The Sweet Smell of Victory

Birdland. Trojan band. Fireworks. Complete game plan. The streak is over! Long live the streak.

Tonight, I celebrate the first win in how many games? 27? 28? But I celebrate not for myself or my wife, both of us licking our lips after munching fresh, hot doughnuts from the fountain of youthful delights up the road that we call Krispy Kreme. While slowly sipping a large cup of robust brew, I sit back and blink my red, tired eyes.

What did I see tonight?

Homecoming. Trojans vs. Hornets. Red vs. Blue. Girls in dresses sporting mums. Fathers with matching flowers hanging on their lapels. A tiara. Mothers and aunts hugging their debutantes waiting for their makeup to shine. A father and daughter flashing the rock-and-roll sign with fist pumping outstretched forefinger and pinkie. Students standing and cheering their mates on the field. About 45 deg F. Metal seating - stands - for the audience, including parents, relatives, marching band, and curiosity seekers. Who will be crowned homecoming king and queen at halftime?

A long pass or two but mainly running up the middle, leaping over the pile, fresh legs digging into thighs, shins and dirt, pushing and pulling, one more yard and then drop to the ground. Sweeps. Handoffs. Plunging across the goal line. Touchdown!

Long sheets of misty rain settling over the crowd. Muddy field. Football the way you want to play football, with grass in your teeth and mud in your ears. Uniforms uniformly cold, wet and wearing the scars of helmet-to-shoulder pad battles. Trench warfare without the mustard gas, hot dogs bearing mustard instead. Hot chocolate too hot to keep stocked, selling hot water at the concession stand. Hot hands on the air dryer in the bathroom for frozen digits.

Trudging Trojans. Swarming Hornets. Pound for pound on pound of flesh. Pounding. Wounding. Diving. Catching. Dropping. Passing.

Streaks on the windscreen. Sometimes you're the bug. Sometimes you're the windshield wiper. Streaks of another streak, a string of losses. Biting. Stinging. Numbing. Fearing.

Unbelievable? On this cold, wet evening, unmistakably fall weather in north Alabama, the Tennessee border so close you can smell it, a group of young men overcame the stench of defeat and stepped up a notch, their heads held high. Humble but sure of themselves.

You can never make up for a loss. But you can move on to the next tough test and overcome mistakes. You knock down the obstacles that excuses are made of - the shoulda, the coulda, the woulda, the must, the have-to - and march into the arena.

You eat the clichés like a breakfast of champions, taking care of business, throwing off the yoke of the agony of defeat and putting on the crown of the thrill of victory. You don't care about words. You care about your tackling responsibility, your blocking assignment, your ball handling, your pass pattern, your interception ability.

Your daily problems can wait. Your girlfriend, your father, your brother, your schoolwork, your part-time job are momentarily forgotten. You are a warrior, a battle-hardened fighting machine. You are a man. Flesh and blood not taking it anymore. You're the one dishing it out this time.

You own four 12-minute periods. You pace yourself, your burning desire to win on reserve. You bend a little just before your second wind kicks in but you do not break. You. will. not. quit.

While the visiting marching band plays tunes from Broadway musicals, you meet with your coaches and teammates plotting out the second half of the game like ol' Broadway Joe Namath, a boy himself once singing the likes of sweet home Alabama long before the legend of "Run, Forest, run," sang out in the minds of those who confused movie plots with history.

This win belongs to you, the players, the coaches, the cheerleaders, the dance team, the marching band, the students, the parents, the teachers, the administration, the announcers, the press, the field workers, the concession stand operators, and everyone involved in making a high school football game a community event.

We will talk about this night the rest of our lives. On Friday, 16th October 2009, the Hazel Green High School Trojans football team won 20-17 over the Chelsea Hornets. Heroes will be made over and over in the retelling. Catches will be recalled 10, 20, 30 years from now. Bashing tackles will be retold until the whole family can see in their dreams every turning jaw and compressed chest on the field from this night. Penalties will be discussed and refrains of "three blind mice" sung about bad referee calls or calls that luckily went our way.

Fifty years from now, when an old man is watching his great grandson pick up a ball for the first time, someone will hear him whisper, "One dark, stormy night, on the sixteenth of October in oh-nine, I found out what it was like to be a winner. Not just in my heart but here in the power of these arms and legs on a football field in Hazel Green. Not just as myself but as a teammate. It's your turn, son. Pick up the winning family tradition that ball represents and make me proud."