First Down
“Smash’em,” E yells from the bleachers.
“Give’em L!” I say.
We’re sitting just behind the band. A player from the other team gets smashed. He doesn’t get up. The band plays “Another One Bites the Dust” while the motionless player lies on the ground.
“Shouldn’t they stop?” I say.
“Get the cart. Drag’em off,” E says. I can’t help but laugh.
M wants a snack. But of course. It’s been an hour since dinner.
An ambulance pulls up just beyond the fence, and I count as the paramedics jog the thirty yards to the victim. I motion the first down symbol. They load the kid on a stretcher and roll him off.
Finally. Football. “C’mon defense! Get’em,” I say. It’s third and two from the thirty. You can’t win a game on field goals, but you can lose a game on field goals. They miss a field goal.
The band is quiet. Huh. The drum player has brown hair hanging in his eyes. A chubby girl rubs her hands through it. The flute player, also a girl, is standing to his right side with her right hip cocked. Another girl, this one wearing purple striped leg warmers, clutches his left arm. A boy behind him, on our row, is holding the drummer’s extra drumsticks and staring. Earlier, I saw him beat a tamborine, in rhythm, against his thigh. His eyes were closed. It takes me back eighteen years, when I banged on pots and pans with a spoon. I spent a large portion of that summer in Hilo. I lived in a two bedroom shack with six other people. The natives didn’t like foreigners, including mainland folks. I thought life was tough because we didn’t have a dishwasher or a dryer. We stayed in at night, grilling our fish, hanging our tie-dyed shirts on a clothesline, banging pots and pans and singing to the Allman Bros. We were much better than the Logan High band.
There’s a four or five-year-old dancing in front of us, but he’s on his knees. E doesn’t think he can’t walk. A lot of Utah children can’t. He told me before that it’s where the term U-tard comes from.
M wants a hot chocolate and my favorite brown blanket as a trade for the shitty green one. As usual, I relinquish the blanket. Everything but cats and Golden Corral. S wants a hot chocolate, too. I’m good with my carmenerie that is disguised in my chamo mug.
Logan scores! The band doesn’t seem to notice. Neither do the cheerleaders. Wait. They’re doing push-ups on the field. Their butts are a foot higher than their backs; some aren’t bending their arms. Their bloomers are all matching white. When I was a cheerleader, I could do push ups.
I’m in the process of getting my teacher’s certification. Funny, I am qualified to teach college but not high school. I went for advising at Utah State. Auburn beat them the first game last season. Auburn hardly beat anyone this season. “You’ll need three semesters and a student teaching semester, which is fifteen weeks.” What I hear is, “fifteen weeks without pay.” I have four degrees! She must see my forty-year-old concern “Sorry. Bush’s ‘No Child Left Behind.’” M can’t write or read cursive. Is she left behind?
The visiting team scores. The band plays “Another One Bites the Dust.” I don’t get it. I thought that was a tribute to the fallen angel, or player. Did the U-tard fall down the bleachers?
“C’mon Grizzlies! What are you doing?” I say. I hope they don’t throw the ball to Beau on these downs. He sucks. When I subbed, I caught him cheating on his anatomy test. I gave him an F+ to make the pain more bearable.
The Grizzlies lost. No one really cares. No one cares about football here. They always clap for the team that is winning. Then, the SEC gets a hold of them and they don’t remember who they were cheering for to begin with. Better luck next year, Grizzlies. Better luck next year.