Glory days....

Today was the first day you could feel a hint of Fall in the air. It's been so brutally hot this summer that it may just be wishful thinking on my part, but I believe we will have an early Fall this year. It is my favorite time of the year, so I'm praying for an early arrival and a long stay. My wife on the other hand sees only the omen of old man winter, and dreads the change to colder weather.

When I was young I played football, so this time of year always conjures up memories of two-a-day practices in late August, followed by that first cool front about the time the season was to begin. Friday night games at the old high school stadium, where the cheerleaders, pep club, students and parents all turned out to root for the home team. Great memories for almost everyone, players and fans alike.

It seems like it was only a few short years ago, but the aches and pains of this old body tell a different story. It's been over forty years since my last high school football game. We still get together once and awhile, those of us who waged the gridiron battles, and who like to replay some of the more memorable moments of our glory days. Most everyone has moved on with life, made their mark so to speak, and just enjoy the camaraderie of old friends. However, there are a few who got stuck in time, and for some reason or another, never really graduated. They continue to live in those "glory days".

I treasure my old friends regardless of how they've coped with life's difficulties, and try to treat everyone with kindness and respect. It's not for me to judge why some achieve their dreams and others seem to be in a constant battle with demons of their own making.

The last game of the season was played in a cold drizzle, on a muddy field, and in front of a sparse crowd. It was a miserable night for all, and the teams had battled to a scoreless tie at the end of three quarters. The opponent was our arch rival and neither team was ready to concede defeat. With two minutes left to play, desperation was setting in, and our coach called a desperate play....halfback option pass....That's me! But this story isn't about me, it's about Wayne.

I see Wayne from time to time, riding his bike around town, head tilted to one side and having a conversation with someone known only to him. He's living in another world now, but he always makes it to our football reunions, and he always seeks me out to celebrate his one claim to glory. The days after high school have been cruel ones for him; Bouts with alcohol, drugs, and run-ins with the law. Finally, retreating into that semi-darkness where he finds peace.

But that night forty years ago Wayne was a hero. It was Wayne who streaked down the sideline, looked up into the lights where the drizzle obscured the ball, and made the catch of his lifetime. It wasn't pretty, the pass looked like a wounded quail, and the ball ended up between his knees after slipping through his hands, but he was in the end zone and it was six points...the margin of victory.

Today I sometimes cringe when Wayne grabs me around the neck and repeats every detail of that play. I'm not sure what else he remembers, but does it really matter? For one night long ago, a strapping young athlete had it all, but then let life slip through his hands.

We'll have another reunion soon, and maybe Wayne and I will replay "our" moment of glory before old man winter closes in on him. But, this is something only God knows for sure.