I Almost Didn’t: 10.23.05
Smell the Coffee” column from the Sunday, Oct. 23, 2005 Sunday Gazette-Mail:
To think I almost didn’t go.
It had been a rough week, filled with one maddening little disaster after another. I’ll spare you the details, but recovery from just one of those little disasters required the purchase of Excedrin, Pepto Bismol, spot remover, Lysol, a six-pack of paper towels, and a jug of Tide so big I can convert the empty into a goldfish pond.
My lucky husband missed the whole thing, as he’d been in Morgantown for the week keeping his grandmother company while his folks were away. The plan was for Celeste and I to join him there on Friday night, then on Saturday, we’d use his dad’s season tickets to go to the WVU-Louisville game.
But by Friday, I was frazzled. High strung and wound tight and loaded for bear. The last things I felt like doing come quitting time were packing the car, depositing my pay check in my gas tank and driving for three hours. I almost didn’t go. But I did.
As we waited at a traffic light near the interstate on-ramp, I told my daughter, “You’re probably going to think I’m insane . . .” Then I popped in a Christmas music CD. Soon, we were both happily butchering lyrics (”Rudolph the wet-nose reindeer, had a very runny nose . . .”). My dark mood started to lift. Christmas music can almost always do that for me.
The next day, Celeste and I were standing outside near a tree when two half-grown squirrels decided I’d make a good playground. It only lasted a few minutes, but I felt like Snow White. I almost expected blue birds to light on my shoulder.
To think I almost hadn’t gone. (And I haven’t even gotten to the game.)
When we arrived at Mountaineer Field, we met up with Uncle Rod and Aunt Brenda, who had a spare ticket for Celeste. Since our seats and theirs couldn’t have been more far apart, she’d sit with them for the first half, then move over with us if there was room.
It had been a while since I’d been to a game and I’d forgotten how rowdy our fans can be. “That’s the Screamer,” Geoff said the first time the nearby regular screeched so loud he scared a few new grays into sprouting from my scalp. The game hadn’t even started and the guy was already barking coaching suggestions at the players as they warmed up.
Once I grew accustomed to his strangely-timed and oddly worded rants (”Run away, bunnies! Run away!,”) I really got into the game. So did the five passionate and thoroughly blood-thinned men seated in front of us, although their method of cheering included the loud and liberal use of many four-letter words. I was relieved Celeste wasn’t sitting with us. I pictured her attempting to make them put coins in the swear jar after each word.
The sun was blinding on the side of the stadium we were on, so I made arrangements to finance a ball cap from a nearby souvenir stand. I hoped the poor college-age guy seated next to me would see how I was wearing my new hat and realize his was on backwards, which was why he had to shield his eyes with his hand.
By a few minutes into the third quarter, when the score reached 24-7 and many of the seats around us had cleared out, I went over and retrieved Celeste, believing we might leave soon ourselves. I was leaning that way.
And then, man, what a game! I’d never been present for something like that, never been so invested that I forgot to be inhibited and was screaming right along with everyone else.
To think I almost didn’t go. That I almost chose to stay home and sulk. That I almost missed out on singing Christmas carols in October and touching wild squirrels and seeing a game that will likely never be rivaled.
I almost didn’t. But thank God I did.
