Go, Team!
(A True Story)
In the days that high school homecoming floats depended on chicken wire, paper napkins and crepe paper, and a dad’s garage to stage construction – I was on the float committee for my class. I got pulled into the project by a classmate who convinced me it would be fun, and by the prospect of seeing more of my friends and less of my books. I even got clearance from my mother to drive the car after dark.
We had about three weeks to construct a giant lemon chewing up a rival mascot (I can’t remember what animal it was), with something about “bitter taste of defeat” written on the side. We had use of a trailer to mount everything on, and a kid’s college age brother agreed to be our driver.
At first, everybody who said they’d help showed up after school. Things went fine until the coldest autumn weather in Indiana history moved in, and the unheated garage – although dry – was frigid. The rain poured while we huddled inside and poked paper napkins into the square holes in the chicken wire, and tried desperately to keep our supplies unscathed when the wind blew sideways.
I showed up, regardless of weather warnings, as did a couple of other diehard paper napkin rosette makers/stuffers. We were absolutely hellbent on finishing the junior class float, no matter what. The lemon began to take recognizable shape, as did the creature (what was that anyway?!) clenched in the lemon’s jaws.
The final night of construction, there were just two of us sitting on milk crates in the garage, folding napkins and poking them, with the rhythm of chain gang members. I don’t think we were saying much to each other, as small talk had run out weeks before. He was a little skinny kid I knew slightly from orchestra in the brass section, and his glasses kept fogging up with the relentless humidity. My mother grew concerned that we were working so late, and came with enough food and hot chocolate for a committee. She looked around and said, “This is it?”
The boy said, “Yes, ma’am. We’re it.” He looked like he might be crying, so my mother quickly made him a plate of food and handed it to him.
“Eat something,” she said.
Unbelievably, game day dawned bright and clear, with the kind of sparkle that only an Indiana October morning can hold. The homecoming princesses for our class, and the junior varsity quarterback all arrived to drive the float to the starting point of the parade. The junior class president had a new suit, and his parents arrived to take pictures. A couple of girls made some slight fluffing motions of the paper napkins on the lemon. But generally, the mood was upbeat, excited, and well-rested.
At half-time during the homecoming game, the float prizewinners were announced. Our killer lemon eating a small animal (bobcat? beaver?) got the spirit prize. When it was announced, the entire float committee, except for the orchestra kid and me, cheered and ran down to the field to jump around and claim the trophy. The orchestra kid looked over at me from where he was sitting, and shrugged his shoulders. I just shook my head. The dad whose garage we had used looked back to where we were and gave us a thumbs up. He said, “Good work.”
Those two words meant everything to the orchestra kid and me. And for the first time ever, I saw him smile just a little bit.