thependulumswings

In the seasons leading up to and in the seasons after Tom Dempsey’s miracle kick there were plenty of other home Saints games that Boom Boom and I attended.  There were seven a year(14 game seasons) in fact, and nine including preseason games.

We went to all of them, and I mean all of them.  And we got there early and always stayed till the (often bitter) end.  And, I mean we got there early.  The gates opened at 10 AM for noon kickoffs.  We were in the car by 9:40 latest.  It wasn’t uncommon for us to arrive by 10:00 AM.  Why?  Well, for one, we beat the traffic.  We got a great parking spot too.  We always parked a mile away in a high school lot.  We always had the first spot closest to the exit.

I never asked why we got there so early, but it sure seemed fine to me.  Once I counted seven fans sitting on their old Tulane Stadium wooden bench seats in the entire 84,000 seat capacity stadium.  Seven.  And that count included the two of us.  Back then you could bring most anything in to the stadium.  We brought sandwiches, a canned soft drink for me, a thermos of coffee, and a flask of what dad called “snake bite medicine.”  There was something calming and exciting at the same time about sitting there, eating an early lunch, and chatting about the upcoming NFL football with dad.

Just about the time the sandwich was gone a few Saints would trickle out of the locker room.  This always included Tom Dempsey or the kickers that competed before and after him.   I would run from where ever our seats were to the end zone.  My goal was to catch one of the warm up field goal attempts that soared into the bench seats one after the other and then throw it back.  There were no nets back then.  I wasn’t alone.  The competition for a youngster was taller and older.  And, the football flew high, far, and fast.  I never caught one.  I did get my fingers on one once.   I actually dislocated a finger in fact.   It looked crooked and hurt much.  Around the stadium I went.   Dad gave it one good pull in spite of my protestations and it was back in place.  I started to ask if the “snake bite medicine” might soothe the pain.  Then I thought it better not to.

On one particular sunny Sunday morning we departed, as always, on time for the game.  I was looking forward to the sandwich, the chat, the opportunity to finally catch a ball, and the kickoff.  Surely this was the week that the Saints would break their losing streak.    After parking and walking we approached the ticket taker at our gate.  Boom Boom rooted around in his coat pocket (a sport coat and a tie were standard attire then) then his pants pockets.  His eyes got bigger with each empty pocket.  “Son, I think I forgot the tickets.”  “What do we do, Daddy?”  “Let’s run back home and get them,” he said.  His voice tone spoke volumes of the disappointment in himself.  “But, we will miss the kickoff,” I selfishly said.  “Maybe not” came the retort.

From the entrance we spun our heels and walked the mile back to the car.   Like salmon we wove our way back home.  Mom, being mom, heard the car and ambled outside worried about our arrival.

“What’s wrong?”  Boom Boom slowed down to a jog while passing her.  It was just long enough to admit that he forgot the tickets.

“Get back in.  Let’s go.”  And off we went.   Traffic had built, but not too badly.  Boom Boom had slipped the attendant a couple of bucks to save our parking spot.

One mile of brisk walk later we were in the stadium and headed to our seats.    We sat down for only a minute or so before we were asked to stand up as Al Hirt blasted the national anthem through his seasoned trumpet.

As the brass horn hit the last notes Boom Boom lamented, “Son, that’s the latest that I’ve ever arrived for any game. We almost missed the Star Spangled Banner.”   “ We made it before kickoff, Dad.”  “You never want to be late for anything,” he said.  Hmm.

By the end of the third quarter the Saints had done plenty enough wrong to insure another loss was well in hand.   We stayed until the final seconds though.   We always did.  Always.

During the game and then on the walk back to the car I thought about asking him why being in our seats before the Anthem was so important.   Then I thought it better not to.

“Thanks for taking me to the game Dad,” I chose instead.   “You bet,” came the quick reply.

So, what’s the moral of the story?  If you’re not early, you’re late.  And, don’t ask why.