The Games Afoot

I dropped my youngest, Michael, off at the school for his team meets there and rides together to the game. After bidding him good luck for his contest tonight I awaited his older brother, still practicing with his Junior Varsity squad. With the impending tropical storm would come scarce gasoline so I decide to turn the car off and roll the windows down. My goodness what a difference. The heat was oppressive, laden with moisture. The air smelled of cut grass and pine. I could here the hits and grunts from the players scrimmaging, while coaches bark like generals giving life and death commands.

The anticipation of tonight's game coursed through me, as it was Michael's first High school start. While reading a magazine I hear voices nearing, the field house pouring out clean jerseys. Warriors dressed for battle with armor in place. You could see the excitement surrounding each player. The faces passing by ran the gamut, from grins to frowned concentration, all preparing there moods. Loading up their yellow chariot with supplies and selves, they seemed much calmer than I might be. Their chariot left in a plume of acrid diesel, reminding me of my own yellow chariot rides in that distant past of not so long ago. With them gone my attention again focused on my magazine, the din of scrimmage still in the air. After many grains of sand passed through the glass, I decide that I can afford to cool down a bit. Rolling up the windows the generals fade away. From time to time I look up from my magazine, switching from world to world. Finally my son trudges off the field with his brothers of game, looking weary from there faux battle. After some passing of time, they too emerge from the field house, the locker room of warriors. He gets in the car and away we go onward to watch my youngest test his might.

Arriving at the game we stop at the stand of respite, to receive some god juice, better known as Powerade. While there I decide to cheat on my battle of weight, and grab some spuds covered in bovine delight. As we get to our thrones for the evening we look upon both friend and foe. They warm-up for the contest at hand. As we stand, removing my hat, to pay respect in verse to this land we love, I feel a chill run up my spine. Lightening in the distance reminded me of my verse, written earlier that day. Whistles blow and play begins, our war party kicking away. Alas it seems our generals are sly, for we kick an on-sides kick and recover. The crowd shouts there approval, even though taken off guard. Our sons are strong and sleek, as we march down the field. We score and repeat the same kickoff play, again we recover to an uproar. It was amazing to watch those faces below, our sons were surprised themselves at the ease of winning these skirmishes. I have never seen a game in which three on-sides kicks where recovered in a row and ended in scores, but tonight was a treat. By halftime the score was twenty-two to zero, the game in hand. With jubilation the young men ran off field to consult and rest.

The foe looked tired and weakened, as they sat just off field. Heads hung low, with generals hands moving with conviction, they seemed to not listen. I felt a pang of remorse, putting myself in their shoes. Maybe a defeat like this can spark them to passion as they practice next.

As the pause in battle came to a close, the Knights of Vanguard took afield once more. With energy anew, they seemed ready for the next task. With the second half came that glorious time, when ahead by this much, the generals let the whole team have a chance to play. These warriors that wait in the wings, normally only play when an injured brother is taken from battle. They seemed to relish the moments, of few they normally see. With determination they emulated there brethren in all their resolve. But alas, the true moment of glory was to come.

After the second chance fighters scored for us again, the generals below made the moment of the game. With our defenders on the field, the safety was pulled to the bench, and another sent to replace him. I am not certain of his exact stature, but that brave young man that took afield was the smallest on the team. Of a mere five foot or less, weighing I'm sure less than a hundred pounds. This small young man stood proud and tall. The crowd broke into a cheer, for this was his moment and everyone knew it. And from play to play, in and out of the game, he helped his fellows to another score.

The game was a shutout, ending forty-two to zero. But to each of those young warriors, who normally would stand aside, the score did not matter for tonight was their night. They got to play under the lights, and relish the glory.