September means football season, or did, at our house. From the time I married Barry Beall, I knew that Saturday afternoons in the fall meant he would be watching or listening to Georgia football.
One time on vacation in Tennessee, we had at a nice cabin in the mountains, but there was no television at that cabin. Barry could not believe that I would book a rental where he could not see the University of Georgia play football.
We drove to the nearest town where he bought
rabbit ears in hopes he could get the TV in the living room to play. Seems it was only there to play DVDs. When it became obvious that we would not be seeing the University of Georgia play football that weekend, Barry and my brother-in-law, Stu, drove into town and found a bar where they could see the game.
At home, I knew that Saturday afternoons would always find Barry in his chair in front of the TV. As I moved about the house doing whatever I wanted to do, the sound of the crowd filled the space and the voice of the sports announcer rang loud and clear. Barry was with them, on the field, playing as hard as the uniformed boys on the turf. If the dogs lost, he was down for days. Unlike some fans, Barry never blamed the coach. He was a fan of Coach Dooley and later was a fan of the coach that followed him.
In the early years, I griped because I wanted him to do something with me on the weekend, not sit in front of a screen. I cared nothing about football and actually thought of it as a cruel sport. So many of those young men ended up hurt and even some died due to injuries at practice or in the game. But for a number of years, we rode up to Athens, GA with my brother Rex and his wife to sit in the stands and watch the game.
That was really love on my part. In those days women dressed up for the football game in pantyhose, high heels and fall dresses that were far too warm for the summer-like weather. I hated going to those games. Not being a fan, I often had trouble following the plays. One day I fainted. I know that was embarrassing for my husband. We were on our way out when I passed out. He was sweet and kind and took care of me. I woke up with him holding me in his arms.
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| Sanford Stadium in Athens, Georgia. I was often in that field of red sweating among thousands |
I liked Uga, the bulldog mascot, but felt real sympathy for him. He would get so hot on the sidelines his tongue practically dragged the ground as he panted. Eventually the dog was given a doghouse on wheels with a big bag of ice inside. I think the owners were afraid he would have a heart attack.
Among things that surprised me after my husband died, was how much I missed Saturday afternoons in the fall when our house was filled with football. I longed to hear the roar of the crowd, and the celebratory sounds coming from Barry's chair when his team won. Something I had taken for granted for 45 years was gone, and I had never thought I would miss it.
I told my friend,
Karen Holmes about this and she used my words in this poem.
In Football Season, I Learn to Appreciate What I Have
Twenty-one geese just honked by, low to the gray lake.
My dogs normally ignore bird sounds, yet
rush to the window now, seem to believe
it’s their own species barking a foreign tongue.
As geese do, the honkers turn on a dime,
fly off the way they came.
I think of home,
the language of traffic, how I worry
whenever a siren screams on Peachtree,
say a quick prayer for the dying or injured flying
to Piedmont Hospital, and for the loved ones. My friend
Glenda, a widow for three years, says she misses
football sounds rolling through the house each weekend,
though she had fussed when her husband
wouldn’t turn it off.
Chris watches now.
I’m getting used to it again: the crowd’s low thunder
under commentator prattle. Sometimes I watch a bit
or bring my laptop to the couch, look up
when the noise swells or Chris swears. Sometimes I get tired
of that TV rumbling most of Sunday after rumbling
most of Saturday, but I remember Glenda. And I remember
my first husband’s snoring: I’d lie there telling myself
I’d miss it if he were gone, but sometimes I slept
in the other room. I remember Mother, who never spoke
of these things, hinting to me that she wished
she’d been more intimate with Father when she had the
chance,
before the earthquake of his Parkinson’s. And farther back,
during my family’s three-week migration to Lake Huron,
I remember Mother mad at him for sticking to the radio’s
static
as Ernie Harwell crackled the Detroit Tigers’ play-by-play,
my sisters and I picking at him to swim with us again,
carry us again on his shoulders across the blue deep
to that clear strip of aqua-- the sandbar--
where we’d splash, up to our knees in laughter.
