Fall of the year

Not hardly anything like it.

Got home yesterday and gathered up Oldest to head for the stadium and my zoning meeting. Streets were packed with cars, so I drove around the loop in front of the school and let her off at the band room with EXPLICIT instructions to be good. Off then to find a place to park—up to the library, AH! passed one that was hidden by a dumpster back at the Chamber of Commerce, so I turned around in the library lot and came back. And it was still there, surprisingly enough!

Put Moby in park and listened to the dour, wilted, humorless screediness of NPR for a few minutes—I still had nearly 45 minutes to wait before my meeting, so it was either that or stand on the sidewalk and scream at passersby. But everyone is SO tired of me doing that… Anyway, saw three red-shirted girls coming across the little treed plaza between the stadium, the middle school, and the Chamber, and for some reason one looked exactly like Ashley. Probably because it was. “WEDON’THAVETOBE AT THE BLACKTOPUNTIL SEVENFIFTEEN INSTEADOF SIXFIFTEENAND THE BANDDIRECTORSAID WECOULDGO ANDWATCHTHE SEVENTHGRADE PLAY!”

Everything always at top speed and volume.

“Okay. D’you need any money?” “NOWEDON’TNEED MONEYTOGETINTHE GATE!!” “You don’t want any for something to eat?” Head shake no. “How much does it cost to get in…” “WE DON’T HAVE TO PAY, DAD!” “Let me finish—‘to get in for adults’.” Shoulder shrug. Eh.

She and her two friends skittered off like nervous squirrels back to the stadium. I still have trouble figuring how they ever found me off across the mall like that. She didn’t know where I had parked. She said later she just guessed.

Finally could take no more of the radio, so I went and loitered outside the front door of the building. Neat old place—it served as the commissary and filling station for the old WPA Slagheap Village cooperative , according to the plaque. A tribute to the Australian Naming Rule Convention if there ever was one, really was built from a slag heap.

Anyway, stood around listening to the stadium announcer, taking it all in. I have traveled a good bit, and I know there are places out there that by just about any rational measures are “better”, but sometimes, when the light’s right, and it’s chilly, and you can smell wood smoke and popcorn and hamburgers, and you hear excited voices echoing through a neighborhood, it really is hard to beat a small, Southern town on football night.

Oldest came running up again—“DAD!! CANIHAVESOME MONEYTOGETSOME HOTCHOCOLATE BECAUSEIT’S COLDANDI’M ABOUT. TO. FREEZE!!” “Please?” “PLEASE!!” I plucked out a few stray singles from my billfold, “Here you go.” She turned to run away again, “Thanks, Dad?” “THANKYOUDADDY!!” Some kid.

But, stuff to do. The secretary got there and unlocked the door and let us in and tripped the alarm, to her eternal embarrassment. Luckily, the girl who works for the Chamber during the day lives down the block and heard the siren and came down and turned it off for us. Finished up with the few cases we had in short order, then went on over to the football game. Oldest was playing for the 8th grade squad, who were playing our next-door neighbors, the Cougars from Clay-Chalkville.

Got beat like a drum, too. 35-0. And they were playing 8-minute quarters!

It was odd to sit there and watch, and see the same things going on that went on when I was in school. Clots of teenagers walking endlessly around the field, huddled together in deep conspiracies. Young girls so pretty they could make you cry, sitting by some goofy kid trying his best to be cool. And, of course, the game.

Football, at least to me, was one of those things that was equally repulsive and attractive. We used to play regular 15 minute quarters (Whhhhhyyyy, back in MY day, sonny!), and there was only about 16 of us, and I usually stayed on the field the entire time.

In September, you died from the boiling heat. In October, it was tolerable, until that first cold snap, when your fingers were so cold that you couldn’t feel them, except when you smashed your hand on someone’s helmet, then it was like getting shot. And then there was when it was cold AND raining. Feet frozen, covered with cold mud. I remember there were nights when I would have given a thousand dollars to spend a minute with my foot up inside of the old kerosene-fired salamander we had.

But.

There was still something overpoweringly fun about it all. The one perfect block, the solid hit on the quarterback. Getting beat like a drum, however, happened more often than not.

The band played great—they sound good, and they are finally loosening up enough to not sound so strained when they play. Having a good time and playing classical music—you know, “Tequila”, “We Will Rock You”, “We Are the Champions”…some things never change.

SO, on to another weekend. Tomorrow we get up early and head up to Huntsville for a weekend of soccer fury in a tournament. Which promises to be another one of those interesting, highly blogworthy escapades.

Tune in Monday, and we’ll see what happened. Have a good weekend, and stay safe.
posted by Terry at 5:02:00 PM