It was midnight on Halloween eve, and Memorial Stadium was still. The players had meandered home, the coaches had gone to rest and the janitors had cleansed the arena. All that could be heard was the whispering of the wind and the distant humming of cars whirring down First Street. The sky was black, the field barely visible to even those with the keenest eye. But it didn’t matter, for there was nothing to see.

Or so I thought.

There was a rustle in the distance that sounded like the soft crumbling of leaves. And then a small crack and an even louder POP.

I shuffled down the stadium stairs and then to the west, trying to find the source of the disturbance. When I got to the gate, there was nothing to see. It was then that I realized, “Wait … There was nothing to see.”

The 12-foot statue of that famous football player was gone. “What was his name again? Oh yes, Harold ‘Red’ Grange.” I’ve heard people talk about him with reverence and awe, dubbing him “one of the greatest athletes who ever lived,” or the “man who defined football in the early 1900s.”

The statue had been there since November 2009, not nearly long enough to need a cleaning but just long enough that it was there to stay.

Then back toward the field I heard another distant sound. The slight thudding along, perhaps of someone catching their footing. I returned to the field, and there he was all alone. 

I knew who I thought it was, but it couldn’t be.

I looked closer to see a man all alone who looked out of place but yet he belonged. 

Oh, did he belong.

He donned an ancient-looking blue jersey, a brown leather helmet with dangling flaps over the ears and held a tattered brown football, regulation size.

When I saw the No. 77, I confirmed it was him, as that’s one of only two numbers ever retired in Illinois football. But after I looked for a second, I knew there was never a reason to question my theory. 

“The Galloping Ghost” was more than a nickname, I realized it had become reality.

He ran the field with strength and poise as this was the most natural occurrence in the world, like he was back home once again.

And yet he was so alone, simply running with the football amidst the still of the night. Until they came.

I watched them shuffle in from the tunnel, about 20 men dressed just like Grange.

“He’s back, he’s back, he’s back,” they muttered again and again, like zombie soldiers returning to their captain, prepared for war.

Everyone lined up at their respective sides, and they played ball. 

Oh, did they play ball. 

Excellence was everywhere, but it was Grange I was focused on. The halfback’s hands acted with a magnetic pull as he commanded the ball. He snaked through the defenders as if they were flies.

I imagined it was like that game that made Grange a legend. It was against Michigan on Oct. 18, 1924, when Grange covered 263 yards and scored four touchdowns in an unreal 12 minutes against a defense that allowed the same number of touchdowns in the past two seasons.

That game is what motivated famous sports reporter Grantland Rice to pen the poetic lines: 

“A streak of fire, a breath of flame

Eluding all who reach and clutch;

A gray ghost thrown into the game

That rival hands may never touch;

A rubber bounding, blasting soul

Whose destination is the goal.”

I wanted to chant, “There goes the Red Head!” as they did back in the day, but my lips wouldn’t open. I wanted to get closer and see more, but my legs were planted to the cold pavement. I couldn’t believe my eyes, but I knew it was real as I went numb with awe.

I watched Grange run 90-some yards for a touchdown. The players cheered as he ran in; Grange let out only a small smile. And with that, he was gone. 

The players disappeared along with him. I pinched myself to ensure this was not a dream, then headed back to the front where the statue stood still, as if it was always there and nothing had happened.

I remember what Bob Zuppke, Grange’s coach, said back in the day, “I will never have another Grange but neither will anyone else.” 

Well I had him, for 10 minutes at most, and I’m waiting for another Grange.

It will happen one day.

Oh, it will happen. 

Writers note: This is an entirely fictional account in observance of Halloween. Red Grange passed away in 1991, when I was not even 1 year old. If I could go back in Illinois sports history, I would watch the “Galloping Ghost” play football. I’m patiently waiting for a legend similar to Red Grange to pass through Memorial Stadium. Until then, there’s this.

Emily is a graduate student. She can be reached at [email protected]. Follow her on Twitter @EmilyBayci.