Countdown to Halftime
“Hold still, Gena,” my dad said. Both were in the backyard. He was holding a gas can and lighter; she, a thin, two-foot steel rod. Affixed to each end was a dark cylinder about the size of an empty toilet paper roll. He then set both ends ablaze.
Orange flames and dark smoke erupted from both ends. Gena stepped back, confident yet with a cautious gaze. My dad turned and ran. Not your typical Friday afternoon in Chesapeake suburbs in 1972.
Gena was a majorette with the high school band which required her to wear a gold sequined one-piece outfit and what looked like white go-go boots. Thinking back, she looked more like a circus performer or a Vegas showgirl than a freshman. But she was set to twirl fire during halftime at the school high school football game that night. This afternoon’s exhibition was a mere dress rehearsal.
Three hours to halftime.
My parents insisted that “parental supervision” was necessary for me to attend nighttime football games. This edict implied that I was a ne’er-do-well which wasn’t true. I was only ten at the time, and it was their way of making sure I wouldn’t turn into one. (I think it worked) As a result, attending Friday night football games was an activity I did with my dad. And, it sure beat almost being almost set on fire in the backyard.
Western Branch High School primarily pulled students from surrounding neighborhoods. Most kids walked to school. If you lived within two miles, good luck trying to find a school bus for pick up and drop off. We either walked, rode or convinced a parent to take us during torrential downpours.
Ninety minutes to halftime.
At around seven o’clock on game nights, neighbors – some with blankets, padded stadium seats or pom poms on sticks – began the mile walk toward the school. Stadium lights glowed in the distance. The band’s drum section thumped out a mind-numbing beat that became more annoying as it echoed off houses. But it was our call to fall; a summoning of football fans young and old, a few of which with pyrophiliac sisters who wore skimpy outfits on Friday nights.
My sister Gena, third from left rocking sequins and go-go boots.
Western Branch was “Home of the Bruins” and as such we had a bear mascot. Of course, it wasn’t a real bear but rather a member of the junior varsity band in an ursine costume fashioned from an old, tan shag carpet. The bear’s head was nightmarish, and the mascot always looked extremely emaciated because it was tough for, say a 115-pound trombone player to fill out the costume. The mascot’s name was Barney which surely instilled fear amongst all opponents in southeastern Virginia.
One hour to halftime.
Before kickoff, we often stopped at the snack bar which was located under the stadium seats. Band parents were encouraged to volunteer, a steep price to pay for letting their kids take up the tuba or clarinet but it raised money for band competitions and uniforms. However, if you had the hankering for flat soda, stale popcorn, partially melted ice cream sandwiches or a hot dog so full of dye it would stain the bun bright red, that was your place. No matter what you ordered, I think it cost a quarter
Forty-five minutes to halftime.
Finding a seat was never a problem. My father insisted on sitting as close to the fifty-yard line as possible because “because it was the same as watching the NFL on TV” he would claim. Plus, it was a good location to catch tiny plastic footballs that cheerleaders often lobbed into the stands. They also stomped and clapped incessantly and belted out cheer after cheer sometimes to the accompaniment of the band. Surely, they burned more calories during a game than the football players. Speaking of which –meanwhile, players pushed and shoved their way from one end of the field to the other, sometimes scoring a touchdown only to have the extra point fall short or wide of the goal post. Perhaps kicking was a skill developed later in life. Half the crowd paid attention; the other half socialized. Students flirted and made plans for post game activities. I patiently waited for my sister to light up the night, so to speak.
Halftime.
This army marched toward us, probably playing a version of “Jesus Christ Super Star” or some other rendition of random 1970’s hit. Most in attendance didn’t pay attention, but they didn’t know that flaming batons were a component of the halftime show. Fire handlers (aka science and math teachers) were at the ready to light batons. There was no sign or extinguishers or first responders. The only instruction Gena received was not to wear flammable hair spray.
Batons were lit. The majorettes performed the routine safely and in unison. A couple of times a baton fell to the ground and caught a patch of the field on fire. The handlers sprung to action and danced the flames out which was entertaining in its own right.
One week to next week’s half time.