Sunday Night

Dusk sits just below the horizon.

A waning sun robs the evening air of warmth, allowing autumn’s fingers to slide under jambs and between panes. Candles, as she walks through the house lighting them, thwart their progress.

Music plays; good music, new music, soulful music, punctuating the air with an invitation to dance.

And she does. As she peels shrimp; tossing their casings into a pan. As she chops vegetables, and chooses seasonings. As she sips…

The slamming of the door accentuates a guitar chord, and she moves to the window.

She watches as he stands, helmeted; his college-style jersey swallowing his mesh shorts. On his feet, two different shoes, one white, and one black; in homage to a game they watched together, the day before.

“The kick is up….and it is good!” The crowd roars!

He trots in the opposite direction in his mismatched shoes; chest out, arms raised. He hears the roar of the crowd. He feels the admiration of the fans. And, as he returns to his imaginary sideline, he shoves his helmet to the top of his head, not totally off, and definitely not on, in admiration of Sunday’s warriors.

And she smiles, and gives silent thanks for all that is hers.

An Unlikely Cheerleader…

“Baby? Could you go get my A-1 out of the glove compartment?”

The incongruous words were bellowed in a voice that could belong to only one person, so when I turned to look in the direction of the blast I was not surprised to see Jim struggling to remove himself from the metal folding chair he had encompassed. Rhonda smiled benevolently, and stretched one meaty arm across the corner of the table in an effort to hold the uncompromising metal still, while slamming the other on the table itself, as Jim’s girth competed for space in close quarters. A nearby dinner companion steadied a tent pole, as Jim finally extricated himself and headed towards the parking lot, and the coveted A-1.

The woman sitting to her left made a comment. Rhonda threw back her massive head and let forth a laugh that, once again, threatened to upset our picnic as her abdomen beat a rhythm against the uncertain, metal rim of the folding table.

“No one but you Rhonda!”, I shouted down the length of the table. “No one but you!”

Several pairs of hands grabbed for their plates as she laughed again before answering.

“Honey,” (She always calls me “honey” or “baby”. There was a time when I wasn’t sure she knew my name.) “Honey, I came to this thing last year. Fool me once, you know? I mean, who the hell eats a steak without steak sauce, huh? Ever since, I’ve carried a bottle in the car. Where is he?” And with that, she grabbed the opposite corner of the table to pull her mass towards the parking lot, and those who had not secured their plates earlier, did so.

“You’re doing a great job, you know…” I offered loudly, as she scanned the baseball diamond-turned-picnic-spot for signs of her devoted husband.

“Oh, thanks, honey!” As she turned, I made the decision to remove my plate to my lap. The odds just seemed better.

“And what about this?”, she asked while plucking up the shoulders of her dri-fit shirt between thumbs and forefingers. As she cocked her head, one end of the large, orange, and white, polka-dot bow securing her ponytail covered one dancing brown eye.
“Men’s sizes!” She exclaimed. “They finally got men’s sizes! This baby needs a Triple X!” Another explosive laugh, and several diners followed my lead.

The only time I see her other than football season is during girl-scout cookie sales, when she pilots her mini-van into the driveways of everyone she knows, and bellows “Hey, girl!” behind a jiggling, waving arm, as we make our selections. Her efforts have won her daughter “Salesperson of the Year” awards for three years running.

This year, she coaches our cheerleading squad. That’s right; a loud, brazen, 300 pound cheerleading coach! And, she does it well.

In years past, our squads were anemic, at best. The largest squad we carried was comprised of six girls, whose paltry pre-pubescent voices got lost amidst the yells of an admittedly rowdy group of Moms. Protests were made by the cheerleading parents, and we tried to accommodate by cheering along, but this is hard to do when you can’t hear the cheer.

“Cheer-offs” were painful, at best. As parents in the stands strained to hear their daughter’s voices over blaring hip-hop spewing from conspicuously placed loud-speakers, mother’s hands covered disappointed mouths while they planned ways to put a positive spin on utter embarrassment.

But, this year is different. This year under the phenomenon known to the girls as “Miss Rhonda”, it is not just the size of the coach that has doubled. There are twelve girls on the squad. Their voices are loud and clear, and their cheers sleek, sophisticated, and difficult.

As they practiced before the game, the sprite at the top of the pyramid began to sway, and the larger girls below responded by catching her as best they could; arms and legs splayed, body unnaturally twisted, but safe, above ground, and safe.

I leaned in towards my friend and remarked, “Oh, good. I’m actually glad I saw that. I mean, you know it happens. Now we know how they handle it!”

“Yeah,” she responded. “I guess it does.” And then, “Do you think Rhonda was a cheerleader in high school?”

We sat in silence for several seconds before noticing the ball sailing through the air over our son’s helmeted heads, and we joined the others in jumping to our feet, hands hand high, adding our voices.

With the game in the bag, and another victory under our collective belts, the stands emptied in the direction of our sons and the after-game speech.

I met Rhonda at the bottom of the stairs.

“Hey, girl! How you doin’, honey?”, Perpetual laughter propelled her words towards me, as orange and white polka-dots danced above cheeks made even plumper by a wide smile.

My arms around her shoulders left at least a foot of uncovered dri-fit as I hugged her and then drew back, leaving my arms in place.

“You are doing such a great job! We were wondering…”, I began. “Were you a cheerleader?”

“Oh, honey, you know, I was right there. Didn’t have the grades…”, her laughter shook both of us, as her girth rested upon my abdomen, while I watched her chocolate eyes dance in merriment, and something more.

Here was a woman who was comfortable in her own body, all 300 pounds of it. She embraced her strengths, and understood her frailties, and she endured. No, more than endured, she thrived. And, she paid it forward…

And, His Name Is Palmer…

He has played football with this group of boys for, at least 3 years, already. And still, no one knows his name.

He is slight, pale, and thin. My son, who shares a huddle with him, has never heard him speak.

Midway through our first game, and carrying a comfortable lead, the boys huddled up in preparation for another drive. The huddle broke, as Moms stood and strained to find the numbered jersey they had taken from the washing machine the night before. Several seconds passed before the ball sailed through the air, forcing every pair of feminine eyes away from the backs of their progeny, and onto the arc of brown leather. The catch was made, “the crowd went wild”, and a quarterback was born.

Now, three games into an eight game season, the situation is vastly different. The Panthers are trailing an unworthy opponent, and the starting quarterback is carrying a decided limp. Enter our nameless, faceless, voiceless hero.

I watch as this child, easily fifteen pounds lighter than most of the boys he is challenging, stands; steady, strong, and brave. He takes the snap and dances backwards, awkwardly, in a valiant imitation of a poster on his bedroom wall. His rail-thin arm raises, and he flings the leather in full knowledge he will be hit by a force much bigger, much faster, and much more athletic than he can ever hope to be. And he does so, without a flinch, without complaint; standing tall.

Seven times in a row, the play is repeated. Seven times he huddles with boys who won’t know him in school, come Monday. Seven times, they break and he takes his place in the hot seat. He takes seven snaps, and hurls the ball into the air seven times. And, seven times, the receiver fails to make a catch.

Every time the huddle breaks, I watch his thin, spandex covered body assume the position, and my fists clench in hope. This will be the time! This time he will catch it! And every time the ball hits the ground, or another child’s helmet, or a referee’s hands, I flinch, knowing we have to go back in…

And, soon, as the ball leaves his thin, pale fingers, I find myself unable to follow the trajectory, and, instead, seek to find the one who will deliver the blow. And, as I see the crash about to take place, my hand covers my mouth, and my eyes narrow as I hold my breath in sympathy.

This boy is not my child. But, he is someone’s child. And he is brave, and valiant, and unexpected.

After the seventh throw, the ball has bounced off the turf into a waiting referee’s hands. Mercilessly repeated disappointment has silenced the crowd, and it happens before I know to stop it.

“DO WE HAVE A PLAN “B”?” I yell bravely, valiantly, unexpectedly, and, loudly.