What if You Could Time Travel to Any Oregon Sports Event Ever?

Welcome to the Furlough Files. A Blog in the time of COVID-19. Now I have a time machine.

As sports quarantine twitter spirals further and further into despair, I’ve seen a lot of offseason-style hypotheticals thrown around.

All-decade teams; fan fictions about what the Final Four would’ve been like this past weekend; or the evergreen, “this day in sports history;” have always been—and will forever be—staples in the blogosphere. This current pandemic has just managed to give them a uniquely bright spotlight.

However, there is one question I saw circulating today that really got me thinking:

“If you could time travel to any Oregon athletics event, where would you go?”

As an unofficial historian of all things Oregon, this question immediately flooded the nostalgic regions of my brain. The things I could witness. The athletes that I have only ever existed in my head in black and white or sepia. The moments of unadulterated joy that I could return to.

I’m tearing up just thinking about it.

But if we are being honest, this would be a total nightmare scenario for me.

There are just way too many choices. Way too much pressure. I don’t want to be too obvious with my decision, and if I’m too obscure I’ll have to live the rest of my life knowing that I wasted my one chance to step into UO history.

If this choice ever truly presented itself to me, I would actually wish I cared just a little less about the Ducks. I would probablt just choose, “The Pick,” and never second guess myself.

But—as is the nature of my mind—I could never be satisified by any choice I make unless I know that considered every implication of every option.

The 2015 Rose Bowl over Florida State? No, I’d be sitting there knowing that Ezekiel Elliot is just on the horizon.

The 2017 Elite Eight over Kansas in Kansas City? I mean, I would love to watch disgruntled Jayhawk fans hang their heads as they file back out into the KC night, but again, I might find myself consumed with the knowledge that the Ducks don’t manage to make it past UNC just a week later.

Same goes for the 2019 Elite Eight over Mississippi State. Standing among the Portland crowd, witnessing the greatness of Sabrina and Ruthy again—knowing now what we will lose out on—in a incredible back-and-forth game, against a powerhouse of the sport, would be magical. And still, I would be haunted by the eventual loss to Kim Mulkey’s Baylor Bears.

Maybe these games are too recent. They were also all followed by crushing defeats. I have to think farther back, and more satisfying on their own.

My brother said that he’d go back to Aaron Brooks’ 2007 game-winner over Kevin Love’s second-ranked UCLA. The chance to storm Mac court would be reason enough to pick that.

Or further back, I could return 1974 McArthur Court to watch Ron Lee also topple the top-ranked Bruins. A team that featured none other than Bill Walton, and was coached by Cheatin’ John Wooden himself. This one makes the shortlist because it has the added benefit of getting to see what campus looked like back in the seventies firsthand.

But maybe I’m thinking too narrowly about the event. I haven’t even mentioned Steve Prefontaine yet. Which is crazy for me, I know.

I could stand in the formerly historic East Grandstand of the formerly Historic Hayward Field, and cheer Steve to one of his countless conference, collegiate, or American records.

But, realistically, this might be the most heartbreaking choice of them all.

Not only would this choice force me to watch Pre run with the full internal knowlegde of his legacy, but I would also be faced with the insane moral dilemma of whether or not I should do something to save his life.

If I had the chance to go back in time, to Pre’s final race on May 29, 1975, in Eugene, I would have to, right?

I’d have to find someway to interrupt the race and urge him to stay home that night? Or offer my services as the designated driver for the Oregon Track Club for the evening?

That’s way too much pressure for a fun little hypothetical. This was supposed to be a fun game.

Let’s just say that—for the sake of argument—that we have to eliminate any and all Prefontaine-related moments on account of tragedy and the butterfly effect.

Ok, now that we’ve ruled out the dark realities of time travel. What are we left with?

1939 basketball national championship. The first game at Autzen in 1969? Michigan in 2003? Oklahoma in 2006? Sabrina and Ruthy’s entire freshman tournament run?

Personally my mind originally went to the 2009 Civil War for the Roses since I can still feel middle-school-James’ desperate desire to be there on that very special Thursday night.

But wait, we’re talking about time travel here. I’ve spent so much time looking backwards, that I’ve ignored the single-largest swath of time: the future.

If I had the chance to tell a a time machine to take me to the next Oregon national championship—in any sport—wouldn’t I just do that?

If it weren’t for the virus of it all, that time machine wouldn’t have had to travel very far at all. It would’ve been just yesterday. Sabrina, Satou, Ruthy, Minyon, Erin, and every other hero on that team would’ve been soaking in green and yellow confetti up and down Bourbon Street. But alas, they’ll join Pre on a long list of University of Oregon “what ifs.”

If I kept fast-forwarding, it might just be just a few short years before I came upon a victorious Kelly Graves, Dana Altman, or Mario Cristobal.

But once again, what if I’m setting myself up for another nightmare scenario where I just keep seeing the clock count up, and up, and up. 2025, 2035, 2050, and on, and on. And still nothing?

Yeah. Don’t think I could handle that, either. I’d rather maintain every last drop of hopeful ignorance I have left in me. Every next year is will always be, our year.

From eventual heartbreaking losses, to the prospect of saving Steve Prefontaine’s life, this “fun quarantine hypothetical” became increasingly less and less fun the more I thought about it.

It’s probably best not to think much about it at all, right?

I guess I’ll just pick, “The Pick,” and be done with it.

Go Ducks.