Scarlett O'Hara On Prozac

On and Off The Field

Let's face it. Southern sports and Nothern sports are different. When I was growing up, the local high school football stadium had more seats than most Northern college stadiums. Of course, we had something to be excited about when our team took the field.

Scott is a baseball person. He told me growing up, he and his brother used to play baseball in the snow. He got this glassy-eyed dreamy look on his face as he spoke in loving reverence about things like 'shagging flies' (which I thought was a disgusting reference to the mating habits of household insects) and 'baseline hits.'

I never could stand baseball. It's too slow for one. And there's no where near enough violence. Best I can tell, you got all these people standing out in a field waiting for someone else to hit a little ball with a stick and run around in a circle. The guys out in the field are supposed to prevent this from happening. I asked my husband why they didn't just knock the knees out from under the guy who was running and he looked at me like I just profaned the holy of holies. Baseball, he explained in the kind of calm voice one uses to speak to a total idiot, is mental. It's all about psyching the other team out, and this takes time. It does not take brute force.

Well, great. Its also boring as hell and I lose patience waiting for something to happen. In my world, football reigned supreme. I would say my prayers as a child and they usually went something like this, "And God Bless the Crimson Tide, and let Coach Bear Bryant live forever, and smite down those evil people at Auburn with a lightning bolt so they can't win on Saturday."

Northerners have no concept of this. Its just like explaining why sweet tea is necessary at every meal, or why hamburger meat in tomato sauce is NOT barbecue. They get that blank look and you know that not only don't they comprehend what you are saying, they don't care and they aren't going to listen anymore. Yankees are stubborn that way. Its enough to make you want to run up the Stars and Bars and start whistling Dixie.

Not only do Yankees not understand the importance of football, they don't understand what kind of football is important. They drive around with their cars decorated with Green Bay Packer stickers, or Chicago Bears logos. They call each other to gloat, depending on who loses to whom on the Sunday they play. The only football game my husband ever watches is the Super Bowl. And I ask you, what sense does this make? I see these type fans on television, sitting in the stands in temperatures below zero with their shirts off and their chests painted in team colors. They'll be drinking Old Milwaukee and belly-butting each other when their team scores, which is proof positive to me the whole population is missing essential genes. Pro football teams don't even have fight songs, for Chrissake! What is with these people?

In the South, the rhythm of life is centered around football season. Whether high school or college, its either game day, post-game day, gearing up for game-day, or reminiscing about game days gone by. If its not football season, its spring practice or summer camp or bowl season and all the big team's preparation get mentioned on the news, no matter how trivial. In some parts of the South, you don't have teams. You have dynasties, reigned over by coaches who approach god-like status and players destined for the hall of fame. Nobody much cares if your child doesn't know his multiplication tables, as long as he knows ref signals and play patterns and can name the starting line up. On that first hazy late summer afternoon when the National Anthem is sung and the first ball of the season is kicked high in the air, a somewhat religious thrill passes through the body and you know that it don't get no better than that, even though my husband swears he gets the same kind of feeling when he's at a Cubs game.

Football is the only sport in the South acceptable for your son to play. Basketball, baseball, soccer, track, those are things that kids do when they aren't good enough to make the football team. When I first moved to Illinois, I saw a sign as we drove through town, "Welcome to __________, home of the 2002 state high school boys' golf team champions." There it was, in front of God and everybody, that not only did this high school have a golf team, they were proud of the fact. They encouraged these young men to pursue what I consider to be a pasttime fitting only for those too lazy for tennis and too poor for polo. What the hell was this about?

I turned to my husband with a look he was now familiar with and sputtered, "Golf champions? You're shitting me, right?"

He sighed and assured me that up here, people are quite proud of whatever their children accomplish and encourage them to succeed in all they do. Which explained the next sign we passed, which said, "Welcome to __________, home of the 2001 boys' high school bowling team champions." By this point, I was convulsed across the seat, my face purple with extreme mirth. I could tell Scott was getting peeved. He hates it when I point out how ridiculous his kind is.

"Honey, do you realize there are generations growing up around here who, when asked by their children and grandchildren to recount their glory days and they're going to tell them, 'Well, son, I was on the bowling team!' "

"People make good money on the pro golf and bowling circuit, Zoe." Scott grumbled.

I murmured something appropriately contrite and just a shade short of patronizing, but in my head, I envisioned what would happen if two mothers from North and South met in the grocery store up the road from my house.

Mrs. Pritchard, proud Southern mama: "My Bobby Lee made the all-state offensive line this year. Coach Mack says Red Neck Tech is very interested in offering him a scholarship, but I told him to keep his options open. I'm certain if he keeps his stats up, a bigger school will make a better offer. Does your son play, Mrs. Dorfendoofer?"

Ms. Dorfendoofer, proud Northern mother: "It's Ms. Dorfendoofer, and yes. My Kurt is on the golf team at his high school. They have a very promising year ahead of them if they can stay ahead of St. Edward's Catholic High."

Mrs. Pritchard's face drains of all color and she lays a hand on Ms. Dorfendoofer's arm. "Oh my. Did you say he's on the golf team? That happened to a friend of mine who moved to Ohio. After graduation, her son moved to San Francisco and became a fashion designer. I'm sure I don't have to tell you what that means. But never you worry one little bit about Kurt, Mrs. Dorfendoofer. I'll get right on the phone when I get home and my church will hold an all night prayer meeting. We'll save that boy's heart and mind from the clutches of perversion and he'll be drop kicked by Jesus through the goal posts of life just as sure as we're standing here today."

Of course, the reasons for the differences between sports down South and sports up North was made clear once I moved to Yankeeland. You can't have week-long tailgaters in the stadium parking lot when it shares space with the local Quik-Mart. Not only that, nobody knows what barbecue is, so its not like they would know to bring one of those grills made out of a fifty-gallon drum. They all drink beer so nobody would have any bourbon and even if they did, bourbon and Pepsi is NOT the same as Jack and Coke. It's hard to tailgate properly when its below freezing and you have to keep your parka on even when you're drunk and dancing the Boot-Scootin' Boogie.

But the real reason, I figured out, has to do with the fight songs I mentioned earlier. My husband took me to see his high school football team play, and at half-time, the home-team's band marched out, played a couple of tunes, and marched off. The visiting team's band didn't even show up! Whenever someone scored, the band just sat there, looking like they'd rather be playing Nintendo, and please, God, could they get out of these hideous uniforms before their friends see them? No fight songs, no "Charge," no "Theme from 'Rocky' " to get the crowd and team fired up. It was pathetic, really. But it does explain their illogical attachment to baseball, where you've got an organist to keep you interested and focused on whats going on down on the field. Let's face it. Without the Mickey Mouse Club song played on a deluxe Wurlitzer, what's the point?

My husband is a musician. He should understand this. But like most people up here, he's still waiting for the Cubs to win the pennant and feels no sense of shame that his wife knows more ref signals than he does.

Somedays I just can't believe we lost the war!

posted by Zoe Richardson @ 9:46 AM