmer or a nurse or a fallen soldier or a freshman daughter. I’m no longer waiting to wake up. No horn is coming for me. I’m wide awake. I’ve waited too long for this, to live my values visibly through those who represent me.
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For I’m not a spirit of madness, nor an impossible thing. I’m just you. The fan who watched their team raise a national championship trophy last night. The one who will forever remember calling their team an undefeated champion, at least once, for the rest of eternity.
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Yes, Bobby, they know you loved them too. Don’t worry, your place in their hearts will never fade. Rest in peace, pal. I’ll stay here forever, reminding them I was never dead.

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“Hoo-Hoo-Hoosiers!”

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This article will be published in the March 2026 issue of Stroll Holliday Farms.