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Homefield Advantage
I went to one of RZ's B-team football games this afternoon to watch her cheer. It was the fourth game of the season, yet the first time I've actually seen her all suited up as a Leader of Cheer.
Granted, I still have issues with my kid being a Leader of Cheer. Leader of Cheer is not a path I would have chosen for her, but I'm proud for her. If she starts talking about aspirations of being the Leader of The Leaders of Cheer--the team captain so to speak, I will have no alternative but to send her off to Military Art School!
But anyway, back to today's game...
Southerners love thier football. Be it Midget league, B-Team, Varsity, College or Pro, southern folk get into the game.
Now what they don't tend to love is the opposing team.
All of that "Golden Rule" shit goes out the door when the buzzer sounds and the game clock starts ticking down. "Love Thy Neighbor. Unless thy neighbor is a Florida Gators fan! If Thy Neighbor harbors goodwill to a Gator, then he is of the devil and deserves death by stone or at least a good smoting. Cast Ye the first stone, Ye of BullDawg Faith!"
You think I'm kidding. Seriously, southern hospitality gets checked at the gate.
Never has this been more evident than today.
I show up at the game around five o'clock. It's an away game, RZ's team are the Visitors.
I pay my couple of bucks and go into this nice stadium like field. "Swanky" I think to myself as I stroll by the fans cranked back in their Lazy-Boy Barco-Bleachers. I'm careful not to bump into the waitress delivering a Mai-Tai and a Cohiba Cigar to the lady up on row five. "Nice." I think, as I almost trip over the guy bent giving complimentary shoe shines. It was a party, and they were celebrating all things "Us".
Then I happened to glance across the field.
The Other Side.
Over There.
"Them".
"That's where I'll be spending the next 90 minutes." I say to myself, resigned to that fact.
The Other Side was a pit. A westward facing, sun glaring, 111 degree pit.
The mere task of getting over to The Other Side was daunting in itself. The hometeam made you remove your shoes and socks and take off your shirt and walk the broken glass filled "Path of Shame" while fifth and sixth grade hometeamers beat you about the face, neck and back with sticks of iron rebar.
Ugh what I go through for my kid.
Once I'm there at The Other Side things aren't any better. The Other Side bleachers are set in what is apparently the solid waste treatment facility for the school, hell for the county. There's this grayish muck everywhere and the area has a pukely sweet smell of fecal coliform bacteria. I said bleachers, but that is a bit of a misnomer. What they tried to pass off as bleachers, would make for a great cactus garden. I had a splinter pierce my shoe that would've rendered me a wheelchair-bound cripple had it not gone between my index toe and my bird toe. Oh and speaking of birds, there was a one-eyed buzzard perched on the fence that kept skeeving me out. It was almost as if he was winking at me with a "your next" mouthed across his beek. Too creepy!
And then there were the bugs. I got chewed for an hour and a half. Bugs biting my arms. Bugs biting my legs. Bugs biting my face. Bugs biting inside my nose of all places. It makes me wonder if the hometeam didn't secretly hire a bug trainer to make the damned things extra nasty, and extra hungry.
Don't EVEN get me started on the godless, multi-limbed vermin I saw scrambling around, just in the shadows under the devices of torture bleachers.
So I'm in the stands. Not entirely alone, but wishing I were. I'm longingly looking around for that beautiful flower, MulletFury to no avail. When along comes this short, but big shouldered lady in NASCAR glasses and sits down less than a foot away from me. I'm thinking to myself "this bitch is all up in my comfort-zone, if she sits any closer she'll be wanting me to respect her in the morning, and call later in the day." So I scoot a little over, and in doing so I wind up ramming a nine-penny nail sized splinter into my Levis and subsequently into my ass.
On the opposite side of "Miss NASCAR Shoulders" was CoachDad. CoachDad was a bit on the type-a, extreme side. He had a red face from what looked to be 210 systolic by 140 diastolic, he also had an artery on his forehead that seemed to throb mercilessly with every play. He was stressed. For his own sake he didn't need to be at the game, but of course he wasn't there for his sake.
He was there for the coach.
Seems the coach "didn't know shit" and "was a pussy" as CoachDad put it. Thankfully for the coach, CoachDad was at the game. CoachDad called every play, both offensive and defensive. If we had the ball, CoachDad would scream "PASS! PASS YOU SUMBITCH!" everytime. If the hometeam had the ball CoachDad would alert our coach to "WATCHOUT FOR THE PASS, WATCH FOR THE PASS YOU STUPID SUMBITCH!" EVERYTIME. Sadly for our team, the coach didn't quite hear CoachDad's playcalls because we lost by a score of 238 to nothing.
Of course I didn't give a crap who won or who lost. The real reason I was at the game played out around halftime.
Seems RZ didn't notice me in the stands until then. I saw her looking around for me during first and second quarter. I even waved a few times to try and get her attention and let her know I was there. At halftime she saw me, and I swear the most beautiful smile came over her, a full body smile. Then she quietly, shyly waved and I waved back.
And that was so cool.
If on my next post, I find myself in the hospital clinging to life due to a mosquito-borne virus that I picked up while at The Other Side know this... That moment rocked.
On another note, tomorrow night is Homecoming... and we've got the Homefield Advantage! Pray for the other team, I'm sure there will be an ample bit of smoting going on.
I just hope I see MulletFury.
9/30/2004 09:22:06 PM
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