The cold weather has settled in Michigan, just in time for a classic fall football game, complete with blankets to cover the aluminum benches, hot cups of cocoa at the concession stands, and hand-warmers grasped tightly between the fingers.
I brought hand-warmers for the kids in the Marching Band, but wasn't allowed to hand them out because there weren't enough for everyone. This is based on the assumption that everyone would want them, which isn't usually the case; some kids are actually intelligent enough to bring warm gloves to put on their hands while they're sitting in the stands watching the game. But in this age of Political Correctness, either everyone gets something or no one gets anything.
The pre-game show went well, other than the confusion that arose from the presence of a bunch of middle- and elementary-school football players (children) who were there for some special football-legacy thing. The band directors didn't look as though they quite knew what was going on, but they carried on. It was obvious that there was a bit of a disconnect between the football team and the band, though, because when the band starting playing the National Anthem, the team was running through the "tunnel" of children and yelling and doing high-fives. It was, I thought, rather rude and disrespectful.
During the first quarter of the game, it was apparent that the team wasn't quite ready for cold-weather play because the ball kept slipping through their fingers. Lots of incomplete passes, lots of bounces off frozen fingertips. It was discouraging.
But they rallied late in the second quarter and, by half-time, appeared a bit more warmed-up.
Half-time is our big stress moment, when my pit crew team has to move like lightning and get all the equipment in place (podiums, sound system, carts) so that the band can do a professional show. We goofed a couple of things this time. One of the podiums started out on the wrong yard line -- it was on the 35 instead of the 30 -- but we corrected that right after the first song. And the generator, which provides power for the electronic keyboards and amplifier, ran out of gas during the last song. (I'd tried to convince the front line kids that they should plug into the field power, which I'd gone to the trouble of turning on, but they thought it would be faster to use the generator.)
After the show, the band retired back into the stands to watch the rest of the game and to play inspirational pieces when we got a first down or a touchdown. Since we couldn't give out hand-warmers, they did the best they could with what they had -- or what they could buy at the concessions. Hot chocolate. Hot tea. Hot dogs.
Near the end of the game, the pit crew loaded up the gear and headed back to the trailers to put away the front line instruments while the kids hung out for the last ten minutes of the game. And I forgot to check to make sure they got everything we'd brought out.
They'd remembered everything. Except the box with the tools and the hand-warmers.
I didn't realize this out until I got home from the game and looked in the back of my car and realized that the tools were missing. My tools. The tools I would need to fix Deb's car in the morning. (I had purchased a new radiator for her car earlier in the day.)
So I hot-footed it back to the stadium (which was dark by then) and ran over to the spot where it had been sitting, only to find that it was gone. My heart sank because I had no idea who had picked it up or what had happened to it. Not sure what to do next, I went back to the parking lot. At the gate, two older gentlemen were locking things up. When I mentioned the box, one of them said, "Oh, yes, we saw that and picked it up and put it in the garage." Which was back at the stadium. They graciously offered to go back to the garage and open it so I could retrieve my box of tools. All I had to do, was to follow them in my car. I thanked them and reached into my pocket for my keys.
My pocket was empty.
Panic!
So instead of driving after them, I ran after them, finally catching up with them at the garage where I explained the problem, and they (again) graciously offered to help me find my keys. Remembering that I had run across the field (in the dark) to get to the other side when I first came to look for the box, I pulled out my flashlight and starting walking across the field, scanning the patch of light in front of me, while they pulled their truck onto the field and lit it up with their headlights. And within about twenty seconds, the glint of keys! They were right there, lying on the astroturf at about the 20 yard line.
All's well that ends well. I got my box of tools, met some very nice, helpful guys, and got home safely with my box of tools, ready for tomorrow's adventure with the new radiator.
But I was completely exhausted, too.
I brought hand-warmers for the kids in the Marching Band, but wasn't allowed to hand them out because there weren't enough for everyone. This is based on the assumption that everyone would want them, which isn't usually the case; some kids are actually intelligent enough to bring warm gloves to put on their hands while they're sitting in the stands watching the game. But in this age of Political Correctness, either everyone gets something or no one gets anything.
The pre-game show went well, other than the confusion that arose from the presence of a bunch of middle- and elementary-school football players (children) who were there for some special football-legacy thing. The band directors didn't look as though they quite knew what was going on, but they carried on. It was obvious that there was a bit of a disconnect between the football team and the band, though, because when the band starting playing the National Anthem, the team was running through the "tunnel" of children and yelling and doing high-fives. It was, I thought, rather rude and disrespectful.
During the first quarter of the game, it was apparent that the team wasn't quite ready for cold-weather play because the ball kept slipping through their fingers. Lots of incomplete passes, lots of bounces off frozen fingertips. It was discouraging.
But they rallied late in the second quarter and, by half-time, appeared a bit more warmed-up.
Half-time is our big stress moment, when my pit crew team has to move like lightning and get all the equipment in place (podiums, sound system, carts) so that the band can do a professional show. We goofed a couple of things this time. One of the podiums started out on the wrong yard line -- it was on the 35 instead of the 30 -- but we corrected that right after the first song. And the generator, which provides power for the electronic keyboards and amplifier, ran out of gas during the last song. (I'd tried to convince the front line kids that they should plug into the field power, which I'd gone to the trouble of turning on, but they thought it would be faster to use the generator.)
After the show, the band retired back into the stands to watch the rest of the game and to play inspirational pieces when we got a first down or a touchdown. Since we couldn't give out hand-warmers, they did the best they could with what they had -- or what they could buy at the concessions. Hot chocolate. Hot tea. Hot dogs.
Near the end of the game, the pit crew loaded up the gear and headed back to the trailers to put away the front line instruments while the kids hung out for the last ten minutes of the game. And I forgot to check to make sure they got everything we'd brought out.
They'd remembered everything. Except the box with the tools and the hand-warmers.
I didn't realize this out until I got home from the game and looked in the back of my car and realized that the tools were missing. My tools. The tools I would need to fix Deb's car in the morning. (I had purchased a new radiator for her car earlier in the day.)
So I hot-footed it back to the stadium (which was dark by then) and ran over to the spot where it had been sitting, only to find that it was gone. My heart sank because I had no idea who had picked it up or what had happened to it. Not sure what to do next, I went back to the parking lot. At the gate, two older gentlemen were locking things up. When I mentioned the box, one of them said, "Oh, yes, we saw that and picked it up and put it in the garage." Which was back at the stadium. They graciously offered to go back to the garage and open it so I could retrieve my box of tools. All I had to do, was to follow them in my car. I thanked them and reached into my pocket for my keys.
My pocket was empty.
Panic!
So instead of driving after them, I ran after them, finally catching up with them at the garage where I explained the problem, and they (again) graciously offered to help me find my keys. Remembering that I had run across the field (in the dark) to get to the other side when I first came to look for the box, I pulled out my flashlight and starting walking across the field, scanning the patch of light in front of me, while they pulled their truck onto the field and lit it up with their headlights. And within about twenty seconds, the glint of keys! They were right there, lying on the astroturf at about the 20 yard line.
All's well that ends well. I got my box of tools, met some very nice, helpful guys, and got home safely with my box of tools, ready for tomorrow's adventure with the new radiator.
But I was completely exhausted, too.
1 comment:
Thank you, God, for the found keys and tools! <3
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