It's one of the longest running rivalries in the country, a series started in 1920 between the Purple Eagles and the Mustangs.
We live in the home of the Purple Eagles (during home games, when a touchdown is scored, the announcer calls out " and the eagle has landed!" Corny and endearing at the same time).
Last weekend our team eeked out a narrow win over a school located in a a well-to-do suburb of a nearby big city (one of the more "entitled" players made a death threat against my son. Can you believe that?! Let me talk to his mama). Instead of celebrating their win during the bus ride home, the boys begain to plot their strategy against the Mustangs, this weekend's game.
When I was little, I would arrive at the family cottages, break open the car door, and run across the driveways chanting "Purple is #1!" A great uncle, a retiree who didn't even live in either school district, would yell back "Go Mustangs!" It was summer, not fall. I was 9 or 10.
I didn't even understand football then (I'm not sure I understand it now) but I loved the friendly competition and the good-humored jabs. I miss those days.
I understand now that my boys suffer aches and pains at the expense of football. They sacrifice to do their homework late into the night after practicing and lifting into the late afternoon. We go four months without family dinners while we run, and run, and run to and from school.
The skin on one boy's knee is so beat up it oozes. Their arms and shins are covered with bruises. They are very, very tired.
They represent their school, our town, and a tradition held for almost 100 years.
It's the oldest boy's last home game. They will recognize seniors and their parents.
I think it would be great fun if the whole town really did come to watch and support the team. That's what Wikipedia says happens. Wikipedia. Wrong again.
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