*published October 26, 2006
I may understand that phrase better than some women, but it doesn’t mean I like football. Perhaps I was a cat in a previous life; I enjoy the constant movement in basketball and hockey more. Or maybe it has something to do with being an arrival-based gal. The action just gets started, and then the play is over and everything stops to reset the chains and pick up the bodies. At some point, I want to stand up and yell, “Just get it over with!”
It’s not a popular cheer with the pep squad.
So Dale was quite surprised when I told him I’d go with him to the Valencia High School homecoming game last Friday. After all, I was sacrificing two hours of my weekend to sit on a cold bleacher and try not to tap my foot or check my watch. Mostly, I went to see Marcus in the choir as they sang the National Anthem. But I also wanted to support our high school team.
I’ll leave the actual game reporting to Lou Ponsi, who I’m certain can describe the action using proper sports lingo. Let me just sum up the evening: we looked really good in the first quarter, and then we lost.
During the event, there was a lot of flag throwing, a lot of quarterback sacking, and a lot of clock stopping. In other words, it was a typical football game.
At halftime we were treated to a special parade of floats and classic cars carrying members of the homecoming court. The boys all looked very dapper in their tuxes and the girls were visions of loveliness. I loved that their parents were down on the field as their escorts, all dressed up and obviously proud of their sons and daughters. The show ended in a blaze of fireworks that made the crowd “ooh” and “ahh”.
As impressive as the fireworks were at halftime, the real light show began somewhere during the fourth quarter. Looking over my shoulder, Dale’s eyes widened slightly as he said, “Wow. Lightning.”
I turned my attention to the southern sky and watched long strands of electricity shoot down to the ground. The intermittent flashes disappeared behind the trees, sometimes causing a disturbing glow that rose upwards. Slowly, it occurred to me that the metal bleachers were not a good place to sit during an electrical storm.
“Will they call the game?” I asked Dale.
Absorbed in the action on the field, he said, “Eh, if the lightning gets closer.”
I decided to listen for the thunder to try to measure how close the lightning was. Unfortunately, between the cheerleaders’ stomping and the crowd noises, everything sounded like thunder. In the long run, this didn’t matter, since I couldn’t remember how to measure between thunder and lightning. Is it the number of seconds from the lightning to the thunder? And how close is too close? It’s a lot like labor contractions, except there’s no bundle of joy at the end of the storm.
Eventually, the rain arrived, in sparse drops that increased to a steady downpour. Putting the hood up on my sweatshirt, I prepared to sit and get soaked, thinking that Dale would want to stay until the end, even though Valencia was struggling.
With 3 minutes left in the game, he shocked me by saying, “Let’s go.”
Although I wanted to check his ID to verify that this was my husband, I kept my mouth shut and walked to the car. We returned home, where I exchanged wet clothes on a cold bench for warm pajamas in the recliner.
I was disappointed that Valencia lost, but there’s always next year. And I’ll be there to cheer them on, rain or shine.