The common cold is an easy enough sickness to manage. Take three to four days of tender love and care, and the illness should mostly be a memory. Sure, the beginning stages are annoying — seeing clear droplets of snot fall from from your nose is gross. Only to then have it turn to yellowish mucky globs being flung from a 100 mph sneeze. The initial unscratchable itch, an irritation your body hacks and coughs to expel, and a torpor that’s hard to shake without hot fluids. A cold is not an utterly taxing affair — until it is. Amid what should’ve been a highly thrilling, adrenaline fueled rivalry I was stricken by a common cold.
After two defeats and a spirited victory against McMinnville, myself and the football team were feeling exuberant. We’d gotten a weight far heavier than our football pads off of our shoulders. One victory to bring some levity to the sweaty, rotted foot scent of South Salem’s football locker room. I didn’t feel much of the weight had lifted; in fact it got heavier — as if I was lugging around a duffle bag of 45 lb plates. One win doesn’t prove much. We had to win another game and there was no better team to do it against than Sprague.
School ended so I headed off to film as we do every Monday, being sure to sift through my peers, who often become statues at the most inconvenient times. Coach Dufault brought up his notes to the team and he examined the mass sitting before him. “It is rivalry week!” The team responded with various hoots, hollars, and expressions of enthusiasm. I did as well. I was never a big fan of Sprague’s athletic crowds. They remind me of a tea kettle whistling incessantly or an alarm clock that rings its tune even once you’re in the car heading to work. Needless noise and agitation among what is already a chaotic environment. The idea of getting to shut up a Sprague crowd on their home-field made me feel like lithium had replaced my blood and what remained was bubbling over.
Film watched, Monday practice finished, Tuesday practice hard played, well finished, and Wednesday practice ended with a subtle feeling. I undressed, removing the soaked, sweaty uniform, and felt a raspiness in my throat. It had been that Oregon cold all week, the kind that requires a jacket, but also will creep up on you like a jungle predator. The common cold was stalking me, the feeling in my throat, the chill around my wet arms pointed toward an unfortunate inevitability: sickness. I ignored it, pushed it away like a carnivore pushes away a veggie. However, once the alarm sounded at 4:55 a.m.on Thursday I felt it; the cold had pounced and sank its chilled claws in my throat and head. It lurched in my sleep. There was nothing to be done. As I said before three to four days of tender love and care was needed to rid the cold, but the rivalry game was Friday. I had no time to get better. I pulled myself from my own plush coffin to the burning light of the room to get dressed and ready for school — then practice.
Inside I felt like the undead, though I tried my best to make myself lively, feeding on the honey that was beating Sprague in a sporting event. That Thursday I coughed more harshly, more frequently than a lifetime smoker. My body was waving the white flag. It probably would have been best to return to my coffin. The stubbornness and pride of a boy yet prevailed though. I said nothing to my coaches – choosing to keep my cold between me and my lungs. I had a game to attend to.
The bus ride to Spague felt quiet — as though on the inside each team member was contemplating something far deeper than a football game. I made small talk about the game with my fellow defensive linemen Joe. “What do you think our chances are tonight?
Joe turned his head away from me for a moment replying nonchalantly, “I think there is a 50/50 chance. It could go either way.”
I leaned on cynicism, “I think we are at 25/75 chance. We don’t tend to respond well to adversity. I would love to be wrong though.”
“That’s true, I guess we’ll see,” he quietly uttered before joining the bus in silence.
Before too long we arrived to Sparuge and its sea of bright-burning orange. Their crowd assumed the whistling of a tea kettle, chanting sonorously, “Beat South! Beat south!” I felt the back of the bus where our hot-heads dwell ignite into flares. They couldn’t keep their mouths shut, much like baby birds. I loved their passion though. The tone was set: Saxons were not welcomed there upon Olympian grounds. Quickly, we unloaded the bus eager to take the field after that welcoming. We were there early, nearly two hours before kick-off. In that time I stewed in my various thoughts. Last time I had the pleasure of being there I won a district championship against the very same guys in wrestling. I already grinded my teeth there once, why not again?
Once geared, taped, and fired up, we made our way to the audacious field colored in charcoal black and highlighter orange. The Olympian student section booed us as we descended on that ugly field. Stoicism prevailed, however, eyes were forward as if following an invisible target. My cold had kept quiet through this, choosing to remain just beyond my sight. I’d feel it soon enough. I daydreamed through warm-ups and the pre-game speech. My focus was on the first snap of the ball I’d get to battle in. Under the widening darkness kept at bay by those overly tall Friday night lights, Oylmpian orange and Saxon blue took the field. I watched my teammates line up to kick the ball and ignite the fuse on what was sure to be a tantalizing game. I was a fan in the stands for that moment, a spectator with the best seat in the house. The football was punted into the sky — coming down like a grenade that wouldn’t ever explode. The game was on. Some two hours later the South Salem Saxons won: 28-18. I’ll never forget it and neither will my lungs.
