Here Comes The Flood

I was getting ready to take a shower this morning and it was time to choose the music. I have one of those bluetooth speakers so nearly every shower gets some set-the-tone-for-the-day music. Here's how I eventually landed on the tone-setter today:

I had seen one of those 80's nostalgia reels this morning. It was just one of those videos that puts a bunch of clips from 80's movies together with the opening to Madonna's "Live To Tell" playing in the background which transports someone like me – someone who went from age 7 to age 17 during the 80's – all the way back. I was so ready to call my friend Jared to see if he wants to ride our bikes up to the Icee stand.

While I was shaving, I pulled up Live To Tell. When I opened the song on Apple Music it was part of some playlist of songs from 1986. The next song the playlist was Peter Gabriel's "Sledgehammer", that made me think of the Peter Gabriel greatest hits album that I had on CD, and that made me think of the song Here Comes The Flood. I immediately pulled up that album.

My tone-setter in the shower this morning? Here Comes The Flood.

After two listens – after being transported back to some warm summer night at the lake in 1992 when I was listening to that song on repeat and wondering what my life would be – I finally had the framework to write a post I've been considering for months. This might take a bit so... stay with me.

I still think about the Michigan game all the time. I said after the season that both the 2024 Michigan game and the 2024 Citrus Bowl immediately jumped into my top five Illini football games of all time. And that remains 100% true. The Citrus Bowl exorcised bowl demons; the Michigan game exorcised Michigan demons.

And the Michigan game stays on my mind because of the entire day, sun up to sun down. The 100 year anniversary of the Red Grange Game combined with a perfect 72-degree day without a cloud in the sky combined with a sellout crowd that brought tears to my eyes at the time. When I say "without a cloud in the sky"...

...I mean "without a cloud in the sky."

The moment I think about the most was right at the end of the day. This was the first tailgate where all six guys who invested in the fire truck were there for the same game. So once I got back to the fire truck after doing postgame stuff, during the perfect orange and blue sunset, we lit the I (it's only lit when the Illini win) and then started an I-L-L chant as our I-lighting music (Also Sprach Zarathustra by Richard Strauss, of course) played in the background.

This right here is the moment I think about:

Yes, we have smoke machines. Yes, we are dramatic.

It will be hard to top that moment in the next 30 years. That might seem like a silly statement to fans of other Big Ten teams - it was just a midseason win over a Michigan team that went 8-5 – but I think most Illini fans understand. Those of us who were there for Illini football in the 1990's, 2000's, and 2010's fully understand the payoff of that moment.

That's because those of us who were there in the 1990's, 2000's, and 2010's fully understand how quickly it can go away. Which is why all of us – every single one of us – has been dealing with the same emotion all summer. "There are expectations now. What if it doesn't happen?"

Enter the song... Here Comes The Flood.

Peter Gabriel wrote the song about a mental flood, not an actual flood. Those scary nights when it all seems like too much. I've read before that the opening line of the song – "when the night shows, the signals grow on radios" – was what got him thinking about the song. Just like the reach of a radio station's tower gets larger after the sun goes down, the reach of our own thoughts/fears seems to grow at night.

I know that's true for me. One of my sons taking a long drive during the day? I'm sure he'll be fine. Wake up at 2:30 am with the thought that one of my kids might not be safe? The flood of thoughts can overwhelm. I sometimes feel helpless to prevent any of them.

And it doesn't just have to be parenting. 2:30 pm? Things seem to be going well with your new manager at work - you're hopeful. 2:30 am? What if you'll never see eye to eye with this manager and switching departments right now stunts your career growth by 5+ years?

The lesson of the song Here Comes The Flood – and this is my interpretation, not some exact quote from Peter Gabriel – is that the floods are inevitable. As much as we'd like to think we can stay hidden, as much as we'd like to think we can build a convincing facade, when the floods arrive and the waters rise to separate us, we're all just islands exposed to the elements. The best defense is probably to remain vulnerable at all times because facades wash away.

That's what I hear in these lyrics:

When the flood calls, you have no home, you have no walls
In the thunder crash, you're a thousand minds within a flash
Don't be afraid to cry at what you see
The actors gone there's only you and me
And if we break before the dawn, they'll use up what we used to be

Lord, here comes the flood
We will say goodbye to flesh and blood
If again the seas are silent in any still alive
It'll be those who gave their island to survive
Drink up, dreamers, you're running dry

Hearing those lines takes me back to college summers. For whatever reason, that particular song spoke to me. I can picture moments sitting alone on the dock at my family's lake house, with that CD in the portable CD player, listening to the lyrics and staring out at the water. The future feels too big when you're 20, and for whatever reason "don't be afraid to cry at what you see - the actors gone, there's only you and me" hit home.

Hearing those lines in 2025? I can't help but think of the one thought that all of us have been unable to avoid this summer, especially at 2:30 am.

What if this season doesn't go well?

We've never had expectations. Not since maybe... 1990? We've had hopes before. We had "with all this talent, we can withstand all of the graduation losses, right?" in 2008 and 2002. But we haven't had a great season and then had everyone coming back since I was in high school (I'm 52). When I was sitting on that dock listening to the song at age 20, we were a few years removed from the last time we had any expectations at all.

Which means that this is scary, man. This is new. We're a fanbase that gets to the "oh God" moment faster than any fanbase in the Big Ten. If Duke takes a 7-0 lead on September 6th, every single one of us will feel "oh God, maybe this season won't be what we want it to be?" deep in our soul.

Wisconsin fans assume they have a higher national standing than they do, Nebraska fans stare off into the void wondering if it will ever return, and sitting among Iowa fans feels like you went to your cousin Joey's weird church. Illini fans? We hear a noise in the middle of the night and immediately say "what was that? Was that another 5-7 season breaking into the house?" We live on that edge.

Which is what made me merge this song and our 2025 season this morning. I married my wife and became a parent to our boys when they were 8, 10, and 12 years old. That means that I went from zero 2:30 am thoughts about my children's well-being to "what if I can't protect him from the evil the world has in store?" overnight. It was an adjustment. I didn't get an on-ramp.

Just like we never get an on-ramp for this. Our college football experience has been defined by out-of-nowhere 'this is a program that can compete at the highest level' seasons (the 1983 and 2007 Rose Bowls, the 2001 Sugar Bowl, the 4th-most Big Ten titles in conference history) as well as 'are we the worst power conference program?' seasons (the most 0-win conference seasons the last 30 years, five winning seasons between 1995 and 2021, 20-64 in the Big Ten in the entire decade of the 2010's). Each time we reach "I TOLD YOU we were capable of winning the Big Ten again" (like 2001), we're suddenly 1-11 two years later.

Because it always comes out of nowhere, we've developed this reflex. We're prepared for every sound we hear in the middle of the night. We have cameras up, looking for the first sign of losing seasons, at every corner of the house. We will NOT be surprised again.

Yet now we have a different kind of season than any of the previous "the year after a big year" seasons. In 1995, 2000, 2002, 2008, 2011, and 2023, we were dealing with heavy graduation losses. We had gotten old, we had won some games, and then we immediately had to go young again. The last time a young team won a lot of games in Champaign was 1989.

Now, in 2024, we had a young team go 10-3. And we have most of that team coming back. Which means there are expectations. And we don't know what to do.

Might I suggest to you that... we're prepared for this?

A quick cut-and-paste of something I wrote above about the meaning of the song:

Floods are inevitable. As much as we'd like to think we can stay hidden, as much as we'd like to think we can build a convincing facade, when the floods arrive and the waters rise to separate us, we're all just islands exposed to the elements. The best defense is probably to remain vulnerable at all times because facades wash away.

This post is me encouraging you to remain vulnerable. If I sat here and told you "hey guys, you can finally trust an Illini team!", I'd be lying to you. Those words aren't even true at Texas. I'm not here to build you a facade. I'm here to tell you this:

This experience is ours. We've had phases where we've shown that we're definitely the #3 program in the Big Ten (I mean, we're still fourth all-time in titles) and we've had phases where we're left to debate whether Illinois, Indiana, or Purdue would be the worst Big Ten program of the last generation. And then, when comparing ourselves to Indiana and Purdue, we immediately say things like "we have 15 Big Ten titles and Indiana has 2" and "our last outright title was in 2001 and Purdue's last outright title was in 1929" to assure ourselves that a return to "on the tier immediately behind Michigan and Ohio State" is possible. Yoyo goes down, yoyo goes up.

And that's always going to be us. If you thought this would be a "hey everyone, those days are definitely over!" post, it's not. We built in the floodplain and there's no avoiding the next heavy downpour. I don't think it will arrive this fall, but we have to acknowledge that it might. So what should we do?

Dream.

That's it. Seriously. Dream. The potential I've been talking about for seventeen years here – all of the "guys, I'm telling you, there are things possible for this program that aren't possible at Minnesota or Purdue or Maryland" – is now at hand. With our best returning team since 1990 (and our best recruiting class since 2008 getting ready to sign), we have now captured more of our potential than any season of the last 35 years.

We're never going to be a program that can rest on "I guess we'll have another playoff run this fall, huh?". Wisconsin tried to get to that level for 30 years and failed. There will always be anchors holding us back (anchors that don't exist in Ann Arbor and Columbus and South Bend and throughout the south). We built in the floodplain.

But in 2025, we get to dream for the first time in 35 years. It's truly a privilege. We can say "I really think 10 or 11 wins is possible" and not get laughed out of the building. We have not been able to dream for 35 years and now we can.

Another October 19, 2024 is possible on October 11, 2025. Strolling into Bloomington on September 20th against an undefeated and ranked Indiana team and delivering a "you still need to build a sustainable program like we have" message is very possible. Believe it or not, being one of the 12 teams selected for the college football playoff this fall is actually possible.

Yes, 6-7 is also possible. An entire autumn dealing with opposing fans telling us "you'll always be Illinois" is possible. From Bret Bielema's starting point in 2021 (taking over a program that was has been one of the five-worst power conference programs this century) it generally takes at least 6-7 years before the floor can be built to a level where no one is worried about the bottom dropping out. So yes, when laying my head on the pillow and hoping for a great dream, a nightmare is also possible.

But hearing that song today made me rush to my keyboard to deliver this message. We don't have any assurances, but we can finally dream. Yes, eventually, floods are coming. Perhaps they arrive as soon as next season or the season after that. But please don't build a fake-it-'til-you-make-it fan facade. With our preseason ranking, you might have the urge to act like we've always been here. Resist it. We haven't.

Stay vulnerable. Dream. Enjoy the fact that we finally have expectations. It's pointless to try to win the 'I was the first Illini fan to see the storm clouds' contest so stop looking at the horizon. "All the strange things, they come and go, as early warnings." Defense mechanisms never work.

If there's a single fanbase in college football with access to perspective, it's us. Thirty years of mostly pain has opened up pathways to joy inside all of us. If it's true that only the prisoner truly understands freedom then only the Illini fan truly understands the joy of double digit wins. We've waited three decades to dream again and I want us all to experience the emotions of every moment, come what may. To hedge now would be to reject the perspective offered by 30 years of pain.

Drink up, dreamers. It's all possible again.