Last night was the homecoming game. At this school, tradition is carried out in utter consistency from year to year. At least, that's what I've observed over 14 seasons. The princesses are driven in a parade of convertibles to the 50-yard line, where they are met by their parents and escorted past a JROTC honor guard and onto the field. After they've all been introduced, last year's queen is driven into view. She gets out of her car and walks out to crown the new homecoming queen. Hugs, hugs, tears, and back to the cars for the return trip to the side of the stadium.
The cars this year were beautiful, gorgeous, poetic 1957 Ford Thunderbirds. I drooled over them. Mint green, creamy yellow, white, black, red, and gunmetal gray. I swooned over them. The serious rain last night made the owners keep the lids on tight, but this was the way the cars were designed to look most of the time, right? I feasted my eyes on them.
No wayward fireworks, no streakers, no bad surprises in last night's festivities. Yay! I can't even recall any injuries on the field. It was a good night.
Late in the fourth quarter, at a quiet moment, I heard something bad. The crowd around me heard it, too, and there was a collective gasp. It appeared that a child had slipped on the wet steps. Dad scooped him/her up and ran for the exit. Despite the fall, this little one was not crying. Head injury? Loss of consciousness? A minute later, I began to notice people craning their necks toward the area where the ambulance always parks. My concentration for the game was blown. I'll spare you the details, but I was very concerned for that family. Eventually, the ambulance moved. Before the game was over. That meant... well, I can't be sure, but I've been praying for the child ever since. I am ever thankful for the availability of emergency medical assistance. Even though I'm still scared about that situation, I trust that the child received excellent help in whatever way necessary.