Football and I have a love-hate relationship.
In high school, I hated spending my Friday nights sitting in the bleachers piping out “Louie Louie,” unable to release my trumpet from my frozen fingers.
Alternatively, I loved taking detours through the football training equipment during cross-country practice.
I was assigned to cover the Family Weekend football game, “from the perspective of someone who doesn’t know football.” Actually, I volunteered. Maybe because I certainly don’t know football? Maybe because I wanted to see what it was all about? I still don’t know.
I missed the start of the game and arrived with Guilford up 10-0. Behind me, a man was shouting, “Get Big Dan! Get Big! Hit somebody!”
Just as he finished his exclamation, the scoreboard confused me by changing to 10-7. Then I remembered my band director giving us a crash course in game rules, covering point values, while focusing on things we were forbidden to do. Namely, trash talking the home team, a commandment we broke frequently and viciously.
“Let’s go P-Diddy! Let’s go Payson Davis! Let’s hit somebody!” The yelling man struck again.
The next two quarters were a blur of sunshine and shouting. Halftime arrived, and I got up. I realized that when the game ended it would represent a beautiful Saturday afternoon that I will never get back, and that I would die a broken old man, wishing bitterly for the return of his youth.
It was Dave MacInnes , my FYE professor, who saved me. “This is where it’s happening. People, sports, noise, dogs, children .. everything. It’s a spectacle. Is that Josh down there?” He pointed at a figure on the sidelines. “I’m not just here for the football.”
I took his words to heart and returned to my seat.
I stopped watching the game, and watched the crowd instead. I still knew what was happening, even though the players could not show emotions behind their facemasks. The fans cried for victory and cheered for blood in the most fabulously gladiatorial manner possible. I saw a friend working the scoreboard, and bumbled my way into the press box.
The press box was filled with calm chatter and air-conditioning. I mentioned: “I’m with the Guilfordian,” and a seat for me materialized as I was handed a glossy game brochure. From within the press box, the outside world was both silted and clear. I’ll bet the Illuminati have a press box that they watch the world from.
And then all hell broke loose. I looked up and saw someone dart through the end zone. A man to my left whistled, turned, and spoke to a man sitting at a laptop.
“100 yards … is that a school record?”
Everyone looked to laptop man… He nodded, and even I felt excited. Time passed. It was nearing the end of the fourth quarter, and the score was tied. I decided to take a walk.
Eventually, I arrived on the Methodist side, and was awed by the spectacle of the Guilford fans, a veritable wall of crimson and gray. I was able to see how impressive our crowd was only by moving over to the other side. I’m sure there’s some kind of life-lesson hidden there.
I have no idea who made that last game-winning kick, but it was beautiful.
The game ended, and the team performed the requisite handshaking … Not just handshaking, but back-patting and hugs, too. A pleasant end to a pleasant afternoon. I shuffled off the field with a sated feeling and a glossy game handout.