Annual Appearance
Once a year, my family shovels out five dollars apiece to watch Woodland face off against Wedowee in basketball. The rivalry is decades old, my husband's alma mater the former, mine the latter. That's not why we go, though. We go to watch the sons and daughters of friends and family, just like they come to dance recitals and concerts to watch mine.
Friday night, we take our seats midway up the bleachers on the visitor's side, near the exit, in Wedowee's new gym. I had forgotten about the latest mud tossing—the insistence that Woodland's fans have no class. They don't. I'm no fan, so I can say that.
Jeff and I spread out on the bleacher, taking up more room than we need, expecting lots of visits from children from both sides. One of the benefits of my twelve years in the daycare business. We have a large extended family.
Across the gym on the home side, the JV girls' from both teams get their pre-game pep talks. Carley (a former daycare baby) plays JV. Her siblings—Callen age six and McKenzie age nine—are sitting between Jeff and me. She'll come speak to us after the game. Seventh grade changes things.
Across the gym on the home side, the JV girls' from both teams get their pre-game pep talks. Carley (a former daycare baby) plays JV. Her siblings—Callen age six and McKenzie age nine—are sitting between Jeff and me. She'll come speak to us after the game. Seventh grade changes things.
On both sides, fans wear election shirts, spatterings of the Woodland crew sporting “Re-elect Paul Gay, Superintendent of Education,” while about as many of Wedowee's fans don “Vote for Change, Elect Rance Kirby.” Campaign cards are dealt.
Levi, my best friend's middle child, comes to chat before his game. After punching Jeff on the shoulder, he talks to me about his mom. “She's not coming tonight. Caylin has a gymnastics meet. That stuff is all the time.”
Woodland's JV girls take a fairly easy win, holding Wedowee to 15 points to their own 38. At halftime, McKenzie had predicted 38 to 16. She grins as Jeff tells everybody. He's impressed. So am I.
Wedowee's JV boys answer back, beating their rivals by a cool 19. While the varsity-B boys play, the crowd thickens, boys without shirts making their way to Wedowee's top right bleacher. One passes by on our side sporting a large blue “G” on his pale, hairless chest, his belly a little like jello. Girls in halter tops join the bare-chested, and I note their painted bodies shifting around to send our fans a message. “RCHS IGERS!!!”
Jeff wonders out loud, “Where's the 'T?'”
There's a girl in a white shirt standing between the “S” and “I.” “Maybe she has a 'T' sign,” I offer. But then the “T” guy shows up, and I realize the white shirt girl is the space.
When the varsity girls come out to play, the crowd gets animated, empty coke bottles thumping against legs, feet tapping against metal bleachers, fans identifying the players they know. Grandmas, aunts, uncles, moms, dads giving in to habits, biting nails, chewing bottom lips, readjusting hats. Rap music booms from the loud speaker while fans and cheerleaders form a human tunnel, dramatizing the girls' entrance.
Wedowee won't put up double digits. Both teams know it. Leading Woodland's lineup are the Strain girls—Leah, Shanna, Shalyn, and Amy. Coach Strain had these girls playing together from the time they could dribble—his daughter Leah, her twin cousins, and a cousin from another brother. Leah, a sophomore, is already being courted by Alabama, Florida, and Tennessee, her older sister Courtney on full athletic scholarship at Auburn. Jade Walker is the fifth starter.
A thinned-down version of Wedowee's marching band plays, “All I do is win, win, win, no matter what. Got money on my mind and I can never get enough. Cuz every time I step up in the building, everybody's hands go up.” I know this because my daughter Emily, behind me, sings along.
After the whistle, the girls' shoes squeak incessantly, like baby birds in a nest, impatient for their food. Jade's dad yells, “You're out there by yourself baby. You gotta shoot!” A reference to the Strain team.
Wedowee's white-jerseyed girls can't take a shot, the girls in orange dispensing with the typical one on one blocks, all going after the ball. Frustrated, the girls in white look more like spectators as orange blur after orange blur demonstrate layups. They don't miss. Three's. Two's. Foul shots. Swoosh. At halftime, the score is 44 to 4. The final, 79 to 9. McKenzie had predicted 80 to 10.
The varsity boys enter through their respective human spirit lines. “All we do is win, win, win.” The painted bodies start their chanting, “We, Wedowee, we we Wedowee.” The final game.
Wedowee rallies, driving up a 10-point lead. The Woodland boys step up, closing the gap to one, just as the halftime buzzer sounds. After the whistle, Woodland's Ricky Stevens, still mobile from chasing the ball, slices through the sandwiched fans on the guest side bleachers, a slave to his unchecked momentum.
In the second half, Woodland stays slightly behind, keeping their own Coach Jones animated and on his feet. He's tall and thin with a slight stoop. His mouth stays open, but his words get absorbed before they get to me. Except for the oft repeated, “You hear me? You hear me?” That part I get. He never turns his back on the court, following the ball like an orangutan running sideways. “You hear me?”
During a timeout, a Wedowee player chats with a ref. Behind me, a disgruntled fan shouts, “Stop talking to the ref! Hey! Number 14! Stop talking to the ref!”
At the final buzzer, Wedowee gets the win, 59-52. Shots of the scoreboard get uploaded instantly to Facebook. Noone posts the girls' score.
Great job! Yes, the exercise is really about what to leave out. Remember: selection is meaning. You can't give us everything, so you have to think of what you get for free, what seems odd or curious enough to keep, what seems extraneous. Up front, you don't really know (hence your trepidation). Now that you have the piece written, however, think of this: what if this piece is not about the particular game but rather about the way we go through these social rituals? You're a captive audience and stacked for the particular kids of your friends. In ancient Rome, the wealthy would often hire professional mourners to make their funerals look better attended. These pros knew how to cry, really egged it on. In fact, that's where our word "placebo" comes from: these people were called placebos, or "I will please." Maybe that's the title of this piece: "Pretty Please"?
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