Fall signifies different things for different people. Most individuals I know are chomping at the bit for cooler temperatures and the turning of leaves. Myself, I love the profusion of scarecrows and pumpkins that adorn front porches, crock pot meals, and at last, yes, football. I’m not an avid football watcher and I know that is a sin in the south. I just like all the things associated with it. Football is a season. There are those who believe there should be a mandate to change the order of this time by just omitting the word “fall” from the obvious four seasons and let the new order be, spring, summer, winter, and football. This is not just a southern trait. People throughout the U.S. would probably pass an amendment to the constitution to show their support of this national obsession. Football has been a part of all forty-one falls I have been blessed to partake in. I truly never remember a fall without it and it would be a felony to say that I had; at least in my house, or even the state I live in.
Football comes in many forms. We have pee wee, youth, middle school, high school, college, and the NFL. I know I didn’t need to name them all but I had nothing else better to do. No, that’s not true. There are several things I think of when I think of football. First and foremost my son plays and with all his practices and then Saturday games, my brain is not allowed to go into sleep mode where his division is concerned. As college football begins, I automatically think of the University my father attended and then of our college rivalry which is where my husband attended. I now live in a house divided.
Often I like to filter through my past. I do enjoy remembering when I was a cheerleader for a season and how I didn’t like it. Then my mind flows further into the library files of football homecomings past and those I attended. Those thoughts tend to guide me to memories of bon fires, marching bands, drum solos, homecoming queens, Pep rallies, sign painting parties, floats, boosters, and finally, those large white mums. As a girl, mums were a big part of homecoming. I’m sure mums would not have figured into the imagination of most everyone else’s “football” equation but I can picture those large mum corsages girls wore each homecoming. Those mum corsages had more ribbons and paraphernalia on them and they were almost the size of each girl’s heads. I remember our local grocery store’s floral department had those sought after mums on display weeks prior to the game.
“Place your order now!” The sign would read. The order forms indicated you could add a tiny cow bell, a small gold football, or a small megaphone for one dollar each. The mums could also be personalized. Not only could you have the high school’s name personalized in glitter on one twelve foot long ribbon, but you could add the year and include your name and your homecoming dates name.
Remembering those mums and all those ribbons is bittersweet for me. Every fall I have mums scattered on my front porch and when I enter the local garden shop I am drawn to them. But the smell always inevitably evokes a chain of events to link me to those mum corsages. I have a lot of wonderful football memories I have accumulated these last twenty-three years since I graduated high school. Although, I have one memory from my high school years that continues to still haunt me. It’s not a happy memory and every fall I still feel that pang of guilt which I trust God must still be punishing me for by not allowing that memory to fade from my mind.
When I started junior high school this was when I had my first “true” football experience. The junior high school and high school where I attended were basically joined together. Homecoming week was always full of so much excitement. I don’t believe the entire student body studied anything other than football for the entire week. I remember the scent of testosterone from the football locker room, filled the air with such intensity that the power of it made everyone feel invincible. Everyone was so high on their own endorphins there was no way we could have focused on anything other than winning that Friday night.
In seventh grade I learned nature’s order of things. I studied the rituals of the courting process and how man’s animalistic instincts came into the decision making of who asked who to this extremely major event in my hometown. The following year, my eighth grade year, I, like every other girl, prayed reverently someone would ask me to homecoming. I remember as every day passed and the date of homecoming grew closer the ultimate gripping fear of not being asked became unbearable. Oh, the shame, everyone would know the following Monday that I was left out. The sensation of being excluded from this ritual overwhelmed me with such distress I remember thinking I must be one hideous creature. All the beautiful girls had already been asked by someone. I was not worthy of being asked.
What a little idiot I was. I can say that now looking back at how ridiculous I behaved while alone in my room waiting for that stupid phone to ring, or sitting in class after class waiting for that tap on the shoulder, being passed a folded note, then secretly unfolding it ever so slowly and reading the note behind a book. Reading those words I had painfully obsessed over for weeks penciled in on those ruled lines.
“Will you go with me to homecoming? Circle one. Yes or No. Signed Joe Blankety Blank”.
Unfortunately, the phone never rang and the note was never passed. I had not had the luxury of shopping for a new outfit. There was no need. I wasn’t going with anyone so I wasn’t going to the game at all. I would be labeled as a misfit; the odd one out. Then I was met with something I was unprepared for. I was stopped in the hallway after my second period class and formally asked by a tall dark headed young man if I would go to homecoming with him. As far as I was concerned I had won the golden ticket. I still admire the direct, polite, gentlemanly respectful way that young man asked me for a date. It is with those manners I will encourage and instruct my own son to behave when he is old enough to do so. I was asked!!! My wish had been granted. No more star gazing for me!
As the day progressed, word spread of my upcoming date with Joe Blankety Blank, as it often does in high school. Cliché’s such as like a wild fire would apply. Silent snickers behind hands, pointed fingers, and peals of laughter followed me from history and to English. I skipped lunch to avoid the gossip. I spent my lunch period hiding in the bathroom stalls, ultimately regretting the decision I was about to make (I simply couldn’t go now that everyone was “talking”). I know without any hesitation, teenagers are some of the most vicious and most vile creatures God ever created and that is being somewhat lenient. Having been one and having one of my very own, confirms this. What was ultimately worse was my reaction to their behavior. I allowed it to affect my judgment, my morals and the way my momma raised me. Listening to the exchanges of those living organisms propelled me into a group which I will categorize as morally unforgiveable.
The dictionary partially characterizes an idiot as a person of profound mental retardation. I accept that assessment of me during that period of my life. I was not retarded by behaved as though I was.
The next day was homecoming. I feigned sickness to my mother who did not believe me and sent me to school as she should have. She had suspected what was up given the number of phone calls I was receiving and she had in good conscious eavesdropped on those phone calls. She proceeded to tell me how I had shamed her by even discussing with my friends the final verdict before telling my “date” of my decision. Inside, I was ashamed. I hurt at the thought of it. Throughout the day I had every opportunity to tell that very nice young man, I had changed my mine and I wasn’t going to go with him. But I chickened out. There is not a bad word out there I haven’t already said about myself unless it’s in a different language. All the English versions, yes I have called myself every one of those because of this self-inflected problem.
I am cringing now as I type this final act regarding one of the most remorseful scenes of my life. About an hour after I arrived home from school the day of homecoming, the phone started to ring continuously. I refused to answer it. I knew it was him. After about the thousandth time, my mother answered and handed me the phone. I ran to my room. I wasn’t even gracious enough to tell him no. I ignored him. My mother told the young man to call back in five minutes but that my father would be driving me to the game. I remember my bedroom door being yanked off the hinges by my 5’5, 120 pound mother and thrown into the yard behind our house, I know not really but she was that angry. Oh, my Lord to say she was "just mad" that’s being on the lite side. I don't think there is a word in the dictionary that could describe how she felt but to say she was formidably outraged is a start. She forcibly made me sit by the phone and wait for him to call. She told me to tell him my Dad was driving me to the game and I would be waiting for him at the gate promptly at 7:00. I sat there and waited, and waited and finally the phone did ring. It was about thirty minutes later. My mother answered the phone and shoved it in my face. I spoke oddly and voiced a faint hello.
The voice on the other end spoke and asked me if I was still going with him to the game. I hung up the phone without even responding. The phone did not ring again. I did go to the game though. My father powerfully put my sorry butt in the car and drove me to the football game. He didn’t pay for my ticket either. He bought and paid for himself a ticket and went in and watched the game while I stood at the gate waiting for a boy who I knew would never come. I had humiliated him and that was enough.
I thought the worst was over and by Sunday had prepared myself for the following Monday at school. This young man was in my math class and I knew I would have to face him but I would just pretend the entire incidence did not occur.
I remember walking towards the school and the young man met me and stopped me in the parking lot. I started to speak and he stopped me by just putting up his hand. He reached down to his backpack and pulled out a plastic corsage box with one of those coveted football mums. He then shoved it in my hands and walked away. I can never say there has been a time when I have ever felt lower because of the utmost cruelty at which I behaved.
My husband knows of this story and his response was he would have shoved the mum down my throat. It is no more than I would have deserved honestly. This saga does have a somewhat happy ending. This young man and I managed to mend our feelings of that horrible incident and he forgave me. We were friends, close friends actually, throughout the rest of high school. If you’re asking yourself the question, why? Maybe you should ask him. My belief is he had more moral fiber about himself than anyone else I know. To forgive someone for something which seems almost unforgiveable says a lot about a person’s character. On a different side, God does have a way of dealing with cruel people such as me; never being allowed to forget your past sins.
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