Ah, yes.
It was one of those tweedy, ivywalled covered places in some lost and forgotten autumnal/pre-fall football times.
The air in the dank school warehouse was musty, yes. But from it reeked a cloth and fiber and metal sensory overloard that I still remember in these augustal days.
We suited up in the armor of past days. Leather. Canvas and shoes that cut and sliced their way across Texas boy's arms and legs as they lay scattered across the dead grass of Friday night tenuous and tinactin turf.
Now, it seems quaint, the gladiatorial and equatoral contests on hazy and habitual fields of brute stength and tenacity. We hoisted the loser team on our shoulders and pretended like we cared about their misery. Yea, we was focused on our minute of glory, like drunken sailors of Spartan yore.
We broke into a song of brotherhood: Victory is Ours! We clapped and went to our pre-game warmups. The band played Unbus Qorim Panimus, latin for important words.
We shone as defenders, snatching the ball and then stealing a glance to the stands. Kicked a ball, by mistake into the stands where Olga, best kisser in the algebra class, sat.
Our helmets clacked against one anothers like pick axes against concrete.
We played on those saturdays and Friday nights as heroes who tilted against the powerhouses of Pemican high of Odessa, Oak Cliff High, Dimmitt and Borger and Big Spring and South Branch Houston.
The smell of perfume wafted from the stands.
My back to the fans, looking to get in.
I ran out into the field on one magical Friday night. The announcer called out Gimme! and I imagined that the stadium erupted even louder than it was for their ONLY hero.
And, hell, then we beat em.
