Game Day

On the eve of the Eagles clinching their first ever conference title and possibly the 1^st undefeated football season in our co-op’s history, I can’t help but think back to very fond game day memories that span nearly 3 decades for me.  I flash back to being a 10 year old kid…a manager for the Tim Wilson led Blue Devils of Plum City.  Getting out of class early to pack game equipment and ready the field for Friday.  Riding the team bus, filling water bottles and wearing yellow jerseys about 4 sizes too big; being allowed to stay up until 10:30 to watch the scores and race into town on Saturdays for the local papers’ game summaries. 

Like many I suppose, my main hero was my Dad. After all, he taught me to hunt, fish, play catch…(you know the important stuff when you are 10!)  But my other heroes I watched in practice every day, in the fall and take the field on Friday nights.  Uncle Kurt, Johnny B, Jeff Sauressig, Clint Beyer…I could go on. I truly wanted to be like one of those guys!

I can skip ahead five years, to being a knock kneed 140 pound freshmen… somehow catching a Tony Gilles slant pass against Prescott for the go ahead touchdown in the south end zone.  Add 12 more years, and I can still clearly see Blaine Kadlec getting the ball to Travis Unser, as he scampered into that same south end zone, securing my 1^st ever win as a Head varsity coach.

Another 10 years would pass.  The south end zone didn’t change. I looked at it with pride on my last night as the head coach of the Blue Devils who turned in a dominating performance against

Clayton to secure our teams 7^th straight conference title.

I consider myself lucky to be part of the Pepin Alma football program for the past 3 seasons. The players, coaches, parents and communities have worked extremely hard together.  I know this team is capable of accomplishing our goal.  But, the great thing about football, and life, is there are no guarantees. 

You just have to keep battling, one way or another.  So I’ve included some thoughts that seem to run together and describe my last 30 years of game days.  Perhaps you will feel some of the same things…feel free to add you own thoughts as well. Either way, support your local ‘heroes’ with pride.

Game day is…Waking up early to have that good luck breakfast;

Leaving the collared shirt hanging up and opting for a hoodie with school colors;

Turning up your favorite jam a little louder on the way to school;

Finding ‘Boys of Fall’ on your Ipod or YouTube.

Game day is…Breathing in crisp October air and letting out a loud cheer. Watching the clock tick past painfully slow, as your heart beats fast.   There are good luck signs in business windows and hall decorations around every corner.   It’s team meals and team prayers. Players of the week and players who won’t see the field.  There are faded letter jackets but bright shining smiles.  Painted lines and mascot painted faces.  Fresh cut grass and fresh popped corn.  Hot chocolate and chilly toes.  Standing room only at the south end zone and the bathroom line.

Game days are pep rallies and pep bands.  Pregame speeches and the buzzing lights that break the silence of a focusing team.  Slipping on the pads and spreading on eye black.  Going to the bathroom about 4 dozen times.  It’s the click clack of cleats on the pavement, and the pounding of your heart as you climb through the ropes. It’s electricity in the air and butterflies in your stomach. Players are on edge through warm-ups and the coach is nervous hoping he has prepared them well.  Mothers are about 20 times more nervous than anyone. 

To me, game days are playing for hundreds of people not for 100,000.  Working with your teammates and accomplishing a goal.  Getting knocked down but always getting up… since August.  It’s flipping the coin, then player intros and school songs. .The Anthem signals it’s close to go time.

It’s one more swig of Gatorade before you strap it up.  It’s kicking from the right hash and re-taping your left ankle. It’s the point of no return, and losing yourself in the moment for 48 minutes. 

There are onside kicks and offside flags. Great game plans and unplanned surprises.  Keeping the sideline pumped up and not letting your buddy down. It’s hometown announcers and out of town visitors.  You can see the white stripe turn on the ball as it spins through the black night.  Friday night lights illuminate a temporary heaven on earth.  There are good ideas and bad calls.  4^th graders cheering on older brothers while playing their own game off to the side.  It’s leaving it all  on the field because the name on the front of the jersey means a whole lot more than the name on the back.

   The game clock shows all zeros.  Some are champions. Most are not.  If you are lucky, you can tee it up again in a week.  The team heads for mid field.  Steam drifts in the air as the helmets come off and the shirts come un-tucked. There are handshakes from opponents, hugs from mom and dad, and high-fives from the homecoming queen. Your night is over and you can look in the mirror and be proud, because you are a football player.

                   

Game days are…memories in the making and dreams coming true.  Boys turning into men, and then right back into boys depending on how the ball bounces. 

That’s ok though. After 3 decades, they are still heroes to me.

-TGI

Limits

Three hours of sleep wasn't enough. Six hours should have been the limit with a cough like mine. The weather was too warm and the south east wind would be wrong to hunt our favorite bay.  The dry summer and fall had bare land replacing our ‘go to’ potholes for setting decoys.  I promised Hayley to be home by 9:00 to finish the yard work that had been put off too long, in favor of correcting papers, breaking down football films, and writing lesson plans.  

A true duck hunt should last at least five hours...that's a good limit.

                                                     

There were a scarce number of ducks around anyway. Nonetheless, I talked myself into a morning hunt the evening before. The 90 minute bus ride home from the Eagles 5^th victory in a row did it to me.

Trying to be as quiet as possible and somehow searching for just one more reason to crawl back into bed, I snuck into the kitchen to grab snack for the road.  Nine-year old Murphy’s thumping tail convinced me to grab the rest of my gear, and make the short trip down the hill to Lake Pepin. It's hard to argue with a dog that loves you.

The boat landing was vacant, save for 2 campers that looked like they may have had a bit too much of the fall ‘Flood Run’ the previous day.   A half empty Jim Beam bottle accompanied one brave soul, who looked not so comfortable in a lawn chair that was somehow closer to the porta potty, than it was to the smoldering campfire.  His partner had made it nearly to the tent, before finding a resting spot with his head on a leather jacket, feet propped up on a motorcycle helmet, and nothing more than flannel boxers covering the rest of him.  Except of course for several dozen mosquito bites.  September mosquitoes are especially hearty near Lake Pepin. (They also are partial to blood with a hint of Jim Beam.)                                                      

Murphy and I slipped into our flat bottom, and rowed across the ¼ mile bay, to a small grassy point.  The water was less than a foot deep.  Ninety minutes before legal shooting light, I unloaded the gear and laid back for serious star gazing and thought collecting.   Listening to the sounds of the river never gets old.

  Although fall was approaching, the warmer temps had the frogs croaking out a base drum like rhythm.  
Other oddities began adding bits if information to my ears. 

A Frontenac train whistle chimed in, and whizzing cars from a distant Highway 35 added to the early morning melody.  My labs’ excited panting, tail swishing and mud bogging topped off the symphony of sounds.  As many of you know, labs know just exactly where to shake off to give their owners a swampland facial.

The grayish, turning to pink sky in the east signaled decoy setting time.  It would be a small spread today, with a dozen or so mallards and a couple pintail and diver fakes just to add some color.  Five full bodied honker decoys would border me to the right of the grassy point.  Murphy’s excitement grew as we walked the boat to its hiding spot, and returned to kneel in the sand grass.  A flock of

about 30 Canada Geese broke the whispering solitude of the bay as they left their midnight loafing spot near Rush River and clamored into our spread.  Multitudes of honks, clucks, wing beats and splashing feet were more than poor Murphy could stand.  He couldn’t believe I wasn’t shouldering my gun and making these intruders retrieving practice and eventual smoked goose sandwich meat.  With three minutes to go before shooting time, our noisy visitors had enough of the shaking grass and the large whining fur blob. They headed for the safety of the middle of the lake. 

Murphy was clearly disappointed, so he ventured to the tree line to find a good piece of driftwood to chew on.  He returned only after a short whistle from yours truly. The cell phone beeped at 6:36 so we were now legal to fire.

The first flock of blue-winged teal darted in so low and so fast, I never had a chance to steady the bead.  It sounded like there was about ten of them.  The second chance was at a pair of screaming wood ducks that appeared right out of a weeping river willow.  I folded the drake nicely and passed on mama as she sailed towards Maiden Rock.  Murphy had just dropped the colorful drake at my feet when a lone teal broke from a flock buzzing in from Bray’s point.  My 870 barked twice at the dive bombing bird who was scooting at the top of the water.  Flying Kent Steele sent him into a cart-wheeling splash, as Murphy churned through water and muck for retrieve number two.

The next 30 minutes yielded no downed birds, but we had some work slightly out of range to keep things interesting. Another group of teal buzzed just over the decoys, but I was late on the draw and shot behind the closest bird.  It’s always good to stay humble while duck hunting.

Our next visitors to the bay were a large flock of Pelicans.  On the hunt for schooling shad, the birds filed in and plopped down about 30 yards from our goose decoys. Awkward in appearance up close, pelicans are actually graceful flyers and top line predators of fish on the lake.  Murphy quite rudely interrupted their morning meeting by making a mad dash to the center of the gathering.  Loudly exiting and heading for Stockholm, the Pelicans formed a beautiful ‘V’ back-lit by the fire-like sky rising over the bluffs.  Still admiring that sight, the water just past my feet split as a half dozen teal skidded to a halt in the middle of my decoys.  The water was still moving as Murphy dashed from his hiding spot for a water ‘flush’ of the birds. 

Waiting for the teal to rise safely past my frantic dog, I neatly plopped the last bird of the string down on top of a vacant muskrat house.  With the teal in his mouth, Murphy took a little time to dig through the base of the muskrat lodge to ensure a good amount of squishy mud on paws, whiskers, and dog belly.  

The final bird of the morning was a lone honker that was certainly looking for some company.  The old gander was squawking all the way from Minnesota when he spotted our set up.  Wings cupped and feet down, he rapidly descended from 300 feet to less than thirty.   When he realized he had been duped, he attempted to back pedal like a NFL d-back, and veered sharply towards Bray’s point.  I had plenty of time to wheel around, and dropped the goose with a splash 10 yards from the edge our sand grass hiding spot. Murphy pounced on him and proudly dragged him back to my feet.

The sun was now high enough in the cloudless blue-bird sky to signal pick up time.  With the gear loaded, I ran the 8 horse half throttle towards the Rush River willows, so Murphy could dry off a bit, and for myself to suck in a limit of late September fresh air.  The modest brace of four birds sat across the mesh decoy bag as we turned and headed for Maiden Rock landing.  Murphy locked his front legs, straddling the bow of the boat with his head high and tilted, the same way Hugo, Belle, and Ernie had rode before him. I couldn't hold back a heartfelt smile, hoping the trio of former hunting dogs were smiling down from above, and approving our performance.

It was a fine morning to be a duck hunter, a father, a husband, and a lover of life.  It was a fine morning to swat mosquitoes, wipe sweat and swamp muck from your brow, and pick up downed birds and spent shells. It was a fine morning to run an old outboard, to work squeaky oars, and slide on flip flops after removing cammo waders.  It was a fine morning to giggle at hung over campers, to listen to distant train whistles, and watch pelicans disappear into a September sky.

It was a fine morning to make it home by 9:00 a.m, just like I promised.

-TGI

Where'd you come from....Where'd you go?

February is a darn right tricky month.  Even the spelling and pronunciation causes a double take in most language loving individuals. Our calendar’s second month is a bit of a tease.  She will flash the thawing temps of the promising spring one day.  The next day it will chuckle with laughter as the chains of a mid-winter deep freeze will bog us down. 

February’s personality is that of a stone-faced poker player.  You never quite know what you’re dealing until the mid morning cards are flipped over. Is it parka weather with a long scarf and thinsulate gloves? Sweaters and vests will do the trick most days.  Some February days are ‘short sleevers’ for those with thick skin and low IQ’s.  

Those February road conditions can be a challenge right?  Would you like your inch of ice on top of your foot of snow or at the bottom?  Here in the upper Midwest, the month treats us to amazing weather phenomenon such as thunder snow, ice fog, sleet, clippers, drastic cold fronts, and muddy slush.  February has a hard time making up its mind.  So do the people who trudge forth through its lengthening days.   

Civilians have a hard time deciding on what February really stands for. I mean it’s not like the Christmas month of December, or the fishing season and baseball playing of May.   October is pretty straight forward; harvest season, Halloween and football Saturdays.  But not that evil 28-day February!    We can’t decide if we should be watching for an overgrown hamster box with his shadow or shall we jot down stolen poetry and cheesy song lyrics to give to our latest crush?

Then, we throw the whole President’s day thing in the middle.  But we don’t lock it in place.  We just say, “Let’s do it on a Monday, we all need a little time to organize our thoughts and calm our nerves.”

Ah, the not so lovely February. It is halfway between winter’s serenity and spring’s flowers of eternal hope. It’s in an ever changing state of flux.  We are not really sure where it comes from. Most are happy to see it go.  It gets cast aside like stale bread, flat soda, and mismatched socks.  Good Riddance!

Oh well, at least there are merely twenty-eight days…most years. 

-TGI