Just A Game

by Dustin Stevens

  The six seniors broke away and walked towards the locker room as a group.

  “There any point in pretending we can slide past them?” Goldie asked.

  “Not a one,” Clay said as they watched the five mothers of the seniors loop around the fence surrounding the field, cameras in hand.

  The seniors all half smiled as their mothers snapped pictures of them making their way over.

  “You boys got your speeches all worked out for tonight?” Clay asked.

  “Hell no,” Lyle snorted.

  “I don’t suppose we can do it together?” Rich asked.

  “Hey, whatever you guys do in the privacy of your own home is your own business,” Goldie smarted off.

  Lyle shoved him as Matt added, “Weren’t you guys originally from Kentucky?”

  Rich pushed him and said, “Very funny, dicks. I meant, I don’t think any of us are that pumped to be giving a speech tonight. Can’t we all just stand up together, say thanks and be done with it?”

  “You kidding me?” Goldie said. “This may be the last practice I get before I win an Oscar. No chance I let this pass by.”

  “Do I even want to know what category you’d be winning in?” Clay asked with a groan.

  “It’ll be a new category,” Goldie replied without missing a beat. “Best actor-director-writer to ever live.”

  Before Clay could respond, the troupe of senior mothers descended upon them. The mothers directed them first to stand individually and then as a group. Sometimes they had them stand with the scoreboard as the background, others with the goal post or the bleachers as the backdrop.

  A full twenty minutes of smiles and flashbulbs passed on the field as the lights overhead grew brighter in the waning afternoon sky. The final pictures taken were of the players with their mothers before mercifully they were released for the locker room.

  They jogged the remainder of the field and down the gravel tunnel, pulling up to a walk only as they reached the asphalt edge of the parking lot. Many of the underclassmen had already left, the lot holding just a couple dozen remaining cars.

  “Oh, hell yeah,” Goldie said, raising a hand and pointing towards the long aluminum bench outside the locker room. On it, several girls were moving about.

  Every Thursday the cheerleaders brought treats for the players and had them waiting after practice. Usually it was candy bars, root beer floats or something of the sort. A smile grew across each of the senior’s faces and they jogged the remainder of the parking lot towards them. Most of the cheerleaders had already gone, leaving only the seniors behind.

  “I thought for sure you ladies would have just said forget it and left us,” Goldie said.

  “Sarah wanted to, but the rest of us said no,” Megan said, casting a glance towards Sarah.

  “That’s not what I said,” Sarah countered. “I just said it’s cold as hell and we could just leave it for them in the cafeteria.”

  On the bench Rebecca took the top off a large Tupperware container and Melissa pulled a tub of ice cream from a plastic sack under the bench. Megan grabbed a stack of plastic plates and handed them one by one to Rebecca, who scooped a warm apple dumpling from the Tupperware and passed it on to Melissa. Melissa then added a dollop of vanilla ice cream to it and set it down on the bench beside her. Chelsie and Sarah scooped the plates up and passed them to the six hungry players.

  Clay was the last to be served, waiting until Chelsie had taken plates to Marksy and Rich before accepting a plate and a kiss from her. “Apple dumplings and ice cream huh? You ladies really went all out this week.”

  “Well, we figured with it being the last game and all...”

  Clay smiled and leaned in close. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with a little known fact that I love apple dumplings and ice cream would it?”

  “Nope, nothing at all,” Chelsie said, returning the smile.

  The players all thanked the girls for the food and both sides began drifting towards warmer locations.

  “Will I see you tonight?” Chelsie asked as Clay started to head towards the stairs behind the others.

  “Mmm, I don’t know,” Clay said. “Depends how late we go. There’s only six of us, and it’s not like many of us are long winded—“

  “Accept Goldie.”

  “Accept Goldie, so it should be fairly early. If so, I’ll give you a call.”

  “Sounds good, see you then!”

  “See you then,” Clay said, turning towards the locker room, the steaming apple dumpling in his hand.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  For years, the honor of serving dinner at Senior Night was performed by the same five women. Each was the wife of a coach on the team at the time of the first Senior Night in 1968 and they enjoyed doing it so much, they continued for the next twenty-five years.

  One by one the women passed away until only two remained. Coupled with the growing number of players on the team, they were unable to keep up any longer and they respectfully resigned after the 1993 Senior Night.

  Starting then, the Huntsville Boosters happily took over the task. The first couple of years it was performed by the Board, but soon every booster wanted to be a part of it and a lottery began.

  The only rules to the lottery were that you couldn’t be a parent of an active member of the team and you couldn’t serve dinner two years in a row. Each year it was the first thing done by the newly elected Board and through the years a myriad of stories had sprung up involving conspiracy theories on people trying to stuff the ballot.

  It wasn’t that people were clamoring to serve spaghetti as much as the fact that after the meal was served, they could stay and listen to the senior speeches. For many, it was a time where they could hear in a player’s own words what their time at Huntsville had meant. For others, it was a validation that their adoration for the Hornets as fans was matched by the passion of the players.

  It was a lot easier to be fanatical about something, knowing that everyone around them felt the same way. One jumped, everybody jumped.

  While many of the underclassmen ran home as soon as practice was over, Clay and the other seniors didn’t bother. By the time they reached the locker room it was already five o’clock, so Clay enjoyed his apple dumpling before hitting the showers and getting back into the clothes he had worn to school that day.

  At a quarter to six he walked his gym bag out to the truck, then he and the other seniors headed for the cafeteria. They took the long way through the halls, purposefully walking by the glass trophy cases on the outside of the gym.

  The cases lined both sides of the hall, fifty feet in length with three shelves in each. One side held the various accomplishments and accolades of football teams throughout the years. State championships, league titles, individual record holders. The other trophy case held all other sports.

  The group walked slowly along, surveying the teams of past decades. Teams with facemasks of a single bar and lineman that weighed one hundred and fifty pounds. Teams like the 1971 squad that didn’t trail for a single second the entire season, despite it being before the division system was instituted and playing teams from Cincinnati and Cleveland.

  One entire case was filled with game balls from various championships, some with the date and scores written on them in marker and others wearing nothing but grass stains and dirt.

  The last sections of the case held pictures and displays of various Hornets throughout the years. Thus far the school had retired three numbers, each of which hung on the back wall of the case.

  The first was the number 88, worn by Sam Sayers in the 60’s, still the only Hornet to ever see the NFL as a receiver for the Jets. The second was number 21, worn by Jerry Riskell, the only resident of Huntsville killed in Vietnam. His death occurred just nine months after his last game. The final retired number was 93, worn by Coach Stanson when he himself was a player many years ago. The retiring was symbolic of his coaching career, but the boosters had decided to retire his playing number too as a sig
n of appreciation.

  Pictures of All-Ohio players stood in frames of varying size and shape, reflecting over a dozen young men throughout the years. The largest and most recent addition to the case were two framed pictures of Colt, one catching a touchdown pass in the state championship just three years prior and another of him catching a touchdown pass in the Horseshoe at Ohio State for the Hoosiers the season before. There were even some rumors that his number 45 would be the next one retired.

  Clay paused at the pictures of his brother and stared a few extra moments as the group moved forward. He focused on the picture of the touchdown from the state championship a few years earlier, remembering the play and where he had been standing just twenty yards away when it happened.

  Every member of the team, from senior to freshman, had a received a championship ring after that game. Both Colt and Clay’s were at home in their mother’s jewelry box where they were never touched. Colt’s because he didn’t believe in such things and Clay’s because he didn’t feel like he had really earned it.

  “You good?” Goldie called from down the hall, snapping Clay out of the memory. The rest of the guys were standing a short distance away, each looking back at him.

  “Excellent,” Clay said and half jogged to catch up with them. Goldie opened his mouth as if to offer a smart aleck response, but thought better of it and said nothing.

  The group wound into the cafeteria at three minutes before six. Most of the team was already there and seated haphazardly about the room, grouped around tables of five or six each. The coaching staff sat together at two tables towards the front and a general buzz of conversation hung over the room.

  The seniors chose a single table towards the front, opposite the coaches, and pulled up chairs. Pitchers of water sat in the middle of the table, along with small butter dishes and overturned water glasses.

  The seniors had just taken their seats when the doors to the cafeteria opened. Benny Winslow stepped out and beckoned everyone forward before disappearing back inside.

  Coach Stanson stood with his right hand raised, quieting the room before him. “Seniors, go ahead.”

  The six seniors rose as a group and headed for the serving line. Clay hung back as the other seniors entered, grabbing trays and moving forward.

  Behind the counter were Benny and Bert Winslow, along with Myrtle and Jasper Hymen, a retired couple from across town. Bert was the first of the serving line, scooping spaghetti noodles onto plates and sliding it to Benny who ladled homemade meat sauce atop it. Myrtle piled fresh baked bread onto each of the plates and handed it to the players as Jasper used tongs to drop Caesar salad onto clear plastic plates and pass them across as well.

  The line worked as a smooth machine, serving the other five seniors in record time as Clay approached. “Only two of the Killer B’s working tonight? I bet poor Barney is somewhere cussing up a storm.”

  Bert made a sour face and said, “He can’t be too worked up, he got to serve last year.”

  Clay paused and thought back a moment. “Yeah, that’s right he did. And if I remember correctly he rather enjoyed the fact he was here and you boys weren’t.”

  “Luckily for us, there weren’t many fireworks for him to brag about. This year, we really need you guys to come up with something good that we can hold over his head.”

  Clay laughed and said, “I’ll see what I can do...or better yet, I’ll see what Goldie can do.”

  The entire serving line laughed as Clay exited and headed towards the table. As he did so the coaching staff rose in unison and headed for the line.

  Clay took his seat at the table, flipped his water glass over and filled it. The others were already eating accept for Goldie who said, “What are we drinking to Superstar?”

  Clay thought for a moment, then smiled. “To the Dirty Half Dozen.”

  He raised his glass as the other seniors agreed and the group clinked glasses. They drank deeply and dug into the spaghetti as the juniors, followed by the sophomores and freshmen took their turn through the line.

  A half hour of food and laughter passed and as soon as the last player was served, Bert and Benny began circling with large tubs and picked up the plates and glasses of those who were finished. Another half hour passed as the servers collected the dishes and the team finished eating. In the back, the sounds of the large dishwashers being loaded and unloaded could be heard.

  At fifteen minutes after seven, the four servers filed into the back of the cafeteria. Coach Stanson watched them enter and once they were seated stood again with his hand raised.

  “As you all know tonight is one of the oldest traditions in Huntsville football. One thing I believe in more than anything is closure and Senior Night is one of the best ways I know how to offer that.

  “Look around. There’s nobody here but us. Now, these six seniors have been through hell and high water these past years. They have worked their tails off and have done everything that this town and this team have asked of them.

  “The floor is theirs to say whatever they like to whomever they like. Whatever is said in this room stays in this room. Whatever they need to get off their chest is just that and is not to be taken any further. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” the room murmured together.

  “Tomorrow morning, we call it up in the front lobby at seven-thirty sharp. What time?”

  “Seven-thirty,” the team responded.

  He turned to the table of seniors. “Gentlemen, the floor is yours. I won’t say another word until tomorrow morning’s call-up.” He extended a hand towards the front of the room and lowered himself into his seat.

  Matt stood first and shuffled to the front of the room.

  “Hey guys,” he began, giving a shy smile. “You guys all know I’m not a huge talker, so I’ll keep this short.

  “First I just want to thank Coach Stanson for allowing me to be a Hornet and to Coach Dorcheck for working with me the last few years. I’d like to thank all of you that have worked so hard and made this such a great season. Finally, I’d like to thank the senior class. You guys have been like brothers to me, on and off the field, and this has been the most fun I’ve ever had in my life.”

  He pressed his lips together and nodded to the room. “Thank you,” then moved back to his seat. As he got there Goldie reached out and slapped him on the back as the room clapped.

  Marksy was the next one up. He stood right where Matt had before him, with his hands stuffed deep into his pockets, and looked the room over before speaking.

  “Evening, everybody. I know this is a little different venue than we’re used to seeing each other in, so I hope you’ll indulge me if I diverge a little from just the traditional thank you’s. I would of course like to thank Coach Stanson and the rest of the staff for allowing me to be a part of this team and working with me to develop whatever bit of talent they saw there. I would also like to thank each of you sitting here, especially the senior class, for making this season so special.”

  He paused for a moment to collect himself and said, “Over the last few weeks I’ve given some thought to what I would say when I got up here in front of you guys. I’ve kicked around dozens of different ideas and the one I kept coming back to has been, look to each other.

  “Guys, believe me, I know how much this can suck. There is nothing fun about spring practices, or early morning runs, or two-a-days in the heat. What’s fun, what you’re going to look back and remember, is the time with the other guys. Getting through it together. Hanging out in the locker room and wearing your jersey to school on Fridays.

  “Yeah, you’re going to remember the games and the sound of the gravel as you walk out and the band playing after a touchdown. But I promise you, each other will be what stays with you the most. It will be what stays with me the most and what I will always be indebted to all of you for. Thank you.”

  Applause broke out around the room as Marksy walked back and took a seat. Rich and Lyle looked at each other and rose in
unison. Side by side they walked to the front of the room and stood before the team.

  “Whoa, they’re actually going up together?” Goldie whispered. “Has anybody ever done that before?”

  “Not that I know of,” Clay responded, “but that doesn’t mean it can’t happen.”

  “So, we know it’s a little uncommon for two people to come up here together,” Rich began, “but we decided that we both would probably end up saying the same thing anyway so we decided to go with it.”

  “Besides, most of you guys can’t tell us apart anyway, so why bother giving the same message from the same person twice?” Lyle added.

  The crowd chuckled, punctuated by a couple of loud claps from Goldie and Matt.

  “Now just like all the other seniors, we have a great many thank you’s to make, but we’ll get to those one at a time and in person,” Lyle continued. “Instead, we figured we would share with all of you what this entire ride has meant for the both of us.”

  “As many of you may not know,” Rich said, “we came very close to being two more of the original fourteen that aren’t up here before you tonight. Two more guys wearing jeans and flannels on Fridays and trying our damnedest to pretend that we didn’t know what was going on out on that field.”

  “Or worse yet, two guys going and watching and trying to pretend that it didn’t matter to us,” Lyle said. He paused a moment and glanced to his brother. “See, like most of the families in this town, we pay the bills by farming.”

  “And sometimes, that means more bills and less paying,” Rich said. “Last summer, our farm was dangerously in the red and the bank was starting to come around. A lot.”

  “Daddy was sleeping less and less and mom, well, she just cried,” Lyle said.

  “I remember one night we went down to the reservoir to do some cat fishing and we ended up talking a long time. We talked about how we could help the family and how much it would kill us to give up football.”

  “In the end,” Lyle said, “we decided we would hang up our cleats and do what we could to keep things going.”