(Navy takes advantage of a Black Knight miscue. Photo AP)
I left the lottery ticket in the visor on the Panzer, which was tucked safely in the garage after a partially successful foray to watch the clash between Army and Navy up in Philly. It was for the PowerBall jackpot- not a huge one, since some idiot had walked off with $400 million last week. But I figured I could squeak by on $50 million if things got tight.
Plus, the Service Academy’s were going to be playing power football, running it on the treacherous footing since neither team can pass to save its collective life. But this is not college football like the Neanderthals play- these are good kids who have to pass some tough courses and have an obligation that is not the NFL at the distant end.
They are real people.
The weather looked miserable up there, the sleet accumulating on the turf as the first half wound down. I decided to go over to the Army-Navy Country Club as is my usual custom and see how the grand tradition of the hotdog-and-chili-and-chips-and-shredded cheese and minced onion and condiment buffet was doing in the new clubhouse.
I have been looking in on the Game for years, and the scene in the old casual dining room (and funky Men’s Grill across the passageway) was always uplifting. Groups of classmates- Middies and Cadets- would sit by year of graduation, and whole extended Navy and Army families came to enjoy the tradition.
I was looking for it on the first, second and third floors of the new facility, and there was none to be found.
The maître D’ in the new informal dining area was a bit of a stumbling block- he tried to explain to me about the significance of the Game, and I assured him I had an idea about that- I was just looking for the buffet and a chance to have a couple beers and watch the complete show: alumni and game on the big screen Televisions.
He thought I wanted to eat, and handed me a card on which I could select some tailored menu items: buffalo wings, nachos, chicken fingers or some other stuff for a flat rate of $15. I was left cold by the array, and the room was only half full. Some family groups were trying to keep the tradition, with Academy-themed paraphernalia decking the tables, but it was clearly not the same thing as years past, when buses scooped up the die-hards for the road trip from the club to the stadium in Philly.
I thanked the man for his time, handing back the menu card and wandered up the stately corridor to look into the 1924 Lounge (named for the year of the Club’s founding) and there was a fair crowd assembled to voice their preference on the progress of the game on the treacherous footing.
No hotdogs, no buffet. No one I knew seemed present, so screw it, I thought, and decided to go to Willow. I am not normally around on Saturday evenings, but given the snow I had come up in between bands of weather from the farm. I needed gas in Opal, at the Quarrels truck-stop across from Clark Brothers Gun shop.
I decided to get some piping hot coffee and on a whim, bought a PowerBall lottery ticket from the blue-haired woman behind the counter who had been having an exchange with a fellow in green-and-brown mottled cammo hunting garb who could have been an extra from Duck Dynasty.
I slipped the ticket in the visor on the Panzer and tried to remind myself to check it in the morning.
Navy scored first, and then twice more to advance to a 17-0 edge at the half as I navigated the darkening roads with the rain coming down. A difference of a couple degrees would have left us looing like Philly or worse- there was enough rain to have produced five or six inches of the white stuff.
The Ballston neighborhood was quiet when I motored up and found a place at the curb in front of Willow. “Hah,” I thought. “In luck!”
I got out the folding umbrella and balanced wallet and overhead protection at the parking ticket machine and walked up to the bar entrance. It was a little before five, and the usual suspects were still in civilian clothes preparing for the evening. My heart sank.
“Tex, you guys are sold out for a private function, right?”
He nodded in the affirmative and continued preparations.
“Damn,” I said. “Two traditions shot in fifteen minutes.”
“There, there,” he said. “A glass of sauvignon blanc will get you ready to get back in the car. Or, of course you could hang out and crash the party.”
“I would have to leave them enough time to get drunk,” I said, taking a sip of the white. “So I guess I will just enjoy this one and head back to Big Pink.”
“Sounds like a deal,” he said, mopping his brow. “We are going to be at this one until two this morning.”
I shuddered at the thought, and watched the band set up and the advance party of the party work with some custom decorations. Jasper kindly turned on the game on the television that is normally kept hidden behind the wood paneled door above the racks of wine bottles. The end of the blanc matched the end of half-time, and I bade them a prosperous party with heavy drunken tips and disappeared into the night.
I sort of felt bad for Army, later ensconced in the brown chair. “Twelve years in a row,” I marveled. How the hell did that happen?”
When they did the traditional singing of the alma maters at the student ends of the stadium some of the cadets looked really irritated, and the Mids, when it was their turn to complete the ritual, were exuberant.
I turned off the television before the chair overcame my sensibilities and imprisoned me in slumber. I did remember to check the PowerBall numbers before teetering into the bedroom. No one got the whole enchilada, according to their statistics, but there was a million-dollar ticket sold in Virginia.
I could have gone to the panzer right then to check, and then I poured a short Bailey’s Crème to settle my nerves. Hell, I thought I was entitled to be a millionaire, at least until morning.
‘Tis the season, right?
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303