Foreign Exchange Student at Football

My son's frustrating start to his senior year of high school began at the first home football game.  "I feel like no one cares about me," is his reaction.  He finds out only hours before the game he is supposed to be playing trombone in the band. He has no music and has never played any of the songs, including the national anthem.  No one has taken the time to share important information with him and he is lost. Technically he is not a new student, but a returning student who everyone knows by name. He attended Kindergarten here and is related to more than one member of staff. Where most of the town sees our family as returning home, my son feels like a foreign exchange student after being overseas for 11 years.

We got through the first home game by following the crowd and sitting with the cheering parents. I felt as foreign as my son. I was surprised that I was expected to show up to watch a game where my son was not playing, bring my own chair to sit out in the cold, and pay for the experience!  I had no idea what was going on the field, and worried how my son would do in his half-time performance.
This was obviously a community event with the whole town showing up.  Many were not watching the game, but watching kids who were there to run around and buy hot-dogs. There was a score board full of numbers, ( why not just 2-0?) , an announcer of player's names, and bright lights to highlight the action. None of it was of help to me. Later I discussed the game with my son. He said he sat next to a nerdy band kid who explained the game to him. Well it seems like someone finally realized there was a need to introduce this foreigner to his new home.

So at my next game I decided to play the foreign exchange student and ask for some clarification. I learned that there are nine players on the field, but another 25 kids dressed on the side lines. Why so many? Well, there are injuries and special players for different parts of the game and youngsters hoping to play varsity one day. I learned that when the refs throw a yellow rag down they aren't throwing a fit, but calling a foul. I learned that the "chain gang" on the side line aren't coaches or parents, but officials who mark where the ball went down, or where it should go down. I learned that when everyone "takes a knee", they aren't showing reverence, but rather they are in time-out, waiting to be allowed to play again.

But the most surprising revelation of the night was the story behind the girls all dressed in football jerseys and walking back and forth as a pack on the side lines. From what I could tell they weren't cheerleaders,  but more like groupies. I had to ask. I learned that each girl had asked a boy on the football team if she could wear his number for the season. Then she dutifully wore his "shirt" to each game and called out "We love our boys" in encouragement and support. After a touchdown the whole gang went down to the end zone and did jumping jacks numbering the score on the score board. It sounded very much like the medieval practice of a knight going out to battle wearing a lady's colors.

Family members and friends I was sitting with revealed all this tradition with pride. They themselves had worn a boy's number and shouted about their love. They described the pageantry at bigger schools where bands march, with flags and even guns are twirled!   You could hear the love and pride of mothers and grandparents as they cheer on their sons and grandsons, but never bragging. "He's faster than he looks!" "Was that my son?" The small town home game traditions are old and strong.

On Our Way

It is a four day weekend, the end of the summer, and our last chance to go up to the lake. But such is the reality of our family that it is increasingly difficult to make travel plans. On a whim I arrive home from school, ask my son to load up his college needs, and convince my younger son that he isn't doing anything important enough to warrant his staying home.  Jon will have to drive separately because of his job's responsibilities, and I've checked in with my eldest son regarding his sporting events. So my two sons and I fill up the van with gas and hit the road in the early evening.

I take a back seat and allow my son to drive.  I start giving directions from the back seat and he takes offense immediately. "I do not appreciate your backseat driving," he tells me directly. I apologize while mopping up my spilled coffee. I still pull up the route on Google Maps, knowing that for all his "I got this attitude", I still need to know where we are going.  My mother calls from the UK just to touch base and tell me about her upcoming trip to Brazil. The conversation is continually interrupted by the Maps lady telling me where to turn, and me telling Sam where to turn. My mother was more than a little confused at what was going on.

Now the most important part of any road trip with my boys is where we are going to stop and eat. So as I settled into reading my book in the back seat about the French policeman who cooks wonderful food, I notice Sam is using his phone to look up restaurants on-route while driving. It turns out that Sam has been this way before to visit a friend whose family owns a slightly dodgy vineyard, and they ate at a slightly dodgy Chinese restaurant. So the three of us ate from the buffet of standard dishes, avoided the salad bar which consisted of canned pineapple and olives, and read our fortunes in the slightly soggy cookies. Mine: "Good things come to those who wait.  Be patient."  Yes, the lesson of my life in a cookie!  I realized that there was no where else I would rather be than in the seedy restaurant with my boys at that moment.

Of course, it would be nice to have Jon and Jake along too, but you take what you can get. It was my turn to drive, and I called Jon to see if he was missing us. He was on the golf course. He let me hear the sound of his swing. Then he posted pictures of his steak supper afterwards. He'd survive our departure without him.
By sheer chance, we ended up on a scenic highway along the Minnesota River valley with signs to the historic Harkin Store. I had heard of this place because Jon would reference it as not the quickest route up to the lake. It was certainly scenic. Deer crossed the road into the shadows of the trees along the river. A family of wild turkeys watched us pass.

And I felt I needed to stop and take a look at this famous store. It was closed and I wondered how many visitors stop here on weekends. It stands as a reminder that once this was a busy river where traders and farmers crossed paths. Once the railway was built, and grasshoppers devastated the local crops, people moved away and bypassed the beautiful valley. Now it is only visited by people like me, who are drawn by the quiet scenery of the river and not in a hurry to get anywhere.  We parked by a sign facing the water. The sign reminded us again that there was history to be learned from and to take time to visit the past. And as I quietly walked up to the old porch I found myself wanting to sit on the long benches awhile and watch the world go by. Life is change, but we can call a time out occasionally, reflect, and take it slow.

My sons were waiting patiently for me in the van.  They knew I had to take a moment and I marveled at their understanding. We drove on with Sam pulling up directions on his phone as mine was now dead. He tuned the radio to NPR Classical, saying that it was good battle music. He and Ben had begun a war game on their ancient Game Boy.  Whatever the reason, I appreciated the music. It suited my mood.
It was now getting dark and Sam's directions were getting shaky.  He was glancing at the phone between battles and misjudged distances.  On his command I slammed on the brakes just to make a wrong turn on to a gravel road. He assured me that Google was never wrong and I should continue ahead.  After a mile and a half of gravel, and a risky bridge over the Crow River, we came to a main road. Soon after I had to stop at yet another 4-way stop sign (something I just do not understand!).  Sam casually looked up from his small screen saying, "Oh, yeah, take a left here." I did and found myself driving towards a ROAD CLOSED sign.

With a sense of achievement we started to see familiar signs of lakes and liquor stores. We turned into the Jahnke driveway, drove up to a house where lights were still on and stepped out to the sounds of laughter and fun.
I love it... going places.  I love all of it: the taking off, the exploring a new route, the stops along the way, the arriving, and above all else, the people who go along with me. And if I ever get to a point where I can no longer go, I will pull out all my pictures and memories and relive the experience of going.