The Big Game
November 22, 2023 § 1 Comment
OK, Football fans, (though I retired my “watching” jersey years ago) I do have a football scene in Sketching with Renoir that I would like to share.
It’s the 1947 Army/Notre Dame Game and Cleo and her father are positioning the Woody for the Big Show.
That Sunday afternoon, Cleo, her father and Kip got into the Willy and drove down the field towards the woods and, after circling around, found the right spot to park. They had a bag lunch of baloney sandwiches and cookies, some milk for Cleo and two bottles of beer for her father. Her mother was taking a nap. Kip also had dog biscuits in the brown bag. Cleo was wearing her favorite clothes: her green corduroy pants, her yellow Roy Rodgers sweatshirt, and her cowboy hat with the string-tie and red button on its slide. She played with it while her father was circling the field. He had the radio on, the dial set for the station that would soon play the game. Every so often, he stopped the car to test the radio reception. When he found the exact spot where the announcer’s voice wasn’t crackly, he stopped, got out and made sure the antennae was up as high as it would go. They did this when the Notre Dame games came from Indiana. Her father always said, “It’s the damnedest thing. When the games come from South Bend, I can never get reception except in this field. Isn’t that something? Isn’t that something?” He would say this several times, laughing and shaking his head.
Cleo liked these times with her father. They were like the times in the morning when he would make toast and talk with her. It was different than being with her mother. He didn’t worry if Cleo’s hands were washed or not. She had never seen him cry or spend long times in the bathroom. But, he didn’t read her as many books as her mother or let her hang up laundry. It was just different.
“Oh, boy. They’re taking the field. The Fighting Irish.” This was also what her father said every time they had found the right spot and the game was beginning. Those words. “The Fighting Irish. The Fighting Irish!” He loved saying those words as he opened a beer. They picked up their sandwiches and took bites of baloney and her father gave Kip one of the biscuits.
“Notre Dame will receive.” The announcer’s deep voice filled the car. Cleo didn’t know what that meant but she nodded.
“And, there’s the kickoff.” The crowd’s roar could be heard in the radio and her father took a swallow of beer and another bite of sandwich. The announcer’s voice got higher, “Oh my! Reception! Reception! It’s Brennan. Brennan has the ball. There he goes! Oh my. He breaks loose from one. Now, two. He’s clear. He’s clear. Oh my, look it—he’s running it . . . scampering down the left-field line.”
Her father was yelling. “He’s got it! He’s got it! He’s running it back!” Her father was banging the steering wheel and a bit of sandwich flew out of his mouth. “He’s goin’ all the way,” the announcer’s voice filled the car.
“Czarobski just blocked one; Lujack got the other.” The man in the radio was yelling, “Touchdown! Touchdown! Brennan with a 97-yard kickoff return.”
Her father was pounding the wheel again. “The Fighting Irish, my foot. Ziggy Czarobski, Lujack, my foot. The Fighting Irish!” Her father kept pounding the steering wheel. Cleo had no idea what it all meant except in the end, Notre Dame won 27-7. Her father tooted the car’s horn all the way home.
Now, the Time Machine Report:
Watch Brennan, Go.
If you want to score another touchdown, here’s the link: https://indieauthorbooks.com/fiction/sketching-with-renoir
A Generation of Leaves 
Looks good. Nicole