what’s a little cow bell between friends and rivals?
My daughter tried to warn me. An acquaintance from high school asked if we were going to the homecoming game last night. Newberg vs. McMinnville. We were, but only because a good friend’s son was playing. When I said we were meeting friends from Mac there, Gertrude said, “NEVER tell people you have friends in McMinnville. Even if you do.”
We found each other at the grandstand thanks to cell phone technology and took our seats with the old folks – away from the pep band on the far side of the perpetually screaming, standing students. We talked and cheered until their team did something exceptional and my friend, for whom I wore a fluffy bright blue bridesmaid dress with a huge bow on my derriere 21 years ago, stood up and rang a cowbell. While I was clapping for their son, the woman two rows in front of us turned around and calmly voiced her disbelief that my friends were sitting on “our side” and told them to go over where they belonged, pointing to the visitor bleachers across the football field.
My friend’s husband tapped her on the shoulder and quietly asked if she was serious. She was. Deadly. She didn’t care that they had been invited by us to sit there and, furthermore, she was one of the coach’s wives - all said in a very polite string of venemous words. My friends looked baffled. I was shocked and embarrassed. People around us said to never mind her, enjoy the game.
I thought about it for a moment and decided that I’d come to watch Johnny play. I’d known him since his original 8 pounds and now that he towers over both Steve and me put together, I wanted to see what he could do in one of his last games his senior year. I planned on cheering for him when he did well and I wasn’t going to sit there absorbing the coach’s wife’s negative vibes for doing so.
I stood up, encouraging our friends to move to the other side with us saying that I was certain the citizens of McMinnville won’t boo us when we ring the cowbell for Newberg on their bleachers. I was right.
A single cowbell of support from the visitor side didn't help Newberg win the game but maybe it did make the coach's wife feel better about losing (again).
We found each other at the grandstand thanks to cell phone technology and took our seats with the old folks – away from the pep band on the far side of the perpetually screaming, standing students. We talked and cheered until their team did something exceptional and my friend, for whom I wore a fluffy bright blue bridesmaid dress with a huge bow on my derriere 21 years ago, stood up and rang a cowbell. While I was clapping for their son, the woman two rows in front of us turned around and calmly voiced her disbelief that my friends were sitting on “our side” and told them to go over where they belonged, pointing to the visitor bleachers across the football field.
My friend’s husband tapped her on the shoulder and quietly asked if she was serious. She was. Deadly. She didn’t care that they had been invited by us to sit there and, furthermore, she was one of the coach’s wives - all said in a very polite string of venemous words. My friends looked baffled. I was shocked and embarrassed. People around us said to never mind her, enjoy the game.
I thought about it for a moment and decided that I’d come to watch Johnny play. I’d known him since his original 8 pounds and now that he towers over both Steve and me put together, I wanted to see what he could do in one of his last games his senior year. I planned on cheering for him when he did well and I wasn’t going to sit there absorbing the coach’s wife’s negative vibes for doing so.
I stood up, encouraging our friends to move to the other side with us saying that I was certain the citizens of McMinnville won’t boo us when we ring the cowbell for Newberg on their bleachers. I was right.
A single cowbell of support from the visitor side didn't help Newberg win the game but maybe it did make the coach's wife feel better about losing (again).
posted by kathy at
8:19 AM
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