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JD's Journal: The Destination Is The Journey
Former Messiah greats Josh Mull (gray shirt), Brett Faro (center) and JD Binger (far right) were among those in the Blossom Athletic Center stands last week. How they got there, however, was the real story.
Editor’s Note: This year at the NCAA Division III Men’s and Women’s Soccer National Championships, former Messiah men’s soccer great and 2008 NSCAA National Player of the Year JD Binger approached me. “I want to write a column about our trip to San Antonio,” he said. After listening to some of his stories — and realizing the opportunity to let someone else do my work — I agreed. The following is a hiatus from ‘Furm’s Take’ and a submersion into ‘JD’s Journal.’ We hope you enjoy. - Furm Somewhere Between Grantham, PA and San Antonio, TX — It was a familiar question, one every Messiah soccer fan has faced for 10 of the last 11 years: Do I, or don’t I, go to the ‘Final Four?’ I wanted to make the trip this year, but the fact that San Antonio would be hosting again complicated a simple decision. The financials weren’t working out. It seemed like a MasterCard commercial taking a turn for the worse: Airline Ticket: $300 I was ready to pass up this opportunity that comes only once every fall, and it was killing me to do it. Then I half-jokingly said to a couple friends that we should make it a road trip. I didn’t even get a patronizing smile. They said it was crazy. They said it was too far. They said it couldn’t be done. People said the same thing about going to the moon. As the ‘Final Four’ approached, and plane ticket costs continued rising, the idea gained traction. One by one, the pieces came together. Before we knew it, our flight crew of four was assembled. Jevon Gondwe — Entertainment Specialist. He brought an entire backpack filled with DVDs, a laptop, additional DVDs in another bag, his iPhone 4, and a tangle of cords that converted or charged any device with an electric pulse. Josh Mull — Chief of Hibernation. He has the rare ability to go unconscious on command, wherever he is, for however long he wishes. He sets the standard for hours logged asleep in a traveling van. (Ironically, he brought the 24-pack of Red Bull.) Brett Faro — Hydration Expert. Knowing the demands of a long road trip, he stockpiled the perfect liquid replenishment: Mountain Dew. It’s full of everything a man needs to survive the rigors of the road: Caffeine, high fructose corn syrup, and Yellow #5. We may have had to refuel, but we never had to restock the Dew. JD Binger — Fuel Efficiency Advisor. Averaging a trip-high 23.6 miles per gallon, he was the leading man on getting the most bang for his buck from the gas station. The keys to his success included slow acceleration, never driving faster than 72, and drafting behind the semis like a much slower and safety-conscious Jeff Gordon. After we all committed to this journey, I still had to resolve the one minor issue of securing my parents’ van for the trip. What couldn’t they love about it? Four guys would drive five days across six states going somewhere around 72 m.p.h. to see Messiah win its eighth national championship. I was afraid they might give me the ol’ German nein but after 10 minutes to think it over, they generously said yes. What could go wrong? Believe it or not, something went wrong as soon as possible. Jevon, Josh and I departed the Mull’s residence Wednesday around 6:30 p.m. to rendezvous with Brett Faro in Maryland at Nick Blossey’s apartment. Jevon did an awesome job of making a couple loafs of sandwiches beforehand so we’d have some snacks for the road. However, after we got a call several minutes down the road, we found out he did a terrible job of remembering to pack those sandwiches. It would become a theme of the trip for someone to ask him for a PBJ, only to stop midsentence, painfully recall that they were still sitting on the Mull’s kitchen counter, then turn away. After we met up with Brett Faro, we hung out for a few minutes with the legend formally known as Nick Blossey, now known in the States simply as 3-for-3, or in China as the Great Wall, or in Russia as the Iron Curtain, or in France as Nick Blossey because they don’t have a word for something awesome that repulses an attack. But the time came to shove off, so after we swung around his authentic Samurai sword, we bid him farewell and began the trip in earnest. It’s odd the feeling you have at the onset of a journey of such magnitude. What’s it like to spend over 20 hours in a van? We were about to find out. We started the mission on the right foot by rocking out to DJ Khaled’s (clean version of) All I Do Is Win, which instantly became the trip anthem. We devised a two-man system to promote the safest travel possible: The pilot and co-pilot would keep each other awake and alert in the front, while in the back, we had formed a nest-like bed of cushions, blankets, coats and pillows where two people could lay out and sleep comfortably. Armed with sunflower seeds, Red Bull and cheap Wegman’s cream soda, Jevon and I took the first shift. Mully wasted little time in acclimating to his padded, nocturnal environment. Faro stirred around, sipping secretly on his nightcap of Dew. An hour or two before sunrise, Jevon and I rotated to the back. I was tired and it was lights out for me. I remember waking up in Virginia, and in Tennessee, then Arkansas and then finally in Texas. Through a heavy fog of sleep, I remember Brett and Josh yelling, “Trucks!” over and over again. It soon became a byword summoned in anger. For that pair of drivers whose primary concern was how fast they could gobble up the interstate, trucks in the left lane passing other trucks was a curse. It was like watching two giant inchworms race, one imperceptibly slower than the other. Nonetheless, they did a great job of lowering the ETA that our Garmin was projecting. It was rumored they reached triple-digit speeds, but there’s no hard evidence like video footage to support that claim … To make it through the day, Faro hooked up an IV to pump Dew and Red Bull into his system at a steady rate. I used to worry that his drinking would lead one day to a lethal toxicity level but if it hasn’t happened yet, I don’t think it ever will. By Thursday evening, we were pulling into (Josh’s brother) Brian Mull’s driveway near Forth Worth. He let us crash, or rather, sleep at his house that night. Soon after arrival, Brett left to have dinner with his Aunt. The rest of us seized the opportunity to stretch our legs and juggled a soccer ball outside for an hour. Temps were in the mid-70’s and it was sunny and we weren’t sitting inside. At night’s end, we found ourselves at a B-Dubs (Buffalo Wild Wings) watching the Eagles play the Texans on seven of the 50 flat-screens there. On another seven we watched thousands of venomous Cleveland fans spitting spite and hate at LeBron James. Faro joined up with us eventually, after going on a wild goose chase to all the B-Dubs in the greater Fort Worth area before finding us. Early the next morning, we cast off en route to San Antonio, another 4.5 hours south. After the distance we had covered during the previous voyage, this little stint seemed like a trip to the corner drugstore. As we made our way into Blossom Stadium, we rolled down the windows, opened the sunroof, and blasted some DJ Khaled. When we parked, I felt like Neil Armstrong touching down on the lunar surface: Man or mankind, that was one giant leap of a drive. The boys played first and we applauded them as their vans made their way across the parking lot over to the trailers. The minutes ticked by slowly to the opening whistle. We couldn’t have been more excited to see the game. And it didn’t disappoint. The boys made quick work of ‘Final Four’ newcomer Wisconsin-Oshkosh, dispatching them by a score of 4-1, though, the game was much closer than the score line showed. We cheered and jeered until our voices grew hoarse. It was only the first game, though, and we knew we had to pace ourselves. After the game, friends and family of Messiah poured out of the stadium and into the back corner of the parking lot where a feast was waiting for us. I don’t know his name, though he’s a hero to me now, but a man cooked an incredible spread for everyone: Brisket, potato salad, sausages, desserts and more. I ate like a king. My stomach had that uncomfortable ache when I finished, the signal that I consumed way, way more than I needed — the perfect amount! At halftime of the second men’s game, we found ourselves on the game field. Somehow Jevon had come into contact with the man running the halftime entertainment. One of two youth teams supposed to play didn’t show up, so a few Messiah fans stepped onto the pitch. I’m sure that’s what everybody wanted to see, more Messiah people playing on the field. Regardless, the alumni felt at home playing again at a ‘Final Four.’ Before the ladies played, we checked into our hotel that Brett had booked through Priceline for $75. He said it was a nice hotel along the River Walk. Yeah, the Westin is pretty nice. We got that impression from the people who opened the doors for us, the indoor/outdoor lounge spaces, the free cookies and apple cider, the live music and the shower with dual-shower heads. Oh, and the fact that everyone else paid $300 to spend the night there. Later we returned to Blossom Stadium to catch the second half of the Otterbein women playing Hardin-Simmons. Sitting on the periphery of the Otterbein fan section, we actually started a few “Let’s Go Red” and “Let’s Go Cardinals, Let’s Go” cheers. After that game, we watched our ladies score four against William Smith to secure a place in the finals. During halftime, we put together another pickup game. This time, however, we played off the field. Surrounded by fence on three sides in a patch of grass beside the stadium, we tipped over two chairs as makeshift goals. The good guys won, defeating Kai Kasiguran’s team by a narrow margin. That night we met up with the Mustache of Myth, the Little General, Navy Davy himself, Coach Dave Brandt. The four of us shared a table with him and his son at a great restaurant along the River Walk called the Republic of Texas. We relived some nostalgic memories, swapped stories and shared in some good-ole-fashioned fellowship. The night ended when he told us, as if we were breaking curfew, that it was late and we had to go to bed. Naturally, we listened. The next day, we checked out of our fancy hotel, and strolled to Schilo’s Delicatessen for some cinnamon rolls before stopping by Starbucks. We were in too deep to deviate from our diet of caffeine and sugar. Withdrawal is real and we had a long day of cheering ahead of us, and an even longer night behind the wheel. Driving was the furthest thought on our mind, though, once the championship game began. I don’t think anybody was expecting the emotional thrill-ride that the boys’ game provided. I think we all planned on a win, but not the way it happened. When Lynchburg scored with only 15 minutes left in the game, it felt like they had swapped the script. There was a way things were to go and Lynchburg was doing improv. The more we worried, the louder we cheered. Once Danny Squire poked the equalizer in, though, we knew we were back on track. In every good story, you know how it has to end. It was a cliché, then, but a welcomed cliché when Geoff Pezon took the pass from Derek Black at half and stormed the length of the field. As his left foot crushed the ball, it was the exclamation point we’d seen cap so many games. Pezon scores! Messiah wins! Our voices afterward could little more than squeak. But we were soaring high. There wasn’t much time before the ladies played. We fueled ourselves with Icees and prepped for another raucous 90 minutes. Although stunned and dazed by the opening five minutes of the ladies game when they went down by two goals, we didn’t let our belief waiver. With the men’s team now bolstering our ranks, our singing cheers echoed over the field and throughout the whole complex. Despite anything we did, though, we simply couldn’t will the ladies to victory. When Messiah loses, it feels like a funeral, especially at the ‘Final Four.’ For the next hour, there were a lot of teary hugs and quiet words of affirmation. Regardless of what’s said, there’s no getting around the pain of coming so close only to see another team hoisting the trophy. That night, after a free dinner put on by Messiah for the teams, fans and family, we began the return trip. Mull and I kicked things off by covering the 11 p.m. to 6 a.m. shift. I knew it was time to switch drivers when I began hallucinating but I figured I could eke out a few more miles. As the predawn light stained the edge of the horizon, I pulled over to let Brett and Jevon take over. For the next four solid hours, we were buried in the back under a fort of blankets and pillows and didn’t stir. The length of the trek began weighing on us as daylight faded to darkness. When you’re in a vehicle for an entire night, then an entire day, and then a whole other night, things begin to happen. If you’re not careful, your mind can be taken hostage by a fierce and unpredictable sickness called Cabin Fever. Such was the case with us. The first sign of Cabin Fever is the disorientation of time. We couldn’t tell how long we had been in the car, nor how much longer remained. All the days melted into one congealed mass, a litany of light and dark, sleeping and waking, winning and losing, silence and screaming, Dews and PBJs — oops, I mean dried cereal. I feared that we had driven into the heartland’s equivalent of the Bermuda Triangle; instead of water, flatlands of corn surrounded us as far as the eye could see. We were lost in a world that doesn’t exist, where the rules of time and space change on the whimsy of the wind. That was just the beginning. The second sign of Cabin Fever is uncontrollable laughter. Jokes that are hardly funny receive extended bouts of hyena giggling. Next, the laughing sounds more like a mad scientist, then it stops completely. Irritability takes its place. For no reason, people fall into fits of yelling at one another or things they perceive as people. After that, violence ensues. Headlocks. Choking. Beating with pillows. It’s a firsthand account of the de-evolution of man into beast. At one point, three of us were wrestling in the back. I swear Jevon bared his teeth and growled at me. In its final stages, Cabin Fever leads to cannibalism. I’m not proud of it but I may have chomped on a few fingers in the scrum. Once Cabin Fever fully possesses you, you lose all reason. That’s when people get that crazy look in their eye and you never can tell what will happen next. “I would kill for unlimited soup and salad at Olive Garden right now!” “Ohh, that sounds so good.” “If we see one, we’re stopping.” With the help of our GPS, we drove seven miles out of the way to make a point of seeing one. Only under the influence of Cabin Fever can a crazy idea dig its roots so deep that they wrap around reality. Yet, if it wasn’t for that pit stop I doubt if any of us would have made it home sane, or even made it home at all. Considering ourselves lucky for surviving as long as we had, after dinner we filmed eulogies for each other in case something went wrong. We unearthed some little known tidbits of knowledge, such as the fact that Jevon was raised by a colony of safari animals, I eat children, berries and fairies to sustain my energy, Mull learned his skills of hibernation from the bears of Central Pennsylvania, and Faro still owes me $60. By the time we made it home, we had logged 50-plus hours of driving, covered nearly 3,500 miles, and did all that without any traffic citations. As we opened the doors, we realized some things had changed: The Texas sunshine had been smothered by a gang of Pennsylvania clouds, our beach weather had turned to snowman conditions, and we had all but run out of our Red Bull supply. As we stumbled inside the Mull’s home, though, and Josh walked straight into his bed, it was nice to know that some things stay the same. Faro will keep being addicted to Dew, and lamely will keep denying it. Trucks will keep passing trucks in the left lane no matter how much it kills the flow of traffic. And, national championships or not, Messiah will keep being the best place in the country to play soccer.
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