With one more game left to be played, Jess and I couldn’t do it. Somehow it seemed an impossible task. So we decided to ditch out a little early, dragging our pathetic selves to the car. Instead of driving directly to urgent care, we stopped at the nearest restaurant.

“Panera closes at nine,” informed the man in the parking lot, who seemed to have materialized out of the thin air. A Panera employee? He lugged an invisible colored garbage bag stuffed with a variety of Panera bread, like he’d just looted the place and was now making his get away. Ruled by our stomachs, we didn’t make much of it and took the man’s word for it. So we turned around and ran through our other options.

We ended up at Max and Erma’s across the way because it was close and they have the best Mexican chicken tortilla soup. Or so we thought.

That night, the service was painfully slow. Our waitress was overwhelmed and apologized  a lot to her tables. (In her defense, I’d say she’d been triple sat - you servers can relate.) An adjacent couple in a booth received their Diet Pepsis but not until after they’d finished their meal. The couple was not happy. Earlier, the woman had ordered the Mexican chicken tortilla soup and promptly sent it back. This should have been our first sign that the chefs in back were having an equally hard time as our server. On its late return, the soup still apparently was short on chicken. Giving up, she managed to digest it as it was.

 Finally, just as we started to get frightened that we’d never see the food we ordered, a never-seen-before server came flying around the corner with our soup and half turkey sandwich. The sandwich looked shirveled and bite-sized. The bottom was soggy and the lettuce purple and wilted. But…it tasted good. The soup, not so much. It had roughly the same color I’d expect pepper spray to have if it came in liquid form - mustard yellow. The tiny bail of tortilla stips on top was just a dot in the middle of the Olympic-size bowl of soup. 

I took a bite. Its temperature was lukewarm, but the spice invaded my throat like I’d just devoured a fistful of nettles. It tasted like…like…formaldehyde, maybe? My throat instantly raw and my insides burning like an active volcano, I grabbed my glass of water and sucked on the straw like there was no tomorrow. Then, I took a frantic mental inventory of our neighboring table’s waters as well as all other potential water sources - the tap at the bar, the Max & Erma’s toliet (the tank water, not the bowl, of course - gosh), the tears streaming down my face - in case our server failed to return in time and I was about to human combust. Thankfully she arrived with a pitcher of water. “Yes, please.”    

“O man!” Jess exclaimed, misty eyed, “this is a spicy batch!”

Suddenly it became clear to us that it wasn’t that the chicken had been left out of the soup, as the woman who’d choked it down before us had suspected, rather it had simply melted to oblivion before it hit the table.

Sweating, Jess managed through more of her soup. When she came back up, her lips were swollen and chapped, like she’d just eaten a very messy tube of red lipstick. My lips and tongue stung dearly, worse than if I’d kissed a colony of red ants. We traded sounds of agony until finally our soups were gone. Oh man did that hurt.

Afterward, my stomach was very upset at me. Once home, I had half a mind to swallow a tray of ice cubes, just for any kind of relief. My tongue and lips stung right up until it was time for bed. And as I lay down to sleep, I wondered, face burning, if all this could have been avoided if only we’d played that last game of volleyball.

But when the time comes to throw down, a marked seriousness falls over the faces of the citizens of Westerville. Both families temporarily cast aside their typical ”blood runs thicker than water” attitudes. Instead, it’s a regular Hatfields vs. McCoys brawl, where the two prominent blood-lines, Yost and Riddell, suit up (some garbed in flashier attire than others) and battle it out on Thanksgiving Day (or, as was the case this year, the Saturday after Thanksgiving).

This, of course, is done over the pigskin and accurately determines who will own the title ”survivor of the fittest” for a year.  The family who loses can do nothing but let the defeat and the disquieting dissatisfaction of 2nd place stew with a long, torturous burn until next year’s Turkey Bowl.

The Turkey Bowl is played on an unmarked football field in a Westerville Park. It consists of a picnic table on the far side that you have to watch out for when “going long”, and an empty water bottle or wadded up sweatshirt, or whatever’s handy and doesn’t look like a leaf, for marking the endzones.

Although it is doubtful that it will affect Ohio State’s ranking, this year’s 2007 Turkey Bowl had the unexpected outcome of a tie. Both families went home winners. This was only made possible by a miraculous hail mary pass from Uncle Pete (aka. Uncle Flutie) to Andrew Riddell on the last play of the game to tie the score. “I slipped,” declared the cleat-less Tony Frabott.

Other highlights of the game include player Jessica Hodson who, when assigned the position of blitzing the quarterback, announced to the coach, “I don’t want to play that part”; and Cameron, the smallest but equally dangerous component of Team Riddell, sprawling face down on the field between plays, lost in deep thought over the custom-sized, red recliner awaiting him back at the house, where he’d later settle down for a two hour, post-game nap.

Afterward, the two families resumed their friendly relations and took family pictures beside the field. Then they had a nice Thanksgiving dinner together, dreaming of next year’s game.  

A frosty light projected onto the Ohio State battle field. Both end zones were meticulously painted movie theatre carpet red. Imitating jack-in-the-boxes, we took turns sitting and standing in order to catch a view over the heads of our fellow fans of the feature film playing before us, which, I might add, was winding down to an increasingly scary ending.

In the meantime, however, we did our part by yelling out the letters of our state at the opposing team. Each of us secretly hoped that this would somehow put a stop to the Fighting Illini’s nasty offensive drives. Like an overly zealous spelling bee, the air quaked with “O-H’s,” and was promptly greeted with ”I-O’s”. Yes, we were more than proud of the fact that we could spell our state’s name. As fans, it was our greatest weapon.

To try the same with our opponent, Illinois, would be just plain silly. The whole sound of it would never do. And, if you’re talking specifics, eight letters go into spelling Illinois to our four. It comes out to be twice the letters. This means two ”O-H-I-O” rounds could easily be fired off to their one. To set a more accurate comparison, this would be like matching a single shot pistol against a semi-automatic. Illinois fans would simply not survive. Besides, by the time it took to get around to uttering the final ”s” to the long-winded state, everyone would be flat out bored.

Once the fourth quarter hit, we all basically watched as the Buckeyes continued to work out their plans to hand over a free trip to New Orleans. Ohio State lost 28 to 21 to what was once considered a mediocre football team. With hanging heads, we all flocked back to our homes wondering why God let Ohio State lose, and trying our best to figure out what went wrong with our Ohio chant. Last Saturday, the world just didn’t make sense.

Some guys at work had rented out a court for two hours last night from 6 to 8. It was about 45 minutes into it that, after throwing up several bricks and watching my guy score yet another easy layup while I stood propped on my knees, I wondered if 8 o’clock would ever come. This was in contrast to my first 5 minutes on the court, when I secretly nominated myself as the team motivator.

At first, I handed out high fives and “good game’s” like Monopoly money, doing everything except the patented “good job” swat to the butt, which I had already determined would come later after I sank my first twenty shots and team comaraderie had a chance to build. 10 minutes later I was about ready to collapse, and this new sports attitude fell to a silent gasping for air.

When 8 o’clock finally arrived, I drug myself off the court ( I don’t remember saying bye to anyone) and woke up 15 minutes later at home. This morning I pulled out a pair of extra thick socks, to ease the friction on the developing blisters and bruised toe nails.

It was New Albany’s home opener - the New Albany Eagles versus the Granville Blue Aces. The threatening clouds had cleared up, and the predicted storms moved further east. All in all, it turned out to be a nice evening. And a perfect night for football.

Once we hit the New Albany line, you could just smell the energy in the air. It smelled like pigskin and hard hitting pads. At an intersection, we watched as a Granville High School bus packed with a rambunctious mob of teenagers all dressed alike, zoomed past. I concluded that they must be the pep-squad, and that they had no further aim than to reek havoc on the visitors side. Already, the kids at the back of the bus were practicing making faces and doing their best to get a rise out of the poor sap stuck in the car behind them. After a long red light, a puff of black smoke drifted up from the exhaust, and the bus roared toward the stadium.

On reaching the stadium, the parking lot was full and cars lined the street on both sides for nearly a quarter mile. As American as we are, this little inconvenience almost cost us our date, but after a good griping we shook off the notion to just get Mexcian and go home and remembered that we were young and could use the walk. So, we parked in uptown New Albany in a semi-vacant lot behind the Rusty Bucket. How come no one else parked here, I wondered? I did a quick check for hidden tow away zone signs. The coast looked clear; however, I still had my suspicions. Did the locals know something we didn’t?

Oh well, if we get towed, we get towed. Before setting off for the stadium, there was some back and forth about whether or not Jess should bring her fleece in case it got cold later. It was already eighty outside and it seemed to be getting hotter. My upper lip was working up a nice “sweat-stache”. Finally, the decision was made and Jess left with fleece in hand. It could always make for a good seat cushion.

We walked holding hands. The sky held a deep evening blue, and what clouds remained stretched thinly above us with purple edges. I lifted my nose and sniffed the twilight air and caught the scent of a pleasing aroma - concession stand food!

As we neared the stadium, the mood grew slightly rowdier. Kids barely old enough to drive, honked and hung their heads out the windows, screaming something indecipherable about the Eagles. I managed a weak smile and tightened my grip on Jess’ hand. The last thing I wanted was to get roughed up or made fun of by one of these high school punks. I was an old man in there eyes, out dated and out of style, and the clothes I wore alone were probably enough to get me harrased. Not that I was wearing anything out of the ordinary, but who knows what goes on inside these teenaged kids’ heads these days.

In order to blend in, we fell in behind a gaggle of parents and grandparents. Like a flock of geese, we slowly gravitated toward the admissions booth. The going rate for football tickets these days is $6 for adults and $3 for students. Jess pointed out that, for the two of us, that was enough to eat out on. “Two adults, please,” I said to the duo in the window. Their teamwork was seamless; one took my cash while the other handed me two tickets and change for a twenty. I made sure it was all there, and after some quick math, was put at ease.

The tickets lasted less than a minute in my hand, because five steps later we ran into the ticket woman at the entrance gate, who was smiling and wore a kahki pouch fastened to her waist. She mechanically plucked the tickets from my hand, dropped it in her pouch, and we were in.

Because this entry is getting too long, I won’t spend too much time detailing the initial scene of the stadium going-ons. Let’s just say that their were lots of kids running around, and the Friday night lights lit the freshly painted field in a feverish blaze. Jess and I made a beeline for the concession stand, where I ordered up a Mountain Dew and Jess wanted the only color Gatorade she hadn’t yet consumed while suffering from a violent stomach flu. Drinks in hand, we weaved our way through the crowd, up the stairs and found a nice seat at the 50 yard line.

Every fifteen minutes or so a piercing bird screech would blast from the loud speakers. I automatically assumed it to be the Eagles mascot giving the crowd his routine pep-talk. And it was working too, because the stands were firy hot with energy and anticipation of a good Eagle’s showing. Two World War II veterans sat two rows behind us. They offered to anyone within earshot the pregame commentary and a list of reasons to vote down the upcoming school tax levy. Later, they were also able to throw up some keen observations about the cameraman on the field failing to take the proper number of snapshots, and one even went so far as to wonder if there was even film in his dang camera. “He must be waiting for a special picture,” one said, and on this, they both finally agreed.

The Eagles won the toss and burst out of the nest early on an aggressive first play - a long bomb to number 4. Number 4 had his man burnt by a mile. The stands and the world were dead quiet, and the football spiraled in the air for an hour. The ball hit the receiver in the hands and fell to the turf. An “Ohhh” escaped from the crowd, and number 4 sulked back to the huddle, licking his wounds. New Albany eventually went on to score, but the rest of the game was spent watching number 4 trying to redeem himself.

Probably the greatest spectacle was Superfan. I calculated Superfan to be sixteen or seventeen, but Jess thought differently. She figured him to be at least in his mid-thirties. “Didn’t you see his face,” she said as Superfan zipped past us, “He’s at least old enough to be married.” But who could tell with his face painted the way it was. Red and gold were painted in perfect halves down his face. And a curly painted wig hid his hair (or lack there of). As he zipped from one end of the stands to the other in gold tights, a red cape that said Superfan floated behind him. Occasionally he’d face the crowd, holding up a series of posterboards with a message written sloppily in black marker. It was obvious he’d spent the last fifteen minutes before the game, probably in his car, putting this together. SORRY I’M LATE. I WAS AT A WEDDING REHEARSAL (NOT MINE), said one.

As Superfan’s interaction with the crowd continued, I was unable to decide whether the people liked him, considered him a nuisance, or were indifferent. No one seemed to take much notice of him, that is, except for the kids. But they were easy to impress; he’d toss them a piece of candy now and then to win their votes. Then a disturbing thought occurred to me. What if I had a son who grew up to be a superfan? I’ve thought of him playing sports, or being artistic, or even marching in the band, but this idea had never crossed my mind. Until now, I didn’t even think it was an option. I let myself worry until the next big play. Then I completely forgot about it.

By half-time the color had drained from the sky, and the stadium lights sizzled against the darkness. After a semi-entertaining halftime performance, Jess and I decided that our backs were killing us from sitting on the backless bleachers. We left before the start of the second half. The score was 10 to 3 - New Albany. As we headed back to the car, the announcer’s voice broke the silence of the night. Granville had scored their first touchdown. The game was getting good.

We may never know who won. As we walked along the unlit sidewalks of New Albany, among the sounds of the night creatures in the bushes and trees, we decided that next time we would go to the second half.