The Last Day - a little something for y'all before kickoff

Sep 1, 2006, 11:10 AM

The following is a memory of a certain day in mid-November... my last home game as a student. Enjoy.

The Last Day

The air was sharp and crisp, much colder than I had expected on this mid-November morning. The frosty twinge through my blue long-sleeved T-shirt and orange overalls, as expected, would turn into a biting sting that evening. Whether it was through carelessness, apathy, or whimsicalness that I didn’t wear more clothing, I do not recall.

I walked briskly from my apartment to my Jeep, and I promised myself I wouldn’t cry.

I drove down Highway 93 from Central to Clemson faster than I should have, as usual. A few of my fellow early birds shared the road beside, their vehicles’ orange flags whipping in the wind like mine. I glanced at them apprehensively. My heart wasn’t filled with the same excitement as in the past. Somewhere in those depths of my chest, twirling in the mixture of anticipation, eagerness, painful experience, and alcohol, was a deep-rooted feeling of apprehension and loss.

I promised myself I wouldn’t cry.

A few minutes later, I pulled into a parking spot outside of Tiger Town Tavern. The other diehards, whether young or old, student or alumni, white trash or elitist, were painting the town orange with their garb of football jerseys, overalls, colored shirts, and orange pants. Here and there you could find a flicker of garnet and black, but the Columbia infiltration hadn’t yet taken full effect.

I turned towards the bar. It was my favorite watering hole. Only felt right to start this day here.

I walked inside and made a note to promise myself not to cry.

Two of my crew were already there sitting at a table near the door. I grabbed a glass from the bar and took my helping from their pitcher. I smiled at them. They smiled back, but I could see the glimmers of hurt hiding behind their faces. I knew they could see mine.

One by one, a few more arrived and joined us. For four years, we had spent these Saturdays together. We had the scalps of 47-21, 28-19, and 31-21 on our war belts. We had the scars of the Edwards pass interference, the 1998 Hokie Pokie, and the Watkins catch (only a few weeks old) all over our bodies. For four years, we took in that sunshine and weathered those rain clouds, from the wide-eyed-freshman-Tommy-West days to the chiseled-mug-senior-this-Woody-kid-is-good days.

We toasted to good times and tough losses, and we threw back a shot of whiskey.

I promised I wouldn’t cry. I wondered if they did, too.

From the smoky comfort of Tiger Town to Gate 1 of that hallowed Valley, the sound of balloons blowing up and popping filled the icy air. A final glimpse at Central Spirit inflating every little Tiger fan’s pre game joy. I filled my last one. For a moment, I thought about letting it drift up and up, to look down on that freshly painted field.
Then I put it in a bunch with its companions and promised myself I wouldn’t cry.

For the next few hours, I immersed myself in a lazy, gorgeous river of orange, all the while avoiding the grotesque stumps and logs of garnet and black. I flowed lightly down and up the river, my cooler and comrades beside me.

For a while, I was so happy, I didn’t have to make any promises to myself.

An hour before that holy moment when a cleat connects with a ball and sends it from the confines of its tee up into heaven, I stood staring down at end zone paint while the rest of the world—at least, the only world that mattered on this night—gazed down upon me. In my right hand, I carried a banner of orange emblazoned with my army’s emblem—a white paw. The air stung.

Music. Deafening roar. Orange and white in both sweet and sickening movement. Hands smashing against each other in unison, the sound of a marching force of 85,000. Then, a cannon shot.

It became so loud that there was no noise. So enormous that your mind is sure it doesn’t even exist. Steamrolling past me, I saw an angry swarm of orange helmets, white paws, and white numbers. Then they were gone, and the letter C took off behind them. Then went L, followed by E. Then M was hot on their tails. Then S. My mind not totally functioning, I followed like a programmed robot.

I didn’t even feel my legs as I sprinted the paw banner down the field with N nipping at my heels. What seemed like an eternity was over in a few seconds. Suddenly, before me like a pack of snarling dogs, was a small wave of garnet and black. As I formed a line with the other letters, I waved my giant banner over their heads as they tried to ###### it in their crooked claws. Only then did I truly become aware of the roar around me.

But I promised myself I wouldn’t cry.

Moments later, I stood embraced by my comrades in the midst of the student section. There, with them, for the last time as one of them. They bounced and laughed and screamed and hugged. The past four years were standing in orange in front of me, beside me… and behind me.

I promised myself I wouldn’t cry.

For blessed and tormenting hours, the battle raged on. Travis into the end zone. Then Watson. A football through the uprights. More points for the good guys. Then another.

Back and forth. A roar from the orange, then from the garnet, then from the orange again.

As our orange-clad army stood with backs against the wall, and the garnet oppression pounded against them, a glimmer of hope—in the form of a fumbled piece of leather—danced on the field.

And then the hope was squashed when the garnet ogre fell upon it. That sign appeared, that sign that’s so sweet when it’s meant for you and so heart wrenching when it’s not. Two arms point straight up into the air and the pain waves at you from garnet and black visitors stands. I looked up at the scoreboard to see if indeed fourteen was greater than thirteen. It was.

I promised myself I wouldn’t cry.

It’s a difficult feeling to describe when you have only about a minute and two timeouts to think about the last four years. You want to reminisce, but you can’t help but ask, “Is this it? Is this how it ends? After all that beauty, this is how the last chapter is going to go?”

Those thoughts race through your head like a 6’2”, 215-lb wide receiver streaking down the sideline with an inferior defensive back in tow. They hang in the air like a wobbly 40-yard pass launched from the desperate arm of a junior quarterback.

Somewhere in that combination of pain and hope, somewhere in the middle of the past and the present, somewhere beautiful where angels sing and don’t care about push-offs or pass interference, the reality of it all makes sense as it spins… and spins… and spins… before it finally finds a loving, warm resting spot in caring arms.

And those caring arms pull it close to the number 23 down to the 4-yard line.

I promised myself I wouldn’t cry.

A kid walks onto the field. As I look back on my four amazing years, he looks straight ahead at his future four. He sees them beckoning to him between two bright yellow posts. The ball is snapped. The kid darts towards it. A foot swings back and then forward again. Leather meets leather.

If a brush with death makes your life flash before your eyes, then a potential game-winning field goal must be good for only four years. In the moment that ball flips end over end, it takes you back to cool nights on Bowman Field as a freshman when you should be studying. In each turn of the laces, it takes you back to skimming across the waves of Lake Hartwell after your easy summer school class. In each flash of a camera, it takes you back to all of your First Friday parades. In each gasp of the fans, it takes you back to those quiet nights on the porch with your best friends and your best stories. In each waning second ticking off of the scoreboard, it takes you back to a time when you felt like you really belonged… and life finally made sense to you.

And then, somewhere in that moment, that spinning ball of memory slips from the clouds of heaven and through the next set of goalposts in your life. A family of 85,000 tells you that, indeed, it is good.

I broke my promise.

Message was edited by: Catahoula®

Message was edited by: Catahoula®

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[Catahoula] used to be almost solely a PnR rascal, but now has adopted shidpoasting with a passion. -bengaline

You are the meme master. - RPMcMurphy®

Trump is not a phony. - RememberTheDanny

The Last Day - a little something for y'all before kickoff

Re: The Last Day - a little something for y'all before kickoff

lawd i cannot imagine

That's good stuff right there my friend.***

HOF Best post of the day.***

Point for you! Next!***

Brought a tear to my eye***

Thanks for sharing***

My last game as a student as well. Remember it like it was

That was my last football game as a student also

TigerBoard POTD