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Football has exerted too much control over my Saturday schedule lately, so I'm relieved that today is the final regular-season game. The 'Cats play Missouri today here in Manhattan, so there goes my Saturday afternoon. It's not televised and I have no plans to attend the game. Nonetheless, it will take a chunk out of my attention as I drift from task to task and room to room with headphones on listening to the game.

I remember fondly the days before the Bill Snyder era when the program was the losingest program in Division 1. At that time, the stands for home games were often empty, unless Nebraska was playing here. Then the stands would fill with Cornhusker red. The Nebraska fans considered K-State's stadium as their own. Because their own huge stadium is sold out for a few decades in advance, many Nebraska fans came to KSU so that they could see their boys in person. Their fans would travel from the hinterlands of the northern Midwest in their cars, trucks and motorhomes, crowding the two-lane highways between here and Lincoln and coming to rest at tailgate parties in the lot at the stadium. Even their third-string teams would wipe up the field with the Wildcats. It was as if a superbowl team had arrived to take on the good ol' boys in the local beer league. But their fans were always gracious to the locals. I hope that our fans are as gracious on the road as the Nebraska fans were here. Oh, the point of this paragraph: for home games other than the Nebraska game, anyone could walk in after halftime without a ticket, great for kids and for cheapskates like me. That kind of simplicity about the game is what I miss.

Hmm. I think I've written that entry already on another day. Oh well.

Taylor's friend Ben had joined us for dinner and a sleepover. The boys had planned to dine out at Burger King, so Jami, Owen, Taylor, Ben and I loaded our hungry butts into the Windstar, eager to partake of our portion of fat and Pokemon promotional items. Therein lies another story that I'll let pass for now except to say that most happy meal toys fit under the fridge -- not so the Pokemon toys, which are obtrusive and apparently unbreakable. There's another story about Owen at the transitional age (12), being torn between a Whopper (without Pokemon) and a happy meal (without flavor), but that, as I said, is another story (he chose flavor). Another rite of passage negotiated, like changing from cartoon-decorated underwear to plain tighty whiteys.

Anyway. A neighbor's little blue car was parked opposite our driveway, and Jami began to back her van out of our drive.

And she backed.

And she cut her wheels.

And she backed.

And she backed some more.

Now let me interrupt this thrilling action to mention that I was fully aware that there was a car behind us. And let me also admit that I was tempted to say something to Jami, but let me add that I am dealing here with a woman who brooks no correction, a woman who too often uses her tongue as a weapon, whose impatience is notorious...I could go on, but won't.

I said nothing. She has two eyes, more than half a brain, and a graduate degree -- surely she would know that there was a car parked behind her.

She didn't. She didn't know, she didn't stop backing, and she didn't cut her wheels far enough to miss hitting the car.

Crunch! New, little blue car side-panel, meet minivan rear bumper.

Yes, I should have warned her. I'm a turd for not saying anything. But we had worked too closely together this weekend already, and I wasn't going to risk another cutting remark.

Jami alerted the neighbor and told her to call our insurance agent on Monday, and we headed off to Burger King. Life goes on. But I shall not tell her that I was aware there was a car there, that I could have stopped her. Would you?

Okay, I couldn't remove all of the smug. Sue me.

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Last updated: 7:30 PM (GMT-6) 11/20/99
Copyright 1999 by R.C. Patterson. All rights reserved.