“It just means more.”
Sure, the SEC has coined that phrase as its slogan. Sure, the environments of SEC showdowns are unmatched. But in Winston-Salem, it really does just mean more.
I listened to the entirety of Wake at No. 16 Louisville on the radio, enjoying Stan Cotten—in his 30th season as the voice of the Deacs—and Larry Sorenson making horse jokes and giggling as they called what became the Demon Deacons’ massive 30–27 upset.
Going into the game, I held hope that we could win, albeit slight. As the game wore on, I began thinking, “Could we really pull this off?” And, in typical Wake Forest fashion, it came down to a single play.
I was elated, punching the air, not really knowing what to do with my body or voice. I was in my apartment, so it didn’t feel quite appropriate to jump up and down and scream, but that’s what I wanted to do. However, there was one thing I was certain of: I was grabbing a roll of toilet paper and heading straight toward the Quad.
I must admit, yesterday was the first time I had ever rolled the Quad. And frankly, I was nervous, thinking, “Are we actually allowed to do this? Do I really just throw toilet paper into the trees?”
Once I left my apartment, I saw hordes of students armed with TP, their sights set on Mother So Dear. That was when I fell right back into the jubilation of it all.
The bell tower began playing the fight song and alma mater. Mix that with the buzz and chatter of happy students and alumni, and you get what I feel is the encapsulation of college. I shared the Quad with mostly strangers, yet we were all there together—taking pictures, wandering around, playing like little kids, and just enjoying the fleeting bliss.
I ran into some friends, and we discussed the win, stress, and all. We began debriefing what the rest of the season’s schedule entails and how the Deacs stack up. We came to the logical conclusion that running the table, finishing 11–1, and punching our ticket to the ACC Championship is the most likely outcome.
And, until it gets disproven, who can tell us we’re wrong?
That’s the joy of Wake Forest. We’re the smallest Power Four school in the country, yet we can get No. 5 Miami against the ropes and take down red-hot No. 16 Louisville on the road. No one expects it, except us. And when it happens, we revel in the glory, romanticizing the what-could-be.
This is likely to end, as all things must. Maybe our dreams of 11–1 survive another week; maybe they don’t. That’s college football.
But for a little while Saturday, I went from listening to the radio alone in my apartment to standing among hundreds of people rolling the Quad, all of us believing in the same ridiculous possibilities.
At Wake Forest, it just means more.
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