Coonridge Digest: Football frenzy

Greetin’s from the Ridge.

I didn’t make it to Michael Jackson’s birthday party.

For thirty bucks, you could attend. Thirty dollars. And up until party time there was still some doubt that the singer would show up. Thirty bucks. But never fear, Michael did appreciate it. His spokesman said "He is very excited, and he’s very touched by this special event." He should be.

Then I read today that the price of the average hotel room in Las Vegas is $209 a night. Branson averages $48 a night with Honolulu coming in at $180. Even getting old has its price if yesterday’s email was correct, listing the cost of a nursing home in the U.S. at an average of $188 a day. It didn’t list the cost of staying the night.

That’s why I’ve canceled all my plans for trips to the islands, gambling, country music, growing old, and celebrating the birthdays of ageless/sexless rock stars. I’m plunking down five bucks and heading to a high school football game.

Every great American value can be found at your local high school football field on a chilly autumn evening…turmoil, heartbreak, ecstasy and sorrow, jealousy and pride, sex and violence, family unity, moral outrage, revolution, rapture, and hotdogs. You name it, and it can be found somewhere between the minivans with "My son is #34!" and the specter of sight of a 16-year-old warrior with tears of disappointment running down his cheeks as he sits alone in the after-game locker room.

Get there quick. As more and more schools melt into consolidated mega-districts, you’re apt to know fewer and fewer of the numbers on the field.

And, like Branson and Honolulu, it’s best you know the territory before you go.

There is only one section that you dare not enter uninformed. This is the piece of the bleachers relegated to parents and grandparents only. You won’t be booted out if you’re no kin of the kicker but if you decide to plop your blanket on these boards, you best abide by the ground rules. You gotta understand: those are not football players out there busting their buns for the alma mater, these are our sons and grandsons.

It might help to imagine the "Bleacher Bums" cheering section of the Chicago Cubs, add in two quarts of Teddy Roosevelt charging up San Juan Hill, then kick the whole thing up three notches. These folks in the parent section have been together since Little League. They’ve traveled over frozen Midwest tundra to see their little fellas bounce basketballs in overheated gyms, they’ve ministered to each other in Out-Patient waiting rooms awaiting the results of ligament x-rays, they’ve sweltered together on boiling ball diamonds, and they’ve sold enough fundraiser tickets to buy Michael Jackson a new Neverland. This section of the bleachers is no place to sit and pretend to be neutral.

If you don’t feel you’re up to this degree of devotion, then you can move to the second section of bleachers. These seats will be devoted to the high schoolers themselves. This is the section to avoid unless your hearing device is removable.

If you want a real workout, latch on to one of the roamers. The roamers follow the play up and down the sidelines, skooching into every available space between bleachers, hurrying toward the end zone when the ball gets inside the ten, and tearing through the concession area like wild steers in the darkness when there’s a change in possession. I always try to get behind Big Bob myself. Big Bob is serious about his football and nobody of any substance gets in his way. I once saw Big Bob take out a card table and four cheerleaders selling sweatshirts in an effort to get a glimpse of the kickoff return. Big Bob once offered to replace two trumpets and a bass drum when a fumble caused him to change directions in mid-roam.

And if all this is too hectic, go stand in the end zone. This part of the field is reserved for visiting scouts, recent graduates who came back to feel strangely out of place, and aging men who stand with their hands in their pockets and pretend to have no interest in the game whatsoever. (But who will be the most avid post-game coaches at Monday’s coffee table.)

But if you want to get thrills to top Branson and simple beauty greater than Waikiki, stake out yourself a spot near the players’ bench. Get close enough to feel enthusiasm, fear, and joy of a group of boys who aren’t paid obscene salaries, who won’t be interviewed by ESPN after the game, and who carry on their shoulder pads the hopes and longings of a family who loves them very much.

The best five bucks you’ll ever spend.

You ever in Coonridge, stop by. We may not answer the door but you’ll enjoy the trip.