The Super Bowl Sunday begins with the 10 hour pre-game show - which gets longer each year. They are running out of space for the Roman Numerals. I remember the first one with Kansas City and Green Bay...this makes me ancient. And this was almost the match up today but Brady did his magic for his new team...and then I think about a day 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 proud and 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 dressed like a matador donning his “suit of lights” and checked 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 cheap to do that…" Dad hailed from Vineland, Millville’s arch football rival and he could not help rubbing it in. Mom was a former Millville cheerleader who still does her long forgotten cheers at every game. So here we sat with great anticipation on faded splintery boards with a strong wind blowing up our backsides. Waiting for our "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 – 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, were always outnumbered and 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 literally 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 made our small guys look even smaller. Bridgeton had dressed every male they could muster, from 6th grade up, for the game. They were messing with us 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 on our team. 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 “music teacher” looked like a “prussian general" in a well-worn white uniform with the orange and blue trim as he strode onto the field followed by his music makers. His ensemble - 4 trumpets and 2 trombones, followed by 2 snare drums, a bass drum, and a triangle player – that was it! I couldn't help noticing that only one of the marchers was actually “in step” with their leader. The others seemed to be marching to the sound of their own drummer, as they say - I laughed, "But they try hard," my mom said each week. Mr. Smerski, had always dreamed of leading a great symphony but this didn't happen and he had to settled waving a extra long baton before a bunch of high schoolers after he graduated from an academy of music – his major was the accordion and squeezebox players rarely make it to the big time except on the Ed Sullivan show. So he settled, like many of us who dream dreams that don’t come true, to be a marching band maestro. And hr was a stern taskmaster as he barked out marching orders. He especially hated sour notes that escaped from the trumpet section. (By the way, playing a brass instrument in a brisk fall wind is not an easy task since a strong gust can sometimes cause the instrument to play the player.)
This week the band formed the outline of something on the 50 yard line. The PA announcer solved the mystery - it was a turkey and the band's salute to Thanksgiving.
Two of the cheerleaders pranced on the field, one wearing a big black hat and the other a long gray dress and a third in a homemade Native American war bonnet – apparently their vision of our “Puritan ancestors and dinner guests”. The band began the only Thanksgiving song they had in their songbook: Over the river through the woods...da da da...My mother gaily sang along with the band. As the reverberating sounds faded and the “band” marched off this signaled it was time for me to go get a couple of the PTA snack bar hot dogs. A football game is not 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. I didn’t wait to return to the stands to savor this delicacy of the day. The first one I inserted into my mouth like a sword swallower. Gone. The second I would make it last for at least a minute, taking time to actually taste the tube of mystery meat that was wrapped in a rubbery bun that had been around for awhile - most likely left over from the cafeteria hotdog day. I made it back just as the second half began – mother asked, “How was the hotdog and did you get a chance to go to the restroom?” For some motherly reason she was always concerned with my bodily functions. She constantly worried that I would forget to “go” and something awful would happen. And so I had learned to always say "yes" – whether I did go or had not gone.
The game played on until the whistle blew and the last bits of confetti was tossed. We won! The stands emptied with the murmur of happy fans. Many were chatting about the next game and the odds that this year would be “the year”. And I went home with red cheeks – “windburn” my mom called it. Our Thunderbolts had survived to fight the good fight another day and for today all was right with my world.
