A little hazing with my first high school experience, please!
Every August, I'm always reminded of those days of yester-year, the ones I'd sometimes rather forget -- high school. Memories of cheerleading camp, back-to-school shopping, and the fear of being trash-canned come rushing back, and I owe it all to a most ridiculous tradition perpetuated by men who never 'made it' in their chosen sport, so they chose to be high school football coaches instead.
The tradition is "Hell Week" for all the prospective future high school football players. The city gets the police involved, the citizens-on-patrol, the parking enforcement officers, you name it. All for some silly rite of passage that includes a few kids puking, several tripping and hurting themselves, many who actually achieve what is asked of them and, as a result, walk around with inflated egos until they realize they have to actually get good grades to remain players.
I live on one of the steepest streets in my city, even though where my house is located it's actually level for about 200 yards, and each year the football coaches get to use my street in their first instance of hazing on those poor little ninth grade boys. My aging truck has trouble driving up my street, you bet your ass I'm not going to try running up it. Walking while pushing a stroller is even cumbersome at times.
I never remember its going to happen until I open my garage in order to back my car out and GO somewhere, or I happen to look outside and see some strange sort of organized chaos going on. Hence the reason for my story.
After finding out that Target opens at 8am, I decided to go and beat the crowds (yes, I said crowds -- you don't understand that Target means to this town) -- got dressed and ready and had the baby all in her carseat... only to back up and be stopped by Joe Meathead football coach whistling at me to get my attention.
Upon turning around and seeing some 50 teenage boy football team wannabes trying to make their way onto the team by proving how strong their endurance is, I realized I wasn't going anywhere for a little while... not until this part of "Hell Week" could make it through my neighborhood. Those poor children have to run up to Sunset Street, the site of one of the biggest cycling routes in the United States (or so the local cycling enthusiasts say).
So, I waited and watched and really felt a little sorry for those boys -- their high school 'memories' are only just beginning -- poor things. After the way was cleared, Joe Meathead football coach knocked on my back window to let me know the way was clear, and I continued backing out of my driveway while watching the last of the boys make their way up the street.
I have to admit, although it seems a little too much like hazing to me, I felt a bit of nostalgia for those days, when things were much simpler in some ways and more complicated in others. Then the baby made a little "let's get going" sort of whine, and I remembered that I get to go through it again, vicariously of course, and that's good enough for me.
The tradition is "Hell Week" for all the prospective future high school football players. The city gets the police involved, the citizens-on-patrol, the parking enforcement officers, you name it. All for some silly rite of passage that includes a few kids puking, several tripping and hurting themselves, many who actually achieve what is asked of them and, as a result, walk around with inflated egos until they realize they have to actually get good grades to remain players.
I live on one of the steepest streets in my city, even though where my house is located it's actually level for about 200 yards, and each year the football coaches get to use my street in their first instance of hazing on those poor little ninth grade boys. My aging truck has trouble driving up my street, you bet your ass I'm not going to try running up it. Walking while pushing a stroller is even cumbersome at times.
I never remember its going to happen until I open my garage in order to back my car out and GO somewhere, or I happen to look outside and see some strange sort of organized chaos going on. Hence the reason for my story.
After finding out that Target opens at 8am, I decided to go and beat the crowds (yes, I said crowds -- you don't understand that Target means to this town) -- got dressed and ready and had the baby all in her carseat... only to back up and be stopped by Joe Meathead football coach whistling at me to get my attention.
Upon turning around and seeing some 50 teenage boy football team wannabes trying to make their way onto the team by proving how strong their endurance is, I realized I wasn't going anywhere for a little while... not until this part of "Hell Week" could make it through my neighborhood. Those poor children have to run up to Sunset Street, the site of one of the biggest cycling routes in the United States (or so the local cycling enthusiasts say).
So, I waited and watched and really felt a little sorry for those boys -- their high school 'memories' are only just beginning -- poor things. After the way was cleared, Joe Meathead football coach knocked on my back window to let me know the way was clear, and I continued backing out of my driveway while watching the last of the boys make their way up the street.
I have to admit, although it seems a little too much like hazing to me, I felt a bit of nostalgia for those days, when things were much simpler in some ways and more complicated in others. Then the baby made a little "let's get going" sort of whine, and I remembered that I get to go through it again, vicariously of course, and that's good enough for me.
posted by allison at 11:08 AM
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