Game days start early for a proud member of the Miami University Marching Band (they start early for regular members too but who's quibbling).� It happened to be the first and only Moose Saturday too, if I recall.� If you've heard of Froggie Friday, Moose Saturday is similar except it involves pigtails and gloves instead of frog eyes.� It was a typical game day except that the band would not be performing at half time due to, ahem, some...uh...difficulties we'd had earlier in the season.� This isn't really an important fact except that the game seemed unusually long without our performance and third quarter break to break up the monotony.� That and the fact that Miami was losing terribly made for quite a waste of my day (not that it would have been any less of a waste if we had won...).� I don't recall watching much of this game, as I don't usually watch much of any game, nor have I for the past seven years of my life, but I suddenly regretted that as we gathered on the sidelines to do our post game show.
I stood on the back sideline of Yager Stadium and life suddenly made sense.� I heard wonderful music and birds singing and realized why I'd been in band all these years.� There, where I had stood many a game day counting down the seconds to the end of the game, I stood once more and waited.� I waited to hear "MU! -- GO BAND!" like the sweet sound of my red and white jail cell opening.� But before the crowd began to filter out, before the home premier of the MUMB Russian Masters show, before we would countdown the final ten seconds of the fourth quarter, I saw him.� Number 10 for the blundering turds.� He was the most beautiful thing I'd seen in a long time.� His sweaty hair was curly and blonde, not too short not too long.� His white uniform had grass stains on it that matched the green letters and numbers on his jersey "PENNINGTON."� Using my keen powers of deduction I concluded that he must have actually played at some point during the game.� Who knew?
He was laughing and smiling, posing for pictures and involved in playful banter with some fans.� "What round are you going in the draft this year Chad?" they asked.� And to be honest, I can't recall what he said then.� I wasn't even sure if these people were kidding or not, having no idea that I was standing a few short yards away from a Heisman Trophy Candidate.� All I know is that when that boy opened his mouth, I heard the voice of an angel.� A southern Angel.� "Who's that?" I asked the other girls around me.� "Where is he from?"� "Tennessee," one replied.� Tennessee?� That certainly explained the adorable accent which was not the typical southern drawl I hear from the townies in Oxford or from my werido family in Huntington.� No, no.� This was the voice of an Angel.
I stood there with him for a only a few moments before the game was finally over.� And for once I wished it could go on forever.� Then the game was over and the Marshall team ran to the center of the field to celebrate.� I followed that boy into the sea of his team, his angelic blonde hair so distinctive from that of his teammates.� I watched him until I could see him no longer.� Russian Masters be damned!� I had a date with destiny...
In hindsight, I wonder to myself, "how many more hottie extrodinaires have I missed due to my own inability to recognize fate and her intervention?� How many times have I been a few feet away from an angel in mesh and spandex without even knowing?� Could it be that football has some purpose in the universe besides entertaining the common neanderthal and providing a few scholarships here and there?� Is this barbaric phenomenon in which 22 grown men knock each other out fighting over a stupid looking oblong ball that doesn't even bounce correctly more than meets the eye?� Have I, the self-deemed queen of observational powers and insight been so blind for these long seven years?"
As the memories of my chance meeting with Chad fade, he grows even more admirable in my sight.� He who never fails to impress me with his community involvement, whom I've never heard a single bad thing about, is still an angel in disguise.� Only I, the queen of� insight can see his true colors, and my friends, he does not bleed green.
However the cynic in
me rears its ugly head once more as football season finally comes
to an end and I realize that I was not wasting my time by ignoring the
hundreds of games.� There really wasn't anything for me to miss, no
more hottie extrordinaires, no more angels in mesh and spandex.� My
angel, Chad Pennington, is truly one of a kind and our meeting was a once
in a lifetime event.� And thats okay with me.� It was all worth
it.
�
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