any given saturday

We had a Saturday ritual in my house. Up early. Breakfast. Packing a cooler and a thermos, the same backpack - dark blue with tan leather. Daddy comes home with the bucket of KFC, and that means it's time to go.

Buckling in for the car ride. Not long, but long enough! The closer we get, the more we can feel it. My sister and I press our faces to the windows, eager for the first familiar sights. The flags. The license plate frames. The horns honking in anticipation. The people, thronging the streets, moving like magic in the same direction. We park our car and join the crowds.

Onto the USC campus, dappled with shade. Friendly greetings to people everywhere, on blankets and at tables, grilling, sitting in folding chairs, throwing footballs, listening to the radio, talking, laughing. People of all ages, grandparents, children, young parents, students, vendors with flags and pom poms and t-shirts and plastic mini-footballs. Everyone, everything in varying shades of cardinal and gold.

My dad greets friends and colleagues from his school days. He has a special glint in his eye, and a boyish smile on his face that he cannot hide. This is his world, and ours. These are our people. We don't know all of them, but they are just like us and we feel right at home.

We spread a blanket and enjoy our lunch. My parents teach me to shout and cheer with the best of them. And I take a gleeful pleasure in mixing up the words on purpose. "We're going to ring your lunch! We're going to eat your bell!" I shout in my tinny voice, and then dissolve into giggles. When the time comes, we move toward the Coliseum. I clutch my ticket in my hand, follow my parents into the dark tunnel and out the other side, into the glaring sunlight of a September afternoon. Climb the steep stone steps to our seats, our always-seats.

The old Coliseum, before they took out the track from the Olympics. How many shirtless men can you count in this photo? I see six, but I've got the original photo. Take your time.

That distinctive smell, a combination of peanut shells, cigar smoke, cold concrete, and drying beer. Maybe it sounds gross to you, but to me it's heaven. The feel of cool, too-big binoculars pressed up against little eyes. The slickness of the program. The hard, warm plastic of the seats. The faintly chocolatey ice cream in a plastic cup, eaten with a flat, dry wooden spoon. The soft drone coming from my dad's bright yellow radio headphones. And the band.

I love this marching band in a wrenching, unspeakable way. Something in my childish heart thrills to the pageantry and tradition, the ringing trumpets and the way the sharp snap of drumsticks echoes and resounds. The slow, inexorable high-stepping. The white spats, the gleaming gold helmets. The glitter and twirl of the baton and the crispness of the flags as they whip from side to side. We jump to our feet, we lift our fingers in the victory sign, and we scream until we think we'll burst when the Trojan on his proud white horse begins his dash across the field. Our voices, mine, my sister's, my mom's, my dad's--his wild shouts of joy, blurred by a thick Cuban accent--mingle with the voices of many thousands, swelling into a roar. It is one of those moments. It gives me The Feeling.

It doesn't matter where I am. I can't hear these songs without my heart giving a sudden bound and a little flash of joy. Everything in me says Yes. But it's more than that. My dad passed away more than ten years ago, but when I hear these songs he is as vivid to me as if we are face to face. I remember the glint in his eye and the boyish smile, the soft drone coming from his bright yellow radio headphones, his wild shouts of joy, blurred by a thick Cuban accent. Every time the band starts to play, just for a moment, he lives.

Not bad, for a university marching band.

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This post is part of Flashback Friday, hosted by my favorite Maine-ite, Jo at Mylestones. I'd love for you to play along because it's pretty fun! You can link up here, if you'd like.