National airtime

I watched my team play tonight. The Purdue Boilermakers from West Lafayette, Indiana. Coach Gene Keady has one of the most valiant combovers in the Big Ten. And his hair never seems to change color. It stays dark enough to make it seem as if, with his gold blazer, he is perpetually displaying the team colors.

It's with very mixed feelings that I watch Purdue play. As cheering as it is to watch a "hometown" game from 600 miles away, I must consider the balance. Is the heartwarming nostalgia and the feeling of home worth knowing that there is some subliminal force that takes over as soon as my eyes connect with that television screen? Some malevolent essence that will inevitably tilt the scales of fortune in favor of whoever Purdue is playing?

I'm like a junkie who has just been handed a fix by a passing stranger. I'm not a "sports nut." I have dear friends who are into fantasy sports leagues in a way that is beyond my comprehension. I don't particularly care for the sports section of the newspaper. All those statistics are too close to the financial pages for my taste. Numbers leave me cold. I enjoy watching, though. That's it. I'm an athletics voyeur. I rarely look at television listings, but if I happen to surf past a game and a Big Ten team is playing, I'll probably stop and watch.

I shouldn't. I know this. I have this wicked mojo that drives the best efforts of my adopted college straight into the septic tank. But I have difficulty mustering the will to mutter a quick prayer and skip the channel, having faith that God will lead my team to victory. Nope. I have to tune in. Particularly if they are playing Indiana University. Everybody knows the devil wears red and so do the Hoosiers. But I am compelled to watch. Somewhere in the bargain I turn the fortunes of the boys in gold and black over to the machinations of the Evil One and they fail to win. Again. Before the eyes of the nation. Alas.

It's worse living on this coast. Something in the air here diminishes the capacity of people to see beyond their fences. I can't tell you how many times people have asked me if Purdue University has anything to do with chickens. Watch carefully people. P-U-R-D-U-E. Count the E's. That's right. One. P-E-R-D-U-E. Those are the chicken fellas.

It happened again tonight. I watched a very close game. Almost to the end. Then IU began hitting three-pointers with disgusting accuracy. I might as well have replaced the sound of the announcer's voiceovers with the sound of a commode flushing. The end result was about the same. At least I suppose. At 10 seconds left in the game, I walked away. I can know Purdue is losing again, but you can't make me look as it happens.

Next time, Hoosiers. Next time.

Boosters

Katie and I attended a River Hill HS girl's basketball game on Friday. We were the away team. I like to think of River Hill being in Clarksville. I like that because Clarksville, although adjacent to, is not precisely in Columbia. Something about Columbia and covenants, and committees telling you when to cut your lawn and what color to paint your house leaves me cold. The truth is that River Hill and Clarksville have become virtually indistinguishable from Columbia. But please indulge me my little fantasy here. Because River Hill crushed the Hammond High Lady Golden Bears. And that made me feel good. Hammond High, by the way, is a Columbia school.

Yes indeed, the junior varsity game was won with a score of 58 to 15. The varsity squad played an 80 to 36 game. It's not that the Hammond High girls failed to play well. Giving them their due, they are people, even though they are Columbian people. But they didn't play at the same level as the River Hill girls.

I like high school sports. Just the fact that these kids are taking the time to participate in something as valuable as honing their physical skills and learning the value of teamwork is worthwhile. It was inspiring to watch them play. And humbling to admit that any one of them--on either team--could have humiliated me in a game of P-I-G, let alone a little one-on-one.

Don't imagine that Friday was the end of our booster endeavors. We braved the elements on Saturday to cheer River Hill's wrestling squad.

We pulled up to the school and entered the front doors. This was hallowed ground. The home of the Hawks. All was quiet at the front office, so we followed Katie's lead. Katie is in her second year at River Hill, so she led us confidently through those sacred hallways, past those gleaming lockers lining the passageway like sentinels at constant attention, and through the double doors and beyond the echoing stairwells to the gymnasium where the lads in Lycra were set to punish their opponents.

The auxiliary gymnasium, which we never had in my high school, by the way, was unlit and silent. The main gymnasium, where the Hawks and Lady Hawks ply their roundball trade on the shining hardwood floors, was equally empty. So we pushed hopefully against the release bars of the entryway doors and stepped into the chill Saturday afternoon. The glare, when compared to the cool, soothing lighting inside the building, was intense. That's because the light was reflecting from the thin dusting of snow that swirled around the parking lot. The same snow, in fact (perhaps one-half inch of the stuff) for which they had postponed the wrestling match. No parents. No fans. No grapplers eager to pit the gains of their hours in the weight room against equally eager opponents from a neighboring school. Just quiet, empty hallways and a handful of cars that had brought students and teachers together for "Saturday School." Don't ask me. I think it's a euphemism for detention hall. For those folks, school was definitely in session yesterday.