There are no cigarette butts in Hanover. Well, almost none. There are now anywhere between 17 and 24, depending on how many the large lady outside The Canoe smoked after Rob and I headed to the bonfire. She had at least three while we were eating and one as we watched the parade trickle down the main street of the whitest town I've ever seen, and I've been to rural Canada.
The parade was a timeline of humanity. A tree-ring of mortality. An increasing arch of achievement walking through the narrow road and towards nothingness. Each member of every graduating class is invited to participate in the homecoming parade, and in succession each year marched with the few souls who either lived close enough, were devoted enough or were just not dead enough to brave the cold and represent a 4 digit number on a banner. Pride I believe they call it. Heritage. There they were, marching through the tiny street; all in green and white. Children and grandchildren tugging behind the proud faces smiling in all directions at once. Their breath white in the chilly Fall air, and the noise of continuous celebration ringing from every corner and every doorway. I remember thinking that this is what people had meant when they muttered in loaded tones "Ivy League."
We took audience by some parking meters decorated with streamers in the team's colors and watched the march of time. 1954. 1957. Year after year flooding through the crowd like calendar pages flying bak into place. Early years were almost non existent; the sacrifice of ancient institutions like this I suppose. The 50's and 60's were sparse, as one would imagine. Time and death had stolen the bulk of the class, but the few happy members of each class pried from us all a sense of achievement, if only from the inevitable end of things and people we know. The 70's picked saw a jump in attendance, but with every few years that managed to collect one or two or ten alumni, there were missing years; absent banners. Leading me to wonder whether these were simply classes who couldn't pull a single individual from his summer vacation in Florence to walk down a street holding a green felt banner, or had the school had some horrible event in it's history that even the appearance of a banner would be too disturbing to allow. I smoked three more cigarettes while we waited for time to run out. Near the end the class of 1990 strolled through to a thunderous applause. With the co-Ivy League football championship to their credit they were the heroes of the night. Ten years hadn't diminished their glory in the slightest.
Our trip up to Hanover that weekend had been all together uneventful, though the prospect of appearing unannounced with no lodging and no way into the game made us a bit anxious. While driving with one hand Rob made a myriad of calls trying to track down any of the necessary arrangements we would need this weekend. The visit was not supposed to be a surprise, but it seemed to be turning out that way. Rob sat back into the seat of the rented car as he declared that whether or not we see Buddy, make it to the game or even find the damn place, we got out of the city, and to him, that was enough. I seconded his sentiment, though all things being equal, I'd prefer to see Buddy before we left the state. The rest of the drive there was a simple, honest silence that crept up over us. A mix of excited energy and genuine relaxation, with the occasional dint of doubt as to our ultimate fate made the mood light. It felt like an adventure, even if we were just driving to New Hampshire for the weekend.
Watching the walk-through made us both a little nostalgic, though by the look on his face I could tell Rob was too proud to bring it up. I would pretend the same and instead we both thought of disparaging remarks or dirty jokes, anything to make our existence just a little more base, so that this drifting nobility of athletic realism couldn't cover us both. We were both thinking the same thoughts. Going over the same memories. Strange neither one of us would broach the subject. Watching the players—all in their twenties with promising futures and good names—I wondered at the course of events that led me away, and always back to places like this. There are those who like to assign an honor to stadiums and fields like this. They see them as noble and clean. In a way, I agree with these sentiments, but the things I think of in these places and around those fields never hasten the benevolent or glorious of mankind, but the petty and the prideful. I try to fill my mind with what I have long-since convinced the places to represent, and I look at the faces of those revered, and I wonder how distant our expressions must appear, and I take comfort in this. I kept thinking about the cigarettes in my bag, but something in me wouldn't let me smoke in front of Buddy, even though he hadn't been my coach in years. I held him in a place that will always be just a bit above the general mass of sullen humanity, and cigarette smoke clouds that view. I'd wait until later.
The
bonfire was old tradition. According to Sammy, another old coach of mine and Rob's, Dartmouth freshmen were required to show up to the bonfire on the evening of the homecoming pep-rally and when the speeches were done and the school song sang, the pile of timber is set ablaze and the hundreds of screaming and drunken freshmen dash off as many laps around the fire as there are years in their graduation date (class of 2007 has to do 107 laps). The night caught fire when the wood was set off, and the ignition spread to the crowd and the waiting runners, poised to carry on the ritual. It was hethenistic to watch, and the warmth of the fire was nearly unbearable from our somewhat safe distance. A few feet farther towards the flames a make-shift track was laid out, keeping the crowd away from the runners, and the runners away from the flames. Upperclassmen pointed themselves out as the called from the safety of the roped areas "Touch the Flame," a command that was uttered almost as much as it was ignored. As we walked the campus grounds in the crackling illumination of the pyre, we saw and felt the evening closing in all around, but within the warmth of the fire and the reach of the ashes, nothing could interfere. The sparks curled upwards into the dark and everywhere was people moving.
Access to the Alumni VIP tent the following morning was not an expected perk of our visit, but certainly a welcome one. Being the guest of the head coach has it's advantages. Rob and I made use of the Bloody Mary bar and struck up an interesting conversation with two octogenarians that I'd hazard to say would have no problem drinking us under the table should their wives, and their prostates permit them. The lazy lines of fans strolling past and gazing in looked more like people attending a horse race or a dog show; it was an elegant thing to watch. We thought it was a shame that we'd always assumed no football game, not matter where it is taking place, could possibly happen without at least one, drunken and embarrassing imbecile. Now I dare not say no one was drunk, I myself shattered that illusion, but I saw no unruly types causing a scene or disturbing the conversations going on. The Ivy league is the brunch of college football; sophisticated and well mannered and just as expensive.
The game proceeded, but it was little excitement for us. Rob and I have seen enough games first hand to know that nothing of consequence would result, other than a meaningless W in a particular column and the inevitable discussions about coaching and game plans. It was a cycle we knew all to well. For us though, it was a sociology gold mine. I don't think I'd ever seen the kinds of fans and the types of people interacting like this at such an event. The game seemed to be little more than background noise with the alumni and families chatting away in the cool Autumn air. Save for a few spirited underclassmen, I don't think anyone noticed the game until they were interrupted by an announcement from the press box or a cry of support from the eager young fans below. It had all the class and distinction of a tea party. We enjoyed ourselves thoroughly.
It's not often you can go into a college town for a game with no tickets or even a place to stay and end up sleeping in the head coach's house and receiving free tickets not only to the game but the VIP tent which you meet lovely and moneyed people at will. We walked to coach Buddy's house from the bar we stopped at after the bonfire. It was the most modest house I had ever seen that had 4 floors and 6 bedrooms. Literally you could feel the place blushing, as if the house were saying "I'm sorry. Please forgive me. I'd love nothing more than to be a split-level house with a white fence and two bathrooms, but it just didn't work out that way." His home was beautiful, and decorated with the spirit of the family that occupied those walls. The blush of the home was as intentional as the hundreds of family photos that adorned the walls in a manner that gave the impression of a gallery in Madrid or the trophy room of a great English king. I slept and dreams of oceans and storms rocked me in my slumber. The morning light broke and we packed and walked to the game, but I must have looked back at that rosy-cheeked home a dozen times in backward glances until we strode out of sight of the red brick chimney.