Vindication in the Mud

Vindication in the Mud
For three years, I had put my time into playing football for my high school. No one expected us to win. Fans would come half-heartedly to watch there children play, but looking back to the stands from the sidelines, you could tell they didn’t expect much. If we were winning, the fans were dead silent, as if they were waiting for us to falter. If we were losing, they would stand and cheer, but it appeared routine. The opposing fans were always louder, even at home. My freshman year, we managed to win out homecoming. A feet that no one could remember the last time it happened. It was the only game we won that year. My junior year, we had higher expectations. The seniors would tight-knit and on the back of our sophomore quarterback, we went 5-5. Strafford’s first non-losing season in 14 years. That is still only breaking even, and I couldn’t call it a winning season.
This year was my last, and we managed to do good. We were 5-4 going into the last game of the season. We were just coming off a heartbreaking loss, which cost us the district title. We were so close, and there wasn’t a single senior that didn’t cry at the end of that game. Now, our coaches tried to prepare us for the last game of our high school career. It was against Fair Grove, our rivals. They were 7-2, and were a Cinderella story, but they were out of the district race, so this would be there last game, as well. We were playing at Fair Grove, which is close, barely over 12 miles. This fact only caused the rivalry to grow. We had defeated them the previous year, but that was the first time in 14 years. The papers said it would be a dogfight, one Fair Grove was expected to win. Strafford has a history of falling painfully short.
The field was muddy, and it rained. It had rained for our last 5 games, and being a pass-oriented team, it wasn’t good for us. It was also cold, being the beginning of November. We filed on the bus, and joked and laughed. Looking into the eyes of the nearest senior, you could tell this game was different. Currently, there was a three-way tie for the conference title, between Strafford, Fair Grove, and Marionville. The winner of this game would be co-champs with Marionville. Although it didn’t mean much, and didn’t mean that we got to keep playing, it was something.
I expected to hear a hellfire and brimstone speech that I had grown accustom to from our coach. Load rock music blared from our stereo, but no one said anything. Coach came in and clicked the stereo off. In an omnipotent style, he crossed to the whiteboard, and wrote “34” upon it. Then he said “34. That is how long Strafford has had a football program.” He stopped, and wrote a “0” on the board. “That is how many titles Strafford has won. I can’t prepare you anymore.” On that, we broke, and you could tell, everyone was strengthened with a sort of silent power.
Walking out on the field, the silence lingered. We were going to take care of business. There was an equal amount of fans there for each side, because of the towns’ closeness, but you could tell who was from where, even without there apparel. Fair Grove’s families were happy and loud. Ours were somber. We stretched, and I, being a captain, went out for the coin flip. The details, I’ve forgotten, but on our first drive, we scored. It seemed easier than I thought. We were supposed to be an offensive powerhouse, but they were a state-ranked defense. We stopped them on there drive, and scored again. The first half seemed to go by in an instant, but none of us seemed to dare to hope. Going into the locker room, 14-0 us, coach simply told us to take care of business. There was a little more swagger in our footsteps as we took the field for the second half. That would end quickly, when they scored. Our offense seemed to lose itself, as we sputtered drive after drive. It must have been terribly tiresome to watch. It ended up being the bare-knuckled brawl that they predicted. The officials couldn’t call player numbers, because they were covered up by the mud as the ball moved shortly one way, and shortly back, and continued to like a pendulum on the field. Finally, in the 4th quarter, action picked up. Sadly, it was because they scored. We got the ball back with around 2 minutes to play. We hurried as best we could down the field, but fell short as time expired.
Heading out for the overtime flip, I felt more respect for the other captains. Having done battle with one particular captain as he played across me, there was a little more respect in the handshakes given. We lost. It was up to the defense to make a stand, or we’d let our dream night slip out of our fingers. You could tell that everyone was willing them. To many times had we been heartbroken, we had dared to dream and fell painstaking inches short. By some miracle, they held, and I headed out with the offense. The suspense was horrible. When you’re winning or losing, you tend to know what your last play will be, but now I didn’t. I didn’t know if the next snap would be the last of my days of playing football. We tried, and failed to score, and went to double-overtime, and they got the ball.
I couldn’t help but think it can’t end like this. I had dedicated myself for 3 years to this program, blood and sweat. It can’t end like this. It’s ironic that the setting for a storybook ending can easily stray into the setting of tragedy. I sat at a knee, sinking in the mud, soaking in the rain, staring out at the field as the defense lined up play after play. That series was the longest of my career, and seemed to take a lifetime. Every time the ball left the quarterbacks hands I was on the edge of my seat. A pass went up, and was caught, in the end zone. My heart jumped into my throat as the receiver landed, but then I noticed it. His jersey was maroon, not the unfamiliar purple, and I stood screaming in elation. Heading out after the interception, we resolved ourselves to one more go at it. We passed. That was our trademark. We lived by the pass, and now we might die by it. Luckily, sometimes storybook endings happen.
The noise as the referee put up his hands and blew his whistle was unlike anything I had ever heard. I doubt I’ll hear anything quite like it again. There was a collective silence, a hush as though someone had said something taboo, then the roar of applause came. We had done something that no group in 34 years in Strafford had done. We won a title. Our Coach gave his speech, and we were all crying. I had spent 4 years with some of these men. We had worked for this all that time, having to endure the innuendos about us losing, and the jokes. Now we were there, crying covered in mud, on our rival’s field, embracing each other like long lost loved ones.
It was all worth it. The years of sweat and pain, the heartbreaks. It was all worth it to be there, in another town, drenched, smelly, and muddy. The euphoria of that night would linger through the following weeks, but we replaced by a certain emptiness. The thought of not ever taking that field in my maroon #79 jersey. It’s like soldiers coming back from war and not being able to cope with civilian life. Like any veteran, if you asked any 2005 football senior from Strafford if it was worth it, there wouldn’t be any hesitation in there voice.