Took the young son to a local high school football game last night. On the drive over we saw a ring of white illumination far across the waterway -- the famed Friday night lights. It was after halftime when we arrived, and the ticket booths were already closed, so we walked right in. The concrete bleachers were a little daunting for the young son, and he asked daddy to carry him up. We sat halfway up the bleachers, just next to the band section, which, as it was after halftime and the band was taking a break, was empty. The field itself sat inside a large cinder track, and the blaze of the lights made a thick black curtain of the sky surrounding the field. Little man wanted to know about everything. Who were the cheerleaders? What were they doing? Who were the dancers? Why were people yelling? Where was the ball? Who was wonning?
My wife and I answered the questions as well as we could; little man sat on my wife's lap. A large African-American woman sat in front of us, cheering on her son. When she shifted in hers seat she emitted a rather nauseating stench. Behind us a trio of high-school girls, big, and rubbery, and outrageously awkward, were fighting over a paper basket of French fries. The game was 26-0 in favor of the home team, so naturally I began to root for the visitors, who could not advance the ball on offense to save their lives. The only play which worked for them was a draw or trap to the fullback, a powerful brute who shed would-be tacklers with a twitch of his shoulders -- but alas, he was not fast enough to evade the fleet defensive backs who dove at his feet, and tripped him up. He went down under a pile of yellow jerseys. When the visitors were on defense, they had a cornerback with skills -- he had one interception, and another near-pick. Other than that, the home team dominated to such a degree that eve the fans around us seemed bored.
Perhaps were were all taking our cue from the cheerleaders, who showed little interest in pep, or rallying. They talked amongst themselves, or did impromptu dances. When a player was slow getting up, they sat down and crossed their fingers to indicate their good wishes but then they were screened from the field by the backs of the football team, and they often remained sitting on the track long after the injured player had gone back to the sideline. The few cheers they did crank out were ragged, and uninspiring. The dancing girls in their black leotards were not much better. They repeated a rump-shaker routine which involved one hand behind the head and the hips thrusting outward. They spent long stretches socializing with each other, and with the boys who packed the front rows of the bleachers. Only when the band came back did the game take on a real football atmosphere. The drummers were vigorous, and enthusiastic, and the horns blared, and the people in the crowd swayed or clapped along. Even the cheerleaders and dancers were roused from their listlessness, and began to move crisply. A large dark girl whose body was perfectly square, like a Lego character, did a tumbling routine down the track and finished by pointing at the band, as if to direct the crowd's adulation to the proper object.
My wife gave out son a ring pop. He wriggled his little finger into the plastic hoop, and popped the blue candy diamond into his mouth. The stream of questions was interrupted while he got his sucker warmed up. The woman next to us pointed out her son, a defensive end on the home team. I watched him rush the passer and get turned away by a massive tackle from the visitors. He was too slight to play defensive end.
Finally, in the fourth quarter, the visiting team kicked a field goal, and so avoided a shutout. We left soon after to avoid the traffic. I could see that ring of light sinking below the trees in my rearview mirror. My son, when asked what he liked about the football game, said, "I liked all of it about it."
I'm closing this account!
15 years ago
