Con-Se-Co
3/28/02
Conseco. I repeat the words again and again inside my mind, letting the situation sink in. When I come-to from the dream-like state, I find myself in the crowded concession area. Looking around, I spot McDonnel, tin-foiled wiener and cup in hands.
“What did you get?” I ask even though answer rests in front of me.
“Hot dog & a pop. What about you?” I stare down.
“Smoothie.” Five-dollar smoothie. We turn and then take our time to our seats. It’s a little after eleven; we’ve plenty of time. As we walk, I sip from the icy cup. Nothing. I make another fruitless attempt. By now, we’ve arrived at section 14. Bellow us lie a flight of stairs that remind us of a coliseum. From this pit, roars of cheers ride up. What are we missing? We rush down the steps, almost tipping at least once. Finally, we emerge from the arched corridor. The site would amaze anyone. Thousands upon thousands of seats open before us, each packed with one, sometimes two cheering fans. We stroll down to our row as Cathy, Rachel, & Ted stand, allowing us to pass. I sit down with Melissa to my left and McDonnel to my right. I suck again on the pink straw but the drink’s thickness halts me. Before long, the band, our band, “moseys” onto the floor, taking their seats. I point the sight out to my comrades as the 500 Band begins its first song.
“What in the world are they playing?” Melissa asks. A steady bass floods the crowd’s ears. Thumps & short notes comprise the tune with little melody. What’s going on? I rise to understand the predicament better. In the far back, clarinets, altos, & the single piccolo are completely muted by their larger counter parts. I lean over McDonnel to ask Cathy, the piccolo & flute player of our group.
“Why would to put Lauren in the back?” She shrugs and focuses her attention to the floor. I do the same in time to see Speedway Highschool’s varsity boys’ basketball rush onto the laminated floor. The entire crowd bursts full of cheer, with the small cheerleaders trying to gain control of it. After the other team enters, taking their shots, I tally the score inside my mind. For every five misses, there are two swishes. We can hardly withhold our excitement for this great day.
Suddenly, the lighting desists, and all darts to black. Three spotlights roll over the floor, spinning in circles around the court. The announcer calmly lists off our players as the team rejoices. Our side screams with wild passion, overwhelming the announcer.
“Welcome your Speedway SPARKPLUGS.” Our side shatters into an emotional wail that carrier far and wide. The Sparkplugs are here & ready. It’s crowd remains on its feet cheering and I know in my heart and mind, this is Speedway’s day.
