THE GAME

College football on TV,  a Saturday in autumn with a crystal blue sky and the panoply of color in a stadium that is “striped”.  Ah yes, a scene that would rival the Roman circus and make a gladiator weep I think…and then I am getting ready for a big contest in 1957…

Orange and blue scarf – check

Thunderbolt hat – check

Shakers – check

Confetti – Check
Noise Maker – Check

I have dressed like a matador donning a “suit of lights” and check myself in mom’s big mirror - I am ready for thee game. 

Saturdays in the fall meant Thunderbolt football for practically our whole town.  So many came out that we needed “reserved” seats - my dad bought three at the drugstore early in summer -  so we would get “a good spot” he said.  And we did.  Our's were on the 40 yard line near the top of the bleachers.

My dad would tell mom each year, as we climbed the wooden stands, “Margaret, Vineland got a real concrete stadium out of the WPA, the best thing about the depression…but Millville no way, too poor to do that…"  Dad hailed from Vineland and could not help rubbing it in. 

So here we sat with great anticipation on splintery boards with a strong wind blowing up our backsides.  Waiting for our young "gladiators" to enter the arena.   

Today was Bridgeton, the first in the county Championship Series - this was big.  But the next game was the biggest game of all – arch rival Vineland on Turkey Day – the long awaited contest that earned bragging rights for a year.

The Thunderbolts,  just 29 players on the squad after a tough season was playing much bigger teams in this series.  To a great cheer our boys ran onto the field and started their warm up. Then became very quiet as the Bulldogs took the whole field.  All 102 players jogged around the entire perimeter of Wheaton Field chanting and dancing to a rhythmic drum beat – a dramatic entrance designed to intimidate – and it did make our small guys look even smaller.  

Bridgeton had dressed every male they could muster, from 6^th grade up, for the game.  They were messing with our team's heads right at the start.

However by half time – the scoreboard read – Millville 24 – Bridgeton 7.  We were not to be daunted by this team’s show of force.  We had very tough blue collar kids.

The halftime “show” began as our band – even smaller than our team marched on the field to perform their weekly salute to something or other after a week of tough practice.

Mister Smerski the “band teacher” looked like a “prussian general" in his well-worn white uniform with the orange and blue trim as he strode onto the field followed by his music makers.

His ensemble was heavy in brass - 4 trumpets and 2 trombones, followed by 2 snare drums, a bass drum, and a triangle player – that was it!  

One couldn't help noticing that only one of the marchers was actually “in step” with their leader.  The others seems to be marching to the sound of their own drummer, as they say - "but they try hard," as my mom said each week.

Mr. Smerski, had always dreamed of leading the Philadelphia Symphony but this didn't happen and he had to settled  waving a white baton before a bunch of higher schoolers after he graduated from an academy of music – accordion players rarely make it to the big time and he had to settle like many of us who dream dreams that can't come true.  

His current state made him a stern task master as he barked out marching orders and not react to the sour notes that escaped from several of trumpets.  (By the way, playing a brass instrument in a brisk fall wind is not an easy task since a strong gust can sometime cause the instrument to play the player instead.) hazzard.

This week the band formed a blob on the 50 yardline that was supposed to look like a turkey for their salute to Thanksgiving. 

"Maestro Smear's" as his student called him behind his back, and musical minions all donned homemade paper Indian war bonnets.  (And yes we use that word, not Native Americans in these not so politically correct days)  

Two of the cheerleaders pranced on the field, one wearing a big black hat and the other a long gray dress – apparently their vision of our “Puritan ancestors”.  The band broke into the only Thanksgiving song they could muster:  Over the river through the woods...da da da...My mother gaily sang along with the band. 

The reverberating sounds fades and the “band” marched off.  This signaled the time for me to get a couple of  which I lovingly called the PTA snack bar hot dogs.  A football game would not be complete without one of these mighty burp masters swimming in yellow mustard and a dab of bright green relish that always looked “dyed” to me.

They were 50 cents each.  

The first one I inserted into my mouth like a sword swallower.  Gone.  The second I would make last for at least a minute, taking time to savor the delicate flavors that were wrapped in a rubbery bun that had been on the cold counter for a few hours.

I made it back as the second half began – mother asked, “How was the hotdog?  and Did you get a chance to go to the restroom?”  

For some reason my mom was always concerned with my bodily functions. She seemed constantly worried that if I forgot to “go” something awful would happen.  And so I had learned to always say "yes" to her queries – whether I did go or had not gone. 

The game played on.  

We won 45 to 7 - As the last whistle blew the last bits of confetti was tossed and the stands emptied with happy fans chatting about the next game and the odds that this year would be “our year”.  And I went home with red cheeks – “wind burn” my mom called it.

Our gladiators had lived to fight another day and for today all was right with my world.