The Show Must Go On failed me! I can't believe it! The performance instinct that saw me through every obstacle in my youth and young adulthood, like fatigue, illness, hangovers, or nerves, didn't get me on the field today. It wasn't a stronger motivator than the sunburn, altitude sickness, and stress. The first quarter of the game wasn't over and I already knew my body had been used up. When I was nineteen and used to this altitude, I would have been on the field without fail. Now, no matter what kind strangers may say when they learn my age, I can't keep up with the kids. After the stampede last night, the parade this morning, and the freakout when my daughter was a no-show at practice, all I could do was sit in the stands and watch. It worked out just fine, as the spot I left vacant in the alumni block was a perfect fit for my daughter once she did make it into the stadium, and there was no visible gap in the formation. I barely played even through the third quarter. It wasn't until the Buffs came roaring back, to tie the game in the fourth quarter and force a double overtime that I got a second wind, and I played Glory every time it came up. It ended up a heartbreaking loss, 40-37 when it was all over, but coming back to the alumni band was the right decision to make. I am going to be trying this craziness again. I just won't be wearing a black t-shirt on a day of record heat and unrelenting sun.
It was so peaceful when I drove in this morning just before dawn. I had no idea what was in store. The mountains were a hazy blue as I crested Dillon Road, where I can see for miles up and down the Front Range. The sky was barely pink by the time I arrived on campus. I drove past a couple lots that had attendants waiting to collect $25 to park there. I figured if I parked in the garage across from the music building, I could use my debit card on the way out, and save my cash. When I drove in, there was no one standing by the entrance, the gates were up, and there was no place to grab a stamped ticket. I parked facing the music building, and walked up to an attendant who was blocking a minor road through campus, and asked about it, and he predicted I would end up parking for free, if there was no one blocking the way in. Sure enough, he was right. Nine hours later, we just drove out without so much as a pause. We weren't celebrating, though. We were off to discover what had become of my daughter's wallet and phone, which was the reason she missed practice and had to show up later and use the tickets on my phone to enter the stadium. She had a wee bit too many welcome-back beverages with her friends, and she dropped her wallet with the phone inside in the creek. By the time she woke this morning, she had trouble remembering exactly why she didn't have it. But remember last night when she said that Boulder is Pleasantville, and things just don't go wrong here? After the game, we parked by the library and walked over to the creek. We looked where she remembered (eventually) dropping it, and didn't see anything in the water. We walked downstream just a little, to where a young person was fly fishing. He overheard us talking, and said, "you're the one who lost a wallet?" He had found it not two hours earlier, and it was in his father's truck, completely intact. The cash and everything was still there, just sopping wet. We were greatly relieved that we didn't have to file a police report or delay her flight because she had no ID to get on a plane. That money I saved on parking went into that kid's hand as a reward, and he was such a sweet young man, he tried to refuse.
After everything that happened today, after the long game day and stress and over an hour replacing my daughter's phone before we could finally go to dinner, one not so pleasant detail is still standing out in my mind. While I waited for my daughter to get tickets printed and come inside the gates of the stadium, I watched the security process. I noticed how many people "assume the position" when they get wanded with the metal detectors, and that had me on edge. But when a black teenaged boy came in, wearing only an athletic shirt and basketball shorts, he turned back to his mother and said, "they asked me if I had any weapons on me." Her expression mirrored mine. I was offended on his behalf, because I know had I come through wearing equally skimpy, pocketless attire, they would never in a million years have asked a forty-ish white woman the same question. Pleasantville still has some attitudes that should have been left behind long, long ago.
I am sore everywhere. My feet are throbbing. My arms and face are radiating heat. My back and backside feel bruised. My ears are still ringing. And my mouth is bright red, between the sunburn and the blown chops. What a hell of a day.
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