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We've all heard the expressed incredulity toward the insular allegiance of fans of Marshall football. I would imagine that this sentiment comes natural from the lofty vantage of a national perspective. After all they say, what is so special about Marshall University and its football program? Nestled along the banks of the Ohio River, the community still wears the rust of a city that has passed its prime. More than a century has buried the prominent position it once held as the western terminus for the Chesapeake and Ohio Railroad. Like a sullen reminder, the university still sits within the skeletal shadows of the industrial remains that stand as monuments to a better day.

A few hours' drive in any direction will bring you to the doorsteps of more elevated and storied programs whose following far exceeds ours in numbers and distinction. But where the height of national perception lends a higher visibility, it blinds it from the intimate details that can only be seen from a less elevated position. This is where our story takes place.

Every November on the 14th day the water that springs from the Memorial Fountain and trickles down its twisted spires comes to a halt. As art imitates life, the story told within the symbolism of this event speaks to the core of what makes Marshall football so special. It has been over four decades since the course of our history was changed forever. As love can't exist without hate and good without evil, from the tragic loss of life on that cold and rainy night was the birth of a spirit that touches the souls of those who call Marshall their own.

What makes Marshall special isn't that they pulled themselves from the embers of this tragedy and elevated themselves from the most prolific losers to winning more games than anyone in college football in the final decade of the century. No…that is only the byproduct of the real story. The real story is that when the cold reality of life deals an unfair hand, we can choose to fold or we can choose to play. We chose to play.

I don't mean to use the term "we" in an egocentric manner to make myself a part of the narrative. I was merely a child observing this event through the filter of youth. It was later when I become a student at Marshall that I, like many others, came to realize how the spirit of those 75 left such an indelible and lasting impression on this university and on this community. This isn't a story that will die along with those who lived through the event. This is a story that will continue through the generations. Take the time to talk to the players and students who weren't born when these events unfolded. They will tell you they too understand that Marshall football is about more than a game.

So in that vein the young men who died that November night achieved immortality. You can feel their presence when we are losing, reminding us that not all is lost if we continue to fight. And when we hit the pinnacles once believed impossible in the wake of the tragedy, their presence can be felt in our elation and can be felt in our tears.

Nearby on a hill, overlooking our present field of dreams stands a marker that memorializes the lives of those who died so many years ago. Under that marker lays some of their physical remains. What you won't find buried there is their spirit. That spirit refused to die. That spirit lives on within the souls of those who call Marshall their own. When the wind blows softly through the trees that line the outskirts of the cemetery, if you listen closely, you can almost hear their voices. Standing vigil over the community that will never forget, they wait to fill the souls of the next generation of Marshall faithful.