Friday night will kick off yet another season of football for the Fitzgerald Purple Hurricanes. This past week a former football player updated his facebook status mentioning that being part of Hurricane football was like being part of a fraternity. Once you are a Hurricane, you bleed purple and gold for life. This piece is from my freshman year of college. The assignment was to write a place that has a special significance only to the people who frequent the place. Our teacher wanted us to tell a story while also sharing the things that were unique about the place. This is another one of my favorites!!
Every Friday night of fall the First Baptist Church parking lot overflows with an assortment of cars. Through the maze of brand names, it is easy to notice the tiny gold “F swooshes” stuck neatly to each car’s rear window. At the end of the SUV’s, you discover Bragg Street, that dead ends into Jaycee Stadium. The same “swooshes” that decorate the car windows are neatly painted on the street as if they are the footprints of a hurricane. The street is lined with cars and people walk down the center line. Each fan carries their bright purple seat cushion. The night is dark and the only light for miles seemingly tunnels from the green field half a block away.
What usually serves as the student parking lot for Fitzgerald High School is now a parking lot for premium boosters. The oversized grill from Community Bank is positioned at the heart of this parking lot, and it billows smoke and the aroma of sausage into the air. Friendly faces place sausage dogs into the cupped hands of young Hurricane fans.
The parking lot collides with a chain link fence that has a tiny opening. At the opening, two retired teachers sit in purple chairs. They each hold hole punchers, and punch each yellow ticket that enters through the gate. Metal, purple banners are suspended from the bottom side of the aluminum bleachers. Each banner displays the many business that made this stadium as well as this football program possible. Band boosters stand at the bottom of the silver ramp leading to the bleachers. Smiles plaster their faces and their hands are full of boiled peanuts and programs.
Passing the band boosters, you continue to make your way up the silver ramp. Your fingertips are magnetized to the hand rail. The metal is cold to touch and slimy from the many sweaty hands that have passed through before you. At the top of the ramp, you step into the clearing. White hate teenagers stand on the green field blowing bright brass horns. The chorus and show choir form a semi-circle around several microphones. Young voices resonate throughout the stadium. Mr. Newsome, the band director, stands on the small platform positioned on the sideline. He throws his hands violently in the air. The music ceases.
Cheers erupt just as Lloyd Stembridge’s voice booms through the loudspeaker. The bleachers, a towering sea of purple pride, bring new meaning to the phrase, “purple mountain majesty.” In the “reserved section,” twenty-four rows up, just below the press box, are the best seats around. You can hear Hal, Tim, and Bill providing play by-play commentary for the few fans left at home. Looking around, you can see into the band section, beyond that into the student section. Across the field you can see the concession stand and even the BP down the street.
This portion of the “reserved section” is the most exciting. These are the hardcore fans. Not the ones who see this as a social event. These are the people who faithfully follow Fitzgerald football.
Jill Pruitt sits about ten seats to the left. She is perched on the bleachers, her video camera glued to her right hand. Her shirt reads, “Purple Hurricanes,” and on the left side is a pinned picture of her family standing on the football field. She is a fan of a special breed. She is not only a player’s mom but the head coach’s wife. She is the center of the circle, surrounded by all of the other women who married into the coaching staff family. They each represent their families with their own customized picture pins.
On row twenty-three, two seats are occupied by Dr. Smith, the local veterinarian, and his wife Lynn. “Doc,” as he is more commonly called on Friday nights, is a fragile looking man. In his mid-fifties, his skin is dark. There are dark circles under his eyes. He works too much. He always has, but still he manages to get off in time for Friday night football. A thick mustache is nestled on his top lip. His back is slightly hunched, but after a beautiful drive down the field he straightens it our fast. He thrusts his right arm across his body and screams, “first down.”
His eruption of excitement has a chain reaction on the rest of the section. “1, 2, 3,” Coach Vaughn’s wife yells. “Move that chain, move that chain, move that chain, huh!” The entire section belts the cheer as loud as they can.
A few more of those chants and the purple jerseys are on the ten yard line. With a swift motion Jemea Thomas navigates into the end zone. Above the cheers you can hear the loud clank of metal on metal. There, on row twenty-four, a middle age man stands with his arm extended into the air. He clutches a bright yellow, old-fashioned cow bell. This is the same bell his father carried to his high school games. This bell is what Wayne Huggins is known for on Friday nights. The obnoxious clanking is a nuisance to those first timers, but to those in this select section, it has become a touchdown tradition.
The quarters pass quickly. In the blink of an eye half-time has come and gone. Gradually, the fans all begin to leave. The faithful few stick around. At the sound of the buzzer, the scoreboard reads yet another victory for the Purple Hurricanes, making them 7-0 for the season.
The eager students pile onto the field as the players huddle into a circle. In the center, Coach Pruitt has everyone’s attention. He praised his team but reminds them of the hard work they will endure for the next week in preparation for the next game. Mr. Blane prays, thanking God for keeping the boys safe during tonight’s battle.
At the break of the huddle, each player wanders off in different directions. Removing their pads, they stand bare stomached, hugging proud mothers, friends, and girlfriends. As the moments pass, each player makes his way into the field house. The field is left abandoned. The bright lights are turned off, and Fitzgerald becomes dark for another week.
Wonderfully Written 