Nice Guys Finish Last

         I got carsick on the way. That was the omen that was gnawing on my attitude as my parents bought general admission tickets to the "Mighty Mission Eagle" football game.
         Frankly, I took everything as an omen for the Eagles’ loss. Frankly, I didn’t need an omen. I knew they were going to lose. All four years I myself was an Eagle, the football team never did any good; if they started getting good this year, I'd certainly feel gypped. Anyways, from the weekly reports of my family, I knew they’d lost all their games this year. My, what a streak.
         The thing that surprised me as I sat in the Away section of the stadium was that there were fans sitting around me. I’d been gone all year. What was their excuse?
         The splatter of maroon and white reminded me that my little town of Mission had one form of live entertainment: high school football. These people were loyal fans because they had nothing better to do. Maybe they didn’t want to miss what could very well be the Eagles’ first big win.
         As for me, I felt above them all. I wore blue. The only reason I wasn’t wearing my lucky OLLU cap was because I just happened to forget it at my dorm. And because I knew that "we" were going to lose, I didn’t bother actually watching the game. I watched the crowd, the cheerleaders, the players and coaches on the sidelines.
I saw the little girls dressed in homemade cheerleading outfits mimic the cheerleaders.
         M-I-S-S-I-O-N E-A-G-L-E-S. Why do cheerleaders spell everything? D-E-F-E-N-S-E. It must be some trick they’re playing on elementary kids to learn how to spell. Subliminal Spelling. Yeah, that must be it.
         The crowd groaned.
         "Huh?" I muttered.
         "The Rattlers (those were our opponents, by the way.) got a touchdown," my mother explained. That was quick. I watched for a moment, to act like I cared. Then I floated off again.
         Nice guys finish last. This was the song that was running through my head as I casually watched the head coach grab a defensive player by the mask and shake him, screaming. These were high-schoolers. They were nice kids. Jerks, some of them. But not evil. It wasn’t their fault that they were horrible football players. These boys—I can call them boys now that I’m in college—didn’t need to be reminded that they sucked by an angry coach whose life seemingly depended on this. very. game. They must’ve known how much they sucked. Jocks aren’t all that stupid. Some of them, anyways.
         Suddenly the crowd was in an uproar. The Rattlers managed to steal the football and scored another touchdown. Hm. Offensive line wasn’t much better. Fourteen to zero. Go Eagles. Don’t wanna break that streak now.
         "Come on, Eagles!! DO something!" one man eventually yelled. The crowd laughed. I could feel the smirk tugging on my and the opponents’ mouths.
         I prodded my mother’s shoulder. "I want a pickle." My appetite was coming back. She nodded and handed me a twenty, adding a Coke and popcorn to the list. I zigzagged down the bleachers, listening to more comments.
         "Eres un burro!" The ref was a stubborn ass.
         "Why are you going that way??" As if going the other way would get us on the scoreboard.
         "Olivia! Get back here!!" That mother wasn’t watching the game; she was forced to watch her children instead.
         When I came back up munching on a pickle that tasted nothing like they used to, the score stood at twenty to zero. Damn.
         The halftime horn rang, and the Eagles went off to get yelled at as a group instead of individually. My brother once was on that team—back when they knew what winning felt like—and he told me just what happened during halftime. The coach made all sorts of attempts to get them to do better: encouragement, strategy, threats of blackmail...Doubt even that will work at this point.
         Mom offered me a bit of her stale popcorn and flat Coke; my father wandered off to get a Pepsi. Then we squirmed in our much-too-uncomfortable seats and watched the halftime show. The entire time the Mighty Mission Eagle Marching Band played, the three of us tried to keep our eyes on my sister. It wasn’t hard, she being the "tallest Flute.”
         It’s an odd thing. My brother was a football player; my sister’s in the marching band. I never was so involved in these games, except for maybe my senior year of high school. My best friends and I tried to prove our spirit by going to the home games and not paying attention. I did almost volunteer to work at the concession stand once! …almost. Changed my mind.
         Sure enough, when the teams returned for the second half, the Rattlers raised their score to twenty-seven. Personally, I blame the coach. Not that I was about to start screaming at him. I, obviously, was above it al. I went and bought a Frito-pie.
         As I ate the snack that was to be my dinner, my mind blanked out. I came back with a shiver when I noticed people leaving. It was barely the beginning of the fourth quarter.
         "Everybody’s leaving," I noted in a mumble to my mother.
         She nodded. "They’re disillusioned."
         I felt proud of my Mom for a moment. She spoke a big word.
         The three of us just stayed. I tossed the Frito bag into the bleachers behind me, then buttoned up my denim jacket. Now that I think back on it, we had nothing better to do.
The football players on the sidelines (those who weren’t getting yelled at, anyways) tried desperately to rev the remaining fans up. And then, a miracle happened.
         The Eagles made a touchdown.
         And then, they made another one.
         And then, they made a third.
         I was in shock. God, the small crowd sitting in the general admission seats of the Away section exploded. I found myself sitting at the edge of my seat, tapping my heel along with the cheers.
         "Hit ‘em again, hit ‘em again! Harder, harder!" Ha…that’s crafty.
         Eventually the game began to look like a cliché football movie. Just a few (sixteen, to be exact) seconds left, and we had the ball. Twenty-seven to twenty-four. First down and all that.
The quarterback was going to have to throw a whopper. As the ball left his fingers, Dad and I stood up, our breaths held.
         A Rattler caught the ball.
         The crowd around me groaned in exhausted defeat, as if they were feeling exactly what the players were.
         I felt myself feeling the same way…
         …Oh well. I have to remember to ask my family how we do next game. Who knows. It could very well be the Eagles’ first big win.