A breeze sweeps across the field. On the fifty yard line an honor guard stands three strong, in full regalia, with muskets and flags held upright. A loudspeaker echoes, “Will you please rise for the national anthem”. It seems half the population of Botetourt (pronounced Bot-Ta-Tot) County Virginia rises. There is a long silence.
The football field of Lord Botetourt high School lies at the bottom of a woodsy dell between two mountains and at dusk looks like the bottom a dark bowl. A velvety circle of darkening sky sits on top like a lid closing out the last strains of light. A railroad track rounds the oval at one end of the field and runs the length before disappearing off into the valley. But where is the national anthem? Silence. More silence. The crowd gets impatient. Then more silence.
The voice on the loudspeaker comes on again: “Well… everything is apparently ready for the national anthem except, it seems, the musicians”. Laughter. Then, suddenly, three disheveled teenage boys still buttoning and securing their band uniforms run onto the field towards the honor guard. One is still limping while pulling up his trousers; they all clutch cornets while trying to keep their hats from flying off. Finally, nervous, but in place, the three put the horns to their lips. Too late. Before they release a single note, a freight train circles the field drowning out the sound of the horns. If you came to this game to hear the national anthem, you went home disappointed.
You wonder why they ever built bleachers here. The hills surrounding the field provide a natural amphitheater. This is where the school’s students roam – the ones not on the team or marching band. Watching the game is the last thing on their minds. They are looking for dates or trying to show off new clothes. The bleachers are filled with parents and young children with hot dogs, popcorn and sodas.
This is the battle of the county’s only two high schools and the electricity in the air is discernible. In the first half, Lord Botetourt’s offence consists of rushing plays by the star quarterback. Apparently this team is short on receivers and running backs, but the quarterback is so multitalented he makes the team look dominant. James River’s game plan is to throw interceptions, perhaps in an attempt to wear down Lord Botetourt’s defense, then get some late scoring in the second half.
The half time show is breathtaking. James River Marching Band performs selections from Fiddler On The Roof. This is a major production. A set is constructed right on the field – a small Russian village. The women are dressed as little babushkas and the men carry rifles; but most conspicuous is an outhouse. Two fans in the crowd discuss the meaning of the outhouse. One says that since large sections of Botetourt are in Appalachia, the outhouse is a symbol of the common bonds of poverty in other cultures. The other agrees but feels the piece as a whole is an olive branch to the Jewish families (both of them) in the county. Either way, the kids are terrific, though off key and out of step. Equally as talented, and equally unable to keep a symmetric formation, the Marching Band of Lord Botetourt performs valiantly. Their program is called “Gino Vanelli: The Sound of Jazz”. I have only recently come to remember the singer of “I Just Want To Stop”, but that night I thought the announcer said there is a tribute to Dino Danelli, the flashy drummer of The Young Rascals. How the heck could anybody or any teenager in this rural outpost know who Dino Danelli is? Pretty obscure. A student conductor, a young girl of fifteen or sixteen, in the throes of womanhood, drops her cape midfield, strides to the post with her chin proudly up, climbs high above the others, waits a dramatic silent moment (demurely aware all eyes are upon her) and begins to flail her baton with an enthusiasm and speed for which stage frightened teenage band members are not prepared to march. I didn’t recognize the music and tried to make out “Groovin”. I thought maybe I heard strands of “Good Lovin’”. The band weaves and files in multiple formations as best they can but get tied up in knots along the way. One little fellow doesn’t move at all. He waits at the giant kettle drum, his eyes fixed on the conductor. Nothing is going to distract his concentration. He is the most serious musician on the field and this could be a big moment. He waits patiently, ready for his turn in the limelight. Finally, the flailing conductor turns to the boy and points her baton at him with a flick of the wrist. He pounds the kettle drum and makes thunder clap in the valley. The crowd is heady from excitement.
In the second half, James River, no match for Lord Botetourt, scores their only touchdown on a trick play – a bomb thrown by the halfback. This is the game’s most exciting play – that is, until Lord Botetourt’s halfback comes right back and launches a TD strike to the star quarterback (who has already run in four touchdowns).
I was raised in D.C. Small town life is alien to me; Richmond is the smallest place I ever lived. Perhaps I’m deluded, but I can’t remember having this much fun in the bars and nightclubs friends dragged me to in Manhattan last summer where everyone talked about how much money they make and how many hits their web site took. Last year I was in Big Sur teaching a workshop at Esalin Institute. At dinner one night I asked if anyone had heard if the Yankees had gotten into the World Series. There was a dead silence and one woman chastised me: “Oh. Are you one of those?” One of those what? Sports fans? East Coast meat eaters? Which “those” was she accusing me of being? Everyone was in concert with her on this point and I became the villain because of my baseball query.
On a football field, on a crisp September night, I watch James River High School lose gracefully to Lord Botetourt with a happy crowd enjoying the simple pleasures in life. I am one of “those”.
IN DEFENSE OF JIMMY CARTER
Posted in Commentary on January 4, 2011 by Ted SalinsTed Salins © 2011
If Ronald Reagan had volunteered as a Naval Officer to enter the melted core of the first nuclear accident at Chalk River, Ontario to supervise the clean up, and to expose himself to the melted core of Three Mile Island as President to reassure a frightened nation – monuments would be built.
If George H.W. Bush had personally made dozens of trips to impoverished parts of Africa to oversee the near elimination of guinea worm disease and to start mass inoculations for river blindness, his legend would be mythic.
If George W. Bush had conducted Sunday school throughout his entire presidency, he would be regarded as a true Christian.
If any of the above went to hot spots around the world to monitor democratic elections in unlikely, dangerous places, he would be cited as a tireless fighter for human rights and the spread of democracy.
Yet Jimmy Carter actually did all of the above and many Americans treat him with such vile as can only be explained as partisan hatred. A quick search on the blogosphere to find comments about the former President:
“He should just go away and do what old people are supposed to do.”
“He is a senile old fool who should stay home and watch the grass grow.”
“I am amused by the mental failings of this old man.”
“Maybe if (Carter) would just shut up and go away these stories of his failures would as well.”
“Why doesn’t this old fool just give it up and leave us alone.”
“Jimmy Carter is the poster child for former Presidents who should be seen and not heard. I guess we should be grateful he doesn’t play golf or we all would be ducking for cover.”
There seems to be three themes: 1) Carter is old, 2) old people have no value and 3) he and other older people should leave us alone. Where are these marching orders coming from? Are we to believe that angry posters who sit at their computers spewing venom are more decent and committed than Jimmy Carter? “This man has degenerated into the useless idiot category,” one of them wrote. What is the usefulness of that post? What child will it save from river blindness?
All presidents have their detractors, but none in such an inexplicable, lockstep manner. The theory seems to be that bad things happened during The Carter Administration and as President he made mistakes. Gee. Sounds like every administration – why is his held to a higher standard?
The reasons on the blogosphere that most “explain” why he is “the worst president” are “high interest rates”, “gas lines” and the Iran hostage crises. By this standard, Reagan should be judged on the outbreak of AIDS, the crack epidemic and the murder of 250 plus Marines in Lebanon; George W. Bush would be responsible for the beheadings of Americans posted for all to see on the internet. Is that not worse than Carter’s high interest rates? Can someone explain the specific date and moment when Carter made the decision to “force” private companies to raise interest rates on the American public? Did the banks beg him, “Please Mr. President, don’t make us raise rates on our fellow citizens!”. Where is the proof that high interest rates during Carter’s term were easily avoided and with what policy? Explain.
Jimmy Carter was not perfect – no one is. Some of his policies did not work. I could easily argue that the beheadings of Americans are directly related to decisions by George W. Bush’s misadventure in Iraq. How many Americans were beheaded during the years of the Carter Administration? If “gas lines” make you want to punch a hole in the wall, the beheadings should make you burn the house down.
Carter made what is regarded as the worst presidential speech of all time, the “malaise” speech, July 15, 1979. Here is a sample:
“…In a nation that was proud of hard work, strong families, close-knit communities, and our faith in God, too many of us now tend to worship self-indulgence and consumption. Human identity is no longer defined by what one does, but by what one owns. But we’ve discovered that owning things and consuming things does not satisfy our longing for meaning…”
If you have a problem with that, then you probably think old people have no value and should just “go away”.
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