Go Eagles

Friday night, Jess and I found ourselves at a New Albany high school football game. It wasn't our typical Friday night, but Mexican food and asleep by ten had grown frightening routine for our young ages, and we agreed that it might be nice to do something new. Besides, we'd planned to do Mexican on Saturday night.

It was New Albany's home opener - the New Albany Eagles versus the Granville Blue Aces. The threatening clouds had cleared up, and the predicted storms moved further east. All in all, it turned out to be a nice evening. And a perfect night for football.

Once we hit the New Albany line, you could just smell the energy in the air. It smelled like pigskin and hard hitting pads. At an intersection, we watched as a Granville High School bus packed with a rambunctious mob of teenagers all dressed alike, zoomed past. I concluded that they must be the pep-squad, and that they had no further aim than to reek havoc on the visitors side. Already, the kids at the back of the bus were practicing making faces and doing their best to get a rise out of the poor sap stuck in the car behind them. After a long red light, a puff of black smoke drifted up from the exhaust, and the bus roared toward the stadium.

On reaching the stadium, the parking lot was full and cars lined the street on both sides for nearly a quarter mile. As American as we are, this little inconvenience almost cost us our date, but after a good griping we shook off the notion to just get Mexcian and go home and remembered that we were young and could use the walk. So, we parked in uptown New Albany in a semi-vacant lot behind the Rusty Bucket. How come no one else parked here, I wondered? I did a quick check for hidden tow away zone signs. The coast looked clear; however, I still had my suspicions. Did the locals know something we didn't?

Oh well, if we get towed, we get towed. Before setting off for the stadium, there was some back and forth about whether or not Jess should bring her fleece in case it got cold later. It was already eighty outside and it seemed to be getting hotter. My upper lip was working up a nice "sweat-stache". Finally, the decision was made and Jess left with fleece in hand. It could always make for a good seat cushion.

We walked holding hands. The sky held a deep evening blue, and what clouds remained stretched thinly above us with purple edges. I lifted my nose and sniffed the twilight air and caught the scent of a pleasing aroma - concession stand food!

As we neared the stadium, the mood grew slightly rowdier. Kids barely old enough to drive, honked and hung their heads out the windows, screaming something indecipherable about the Eagles. I managed a weak smile and tightened my grip on Jess' hand. The last thing I wanted was to get roughed up or made fun of by one of these high school punks. I was an old man in there eyes, out dated and out of style, and the clothes I wore alone were probably enough to get me harrased. Not that I was wearing anything out of the ordinary, but who knows what goes on inside these teenaged kids' heads these days.

In order to blend in, we fell in behind a gaggle of parents and grandparents. Like a flock of geese, we slowly gravitated toward the admissions booth. The going rate for football tickets these days is $6 for adults and $3 for students. Jess pointed out that, for the two of us, that was enough to eat out on. "Two adults, please," I said to the duo in the window. Their teamwork was seamless; one took my cash while the other handed me two tickets and change for a twenty. I made sure it was all there, and after some quick math, was put at ease.

The tickets lasted less than a minute in my hand, because five steps later we ran into the ticket woman at the entrance gate, who was smiling and wore a kahki pouch fastened to her waist. She mechanically plucked the tickets from my hand, dropped it in her pouch, and we were in.

Because this entry is getting too long, I won't spend too much time detailing the initial scene of the stadium going-ons. Let's just say that their were lots of kids running around, and the Friday night lights lit the freshly painted field in a feverish blaze. Jess and I made a beeline for the concession stand, where I ordered up a Mountain Dew and Jess wanted the only color Gatorade she hadn't yet consumed while suffering from a violent stomach flu. Drinks in hand, we weaved our way through the crowd, up the stairs and found a nice seat at the 50 yard line.

Every fifteen minutes or so a piercing bird screech would blast from the loud speakers. I automatically assumed it to be the Eagles mascot giving the crowd his routine pep-talk. And it was working too, because the stands were firy hot with energy and anticipation of a good Eagle's showing. Two World War II veterans sat two rows behind us. They offered to anyone within earshot the pregame commentary and a list of reasons to vote down the upcoming school tax levy. Later, they were also able to throw up some keen observations about the cameraman on the field failing to take the proper number of snapshots, and one even went so far as to wonder if there was even film in his dang camera. "He must be waiting for a special picture," one said, and on this, they both finally agreed.

The Eagles won the toss and burst out of the nest early on an aggressive first play - a long bomb to number 4. Number 4 had his man burnt by a mile. The stands and the world were dead quiet, and the football spiraled in the air for an hour. The ball hit the receiver in the hands and fell to the turf. An "Ohhh" escaped from the crowd, and number 4 sulked back to the huddle, licking his wounds. New Albany eventually went on to score, but the rest of the game was spent watching number 4 trying to redeem himself.

Probably the greatest spectacle was Superfan. I calculated Superfan to be sixteen or seventeen, but Jess thought differently. She figured him to be at least in his mid-thirties. "Didn't you see his face," she said as Superfan zipped past us, "He's at least old enough to be married." But who could tell with his face painted the way it was. Red and gold were painted in perfect halves down his face. And a curly painted wig hid his hair (or lack there of). As he zipped from one end of the stands to the other in gold tights, a red cape that said Superfan floated behind him. Occasionally he'd face the crowd, holding up a series of posterboards with a message written sloppily in black marker. It was obvious he'd spent the last fifteen minutes before the game, probably in his car, putting this together. SORRY I'M LATE. I WAS AT A WEDDING REHEARSAL (NOT MINE), said one.

As Superfan's interaction with the crowd continued, I was unable to decide whether the people liked him, considered him a nuisance, or were indifferent. No one seemed to take much notice of him, that is, except for the kids. But they were easy to impress; he'd toss them a piece of candy now and then to win their votes. Then a disturbing thought occurred to me. What if I had a son who grew up to be a superfan? I've thought of him playing sports, or being artistic, or even marching in the band, but this idea had never crossed my mind. Until now, I didn't even think it was an option. I let myself worry until the next big play. Then I completely forgot about it.

By half-time the color had drained from the sky, and the stadium lights sizzled against the darkness. After a semi-entertaining halftime performance, Jess and I decided that our backs were killing us from sitting on the backless bleachers. We left before the start of the second half. The score was 10 to 3 - New Albany. As we headed back to the car, the announcer's voice broke the silence of the night. Granville had scored their first touchdown. The game was getting good.

We may never know who won. As we walked along the unlit sidewalks of New Albany, among the sounds of the night creatures in the bushes and trees, we decided that next time we would go to the second half.