Wait 'til Next Year
4 Ratings / 3 Comments
Wait ‘til Next Year!
I was a little surprised I woke up Sunday morning.
I was not expecting the sun to come up Sunday morning, either. The world is over, right? With me in a trance-like state, a friend drove me to a restaurant for breakfast. While sitting around the table, we were talking about what we were going to do that day, I replied “sulk.”
And looking at the banner of the Dallas Morning News everyone knew why. In the sports highlight box on the front page for all to see “Wylie 43, Bowie 20”.
Then I remembered Saturday afternoon. I was in my happy place. Wow, going to Texas Stadium, home of the Dallas Cowboys, to see my high school in the third round of the playoffs. If we can get by Wylie who is good, we would play our former district rival, Cedar Hill, in the Regional finals next week. Whoever wins that would likely win state as Region I has so frequently in recent years. Hey a good parking place. Now remember, Section C, it will be dark when the game is over.
The game got off to a rough start. The Vols, facing a 4th and 2 at the 15 yard line were stopped and gave the ball over on downs to the Pirates. Our defense gave up some big plays, our offense sputtered. My “group of friends” was discussing the unusual situation at halftime. Bowie was down 14 to 7. Most were not encouraging. I reminded all that we are a second half team. Now that I have my voice back (lost it in Wichita Falls the week before), I recounted the 3 quick scores after halftime in the Summit game. But a pall, hanging close overhead, discouraged the group. I bought a diet Dr. Pepper and went back in and sat in my seat ready for the second half.
No more 50+ yard plays by Wylie. We can’t let them score anymore or they will blow that ridiculous, super loud horn thingy again. The Bowie offense would click as it always seems to in the second half. Our fans travel well, must be 9, 10,000 here today. Our band looks good here in Texas Stadium. Hey, there’s the Hickson’s. Oh, I see Curt Copeland’s family. Yep that’s Stevie V’s grandfather. Everyone’s here. All would be good….
But early in the 3rd quarter, Wylie ripped an 80 yard pass and run for a score. “Hey, 21 to 7 is not insurmountable,” the Pollyannaish one thought. Doesn’t Irving have a noise ordinance? And sure enough, the Vols blasted back with a 65 yard touchdown of their own. “That’s what we needed! Here we go!” Hmmm, wait a minute. Our phenomenal kicker missed the extra point. Is this a bad omen? Surely not…
But the Pirates drove for another score and with a 2 point conversion made it 29 to 13. After the subsequent Volunteer drive stalled, the Pirates broke another long touchdown run. Oh where oh where is the vaunted “wicked fast” Bowie defense? That was a run up the middle, nothing fancy, how could Wylie score again? Did the halftime pep talk fade from the players memories? Maybe the repeated blasts from the oversized air horn caused the players to forget.
And then came the capper. After the next Bowie drive stalled, we lined up in punt formation. “We can definitely win the field position battle” thought the naïve one. But disaster struck fast, hard and painfully. The punt was blocked. A Pirate picked up the wayward ball and ran it into the end zone for another Wylie touchdown.
After the god-forsaken noise from Wylie’s field-engineered horn stopped, the large contingent on the Bowie side was silent. Never before had 10,000 fans made no noise whatsoever. Heads dropped, tears were flowing. Cheerleaders stood in shock. The band was quiet. It was almost as if all Bowie fandom realized that the season was over. No miracle comeback this time. Our football friendships dashed, there were no “See you next week!’ parting comments. It had sunken in all at once, everyone’s glorious ride to the state championship cruelly and finally derailed. Those of us without children simply gathered our items and headed for the exits. There would be no waiting for the school song after the scoreboard showed all zeroes tonight. We felt guilty. Those with children had to endure the final 8 minutes in excruciating agony. “Will the seconds ever tick off?” they thought, between sobs. Pained glances were exchanged as the childless sought to avoid eye contact with parents.
I stumbled around the parking lot attempting, I think, to find my car. Maybe I was avoiding the harsh reality: “This was the last game of the season.” My pride and joy vanquished to the trash heap of playoff runs. Other Bowie fans bumped into one another as if they were in a fog and couldn’t (or didn’t want to) see where they were going. It reminded me of a scene in “Dawn of the Dead” but I digress.
After some time, I located my car, unlocked it and got in. I started the engine and began to drive away. No long traffic jams exiting the stadium parking lot. I took one last look at Volunteer Nation streaming out of Texas Stadium. The last season before the place is torn down and the Cowboys move to the new stadium in Arlington. No spring in anyone’s step. No faces, only tops of sad heads.
As I drove away, I tried to think happy thoughts, but none were possible. I realized I felt bad, like the former residents of the BolivarPeninsula after they saw the photos of their homes after Hurricane Ike. Scraped clean. No where to go back to, can we rebuild? Maybe I shouldn’t make such an important decision at such an emotionally charged time. How did this game turn into such a barren wasteland? Easy come, easy go.
My friends went to dinner without me. None of them would come to the game with me. Something about me being obnoxious, or police surveillance for making terroristic threats, blah, blah, blah. Seems they couldn’t wait a few minutes for me. I guess I’m not important. Well, I probably wouldn’t be very good company. Here’s an idea. Maybe if something else was worse than this, it would take my mind off it. Getting s#*%-faced drunk? Vandalizing property? No, oh I know, I’ll eat at a Chinese buffet restaurant. Yep, maybe that will make me ill. While purging my body of bacteria laden food-like material, my mind would forget my pain. May Dragon here I come!
Alas, no Technicolor yawns, no driving the porcelain bus, no chunk-blowing action and apparently Ralph’s out of town. I drive home, mind blank, body numb. I forget to display the Bowie hand sign as I pass by the school. I don’t turn on the television when I get home so I don’t have to hear it again. Why should I? I lived it. I go to bed early. This is not a dream. We lost. We’re out. The season is over. Stick a fork in us. We’re done. We’re history. Hasta la vista. Game over.
Will I ever be back to normal? What is normal? Can I regain my composure? Will the Vols rebound in 2009? Time will tell, only time will tell.
Thanks for caring,Adam FeldmanJames BowieHigh SchoolClass of 1979
