Read Your Keys

Preface

[Can blog entries have prefaces?]

My fingers itch to write.  It tingles beneath the surface of my tips and reaches to the lining of my stomach. To scratch it, I simply need to hunker into the couch, open a new blog entry, and write (and scratch) and write (and scratch) and write (and scratch) until the relief consumes me and I've composed another entry... I have, after all, been neglecting my blog this summer.

I sat down three times today to compose an entry, but my cauldron of inspiration is dry. I have a few ideas, but they're premature and essentially reiterating what I've already blogged about repeatedly: my love for autumn and my ache for jeans and scarves and peppermint hot chocolate and a dunkin donuts bagel on a frosty morning. 

So, I perused an old textbook from college that lists multiple writing exercises, and while surely I could force a story with each, nothing ignited excitement worth pursuing. But I did encounter an interesting exercise: 

Articulate your earliest childhood memory. Describe it in sensory detail to your audience.

I've seen this exercise before. I've heard the phrase "earliest memory" plenty of times in conversation, media, books and writing. I am certainly baffled by this prompt, and moreover thankful that none of my former teachers ever required this as an assignment. Perhaps it is particular to me (though surely, I am not so special), but I have no chronological lineage to my early memories. If I were to create a visual depiction of my memory, it would look like a collage, not a timeline. For a girl so organize, my inability to meticulously categorize my memories is frustrating. However, I, too, have verbalized this phrase, though I will admit in this very moment, its orientation to the story is useless, since I cannot prove it true. 

This isn't to say that I don't have a concept of timing. In organizational survival fashion, I have paired my knowledge of my past with authentic memories to construct a hybrid that allows for some idea of setting. And in all honesty, I fake the rest. 

But tonight, I will jump from this platform of the early memory. While I cannot sincerely and honestly convey to you my earliest memory, I feel I can delve into an old favorite.

Entry

[What? It's not like blog entries have a first chapter.]

I remember the weight of that old maroon sweatshirt. It cradled me around my shoulders. It hugged me on mild afternoons when the sun warmed and the breeze cooled.

That was my football sweatshirt. 

I don't know how old I was, maybe five or six, but it was already a father and daughter Saturday tradition to walk to the college for the game. My memory starts in the same place each time: Mom wrestled on my sweatshirt and laced up my sneakers. Dad slapped on his long brim hat and reached for my hand. Through my dark Buster Brown bangs, I tracked our trek, and we always walked the same route: down Delaware, across Broadway, and through the neighborhood by the college stadium. It was always chilly, but never cold. We passed Mary decorating her front porch with pumpkins and corn stalks. We waved at Mike on his ladder. We leapt over the train tracks, checking, always, for squashed pennies on the rails. Sometimes Dad told stories. Sometimes I did. We talked about school and football. 

"We're playing Brockport today. They're going to be tough." - he'd say.

When we arrived at the field, the ticket teller stamped our hands. Waves of red, white, black and gray flooded the stands. College kids chanted taunts at the opponents, their faces painted and words slurred. But we never went directly to the bleachers. Our routine was as old as our tradition. We, first, walked to the concession stand. Standing in line, Dad hollered at the offense. Other fans around us did the same. I could never see the field when we stood in line, so I watched the cheerleaders flip and shimmy their pompoms. 

Dad ordered a coffee, a water and two hotdogs, always. We smothered our dogs with ketchup (mustard on Dad's), and walk to the end zone near the smokers and uninterested children rolling in the grass. 

There. Dad taught me football. I pinched my face between the triangles of the fence as Dad pointed out the holes in the lines. He named positions. He challenged me to watch one guy for each play. 

"Goddamnit! Read Your Keys!" - he'd shout between lessons.

Every Saturday, we spent the first quarter in the end zone. 

For the second quarter, Dad and I moved to the bleachers to continue my lesson. I loved the bleachers because I didn't have to squish my face or miss the ball. I could see everything. Dad pointed out plays and instructed me to watch the defense anticipating the offense and the offense outsmarting the defense. The commentator crackled in the dated sound system. The crowd erupted in a collective roar when the offense carried the ball into the end zone. Dad stomped his boots into the bleachers and grabbed my hand in celebration. Fans around us did the same, and an irreversible love for the game and the camaraderie of the fans swelled with every weekend.

Needless to say, this tradition is a standing 24 year tradition, to include half of the regular season in 2011. 

Preseason football starts in these next few weeks and I am longing for a heavy sweatshirt, a hot dog and a walk to the stadium with Dad. While Hawaii has it's own idea of football weekends, it's certainly not the same. So, I am counting down to football season 2014 when Nick and I will be back on the mainland and Dad and I will be back in the Cortland stands - at least for a game or two. :)