Clemson is playing for the national championship.
I never thought I’d write those words. I still don’t know how it happened, even days later. It wasn’t possible. Big games only came around when a really good team played Clemson. Clemson was never that game people circled on the calendar.
I wrote about all of that a couple of months ago. I still feel that way. I had several “I don’t believe this really happening” conversations with Clemson fans and employees in Miami prior to the game, people who have given a great deal to the program fully aware the 1981 season might go down as a historical fluke.
As someone who has been a Clemson fan way longer than I’ve been a media member, it was hard not to get emotional prior to Wednesday’s game. Hey, if Jeff Scott can do it, I give myself a pass.
Probably the coolest thing that’s ever happened during a broadcast came about when the band played “Tiger Rag” during a segment of the Tiger Tailgate Show and more than 2,000 Clemson fans cheered and chanted. David Stein and I just stopped talking and let the moment happen as our microphones captured the scene.
It gave me goosebumps. It was pure, raw emotion. I never thought I’d see that—not before a game that big, not with that many fans 1,000 miles away.
I continued to relish the moment all the way through pregame. When the Tigers entered the field for warm-ups, I was on the sideline. It felt just like a home game—much like other big games like Notre Dame and Florida State this season. The stadium was covered in orange, even at a neutral site, and I thought—once again—about how this was never supposed to happen and I never thought I’d be blessed enough to witness Clemson playing in a game of such magnitude.
Then the game started, and everything changed.
See, one of the most fun things about this storybook season for Clemson has been feeling like it was both improbable and inevitable at the same time. If that sounds confusing to you, join the club.
The two descriptors make an odd couple, but the season has unfolded in a way that includes both of them. As Clemson has inched closer to perfection, the run-up to each game—even as far back as Notre Dame—has been surreal. Feelings of doubt, angst, and uncertainty permeated the fan base and the national conversation. The stage has been massive. The moment has been indescribably huge. The stakes have been as high as ever before.
Even the most fervent Clemson supporters knew the probability of the Tigers doing exactly what they did was low. No, low isn’t strong enough—try microscopic.
But once the ball kicked off, the improbability gave way to the inevitability of a Clemson win. It happened against Notre Dame, even when a two-point conversion threatened to derail everything. It happened against Florida State, even when Dalvin Cook started fast. Same with North Carolina and that onside kick.
And the exact same thing took hold once Clemson and Oklahoma began to square off in the Capital One Orange Bowl. The Tigers trailed at halftime, but Deshaun Watson was going to get better and Baker Mayfield was going to get worse. It just seemed so obvious. Every Clemson rep or media type I spoke with at halftime said the same thing—they’re fine.
Not only did Clemson eventually win, it absolutely eviscerated Oklahoma after halftime. Every relevant backfield player for the Sooners was hurt at some point as Clemson imposed its will on both lines of scrimmage and quickly turned that slight halftime deficit into a convincing rout.
The victory was so thoroughly dominant that the improbability of winning that game never crossed my mind. Even as the Tigers went into kneel-down mode with what seemed like half-a-quarter left to play, it had been conclusively proven who the better team was.
Forget the novelty of the season. It was ho-hum.
Then the novelty came back, when Dabo Swinney jumped on stage to accept the Orange Bowl trophy in front of a crowd that probably could have filled Death Valley’s lower bowl, if not a little bit more. It came back when jubilant players, coaches, and staffers came into the tunnel hugging and high-fiving everything in sight.
Somehow, the seamless transition from one to another seemed natural. It seemed easy. It seemed familiar. It seemed like something we’ve all been doing, week after week after week.
It’ll happen again. The Tiger Tailgate Show on January 11th from Glendale will bring that emotion back, and I’ll have to rein it in. The pregame scene on the field will be electric, and I’ll wonder why God showers us with such undeserved favor. I’ll think back to 1998, to devastating losses, to elite teams coming to Clemson wearing different uniforms, and I won’t know how to handle it.
Then the game will start, and we’ll sit back and watch the Tigers play like an elite team—just like always. It’s inevitable.
Seriously, how cool is this?
God Bless!
WQ