by Raphael Tombasco, SUNY Cortland
Posted in on Sunday, Nov 25
Giants Stadium sat on the horizon like a monolith, drawing toward it all who
lived for the Game. My dad and I walked alongside my grandfather through the
sprawling expanse of parking lot surrounding our destination.
The Destination.
I could feel the pull of it as we approached, the smell of barbecue grilled
meat hanging in thick clouds of smoke over groups of tailgaters, the sound
of blasting radios, the bursts of laughter and general merrymaking. It was
as if this arena had a gravity all its own.
When my dad first brought up the idea of taking my grandfather to a football
game, I wasn't thrilled. I hate football. Always have, always will. I'm a
soccer fan.
"I'd like us to go to a Giants game with grandpa," he said.
I knew that I had no option. They were both Giants fans and since I was away
at college, I had little choice in the matter.
I didn't argue. Something inside told me that it would be best to ignore the
fact that it was football and just enjoy the time the three of us would have
to share. Besides, what better opportunity for male bonding than going to
see a game of football?
As we neared the turnstiles, I turned to embrace the scene around me, to
allow the sights, sounds and smells to overwhelm me so that I could make
that final plunge into the hardcore world of football fandom without having
to think about the outrageous technicalities that made the game so
unbearable to me. I looked to my dad and my grandfather and saw their
anticipation, the sheer look of determination on their faces.
Oh boy, I thought. Here we go.
We were immediately swept up in a wave of people who were charging up the
stairs toward their seats and the various concessions. My dad was leading
the way to our section and I followed alongside my grandfather, who wore his
80 years well, but had begun to show obvious signs of deterioration. He had
always been a big man and although the passage of time treated him well
enough, his muscle gradually turned to fat and he began to shrink and rely
on a cane to walk. As we continued on our way, I noticed that I was now
taller than him. In my youth I never would have been able to imagine
surpassing my grandfather in height. In my youth, he was a giant.
The crowd had grown thick and was beginning to pulse with recklessness and
irritation as the time for kick-off approached. People yelled and pushed
other people out of the way to get in line for the beer tents and bathrooms,
vendors shouted about programs over music that poured onto the throbbing
mass of fans from enormous speakers mounted high above the stadium. The
volume of it all forced me out of the peace of mind I had reached in the
parking lot. I remembered why I hate football.
Then, I saw him the juggernaut. He was tall and obese and his sights were
set on the beer vendor right beside my grandfather and me. I remember being
amazed at how quickly he moved through the crowd, so amazed that I didn't
realize we were right in his path. He came and went, knocking my grandfather
off of his feet, as if he were nothing, and shoving me aside without so much
as a grunt as he continued on his way.
"Hey, Asshole!" I shouted.
He didn't respond; he was too busy buying beer.
No one seemed to notice the old man lying on the ground, possibly injured.
The crowd just moved about him. I knelt down beside my grandfather and moved
to get his right arm around my shoulder so that I could help him up. My dad
came back after he realized we weren¹t behind him anymore.
"What happened? Dad, are you okay?" he asked, as he helped me get grandpa to
his feet.
My grandfather nodded in stunned silence.
"Some degenerate charged through here and knocked him over," I said. I
looked to the beer vendor. The man had vanished.
"Well, our seats are right up here, let's go!" my dad declared.
We walked to our seats together on either side of my grandpa, who still had
his arm around my shoulder. When we reached our row, we sat and took it all
in.
Giants Stadium.
The Destination.
Thousands upon thousands had gathered here for the game, the great American
tradition. It was a sold out crowd and millions more would be watching the
event unfold on television.
The fanfare began and everyone stood for the National Anthem. I watched my
grandfather take off his hat, close his eyes and bow his head. Then I saw
something that I had never seen before. Tears began to roll down his
wrinkled cheeks. My grandfather was crying.
This couldn't be. My whole life had been spent thinking that this man had
never once shed a single tear. Like John Wayne, he was the paragon of
masculinity. His life was the stuff of legend.
Growing up, I remember my dad telling me that during World War II, my
grandfather with whom I share the name, Raphael, fought under General
Patton, one of the most brilliant military minds in history. Their campaign
began in North Africa and continued up through the Mediterranean into Sicily
and eventually on to France. My dad told me many stories about what my
grandfather had experienced: childhood friends dying beside him on the
battlefields, enemy soldiers chasing him through the streets of Algiers, and
the loss of most of his hearing as a result of severe shell shock.
My grandfather never said a word about his experience. His silence said
enough.
All of my life he had been a Giant. Tough-as-nails, ready to speak his mind,
no bullshit. If you went to Church, you were alright in his book (which just
so happened to be the Bible, the only book I think he ever read). He was a
good, strong man who worked his way up from nothing in the small farming
village of Futani, deep in the hills of Southern Italy. His whole life was
spent working as hard as he could (with the minimal education he received in
his youth) to provide for his family. And now, here, in Giants Stadium, he
seemed so small, vulnerable in a way I could have never imagined. The fat
man who knocked him over would have just as easily passed through nothing.
The passing crowd didn¹t even care. To them he was just an old man, a living
ghost.
The music of the National Anthem built towards crescendo and tears continued
to crawl slowly down my grandfather¹s face. I felt as though he was all
alone on a separate plane of existence, independent of the mass consumption
going on around him‹the lights feeding the cameras which fed on the
advertisements plastered on every inch of exposed wall in the stadium. When
the music ended, my dad turned to see if we wanted anything to eat or drink
and saw his father crying.
"Dad, are you okay?" he asked.
"I'm alright, Son," my grandfather replied, his voice cracking.
A chill shot up my spine. We took our seats and shortly after the kick-off I
noticed that his tears had subsided. My dad and grandfather sat, eyes intent
on the action in the field far below. I looked down upon the Giants as the
game continued.
The Game, I thought. Everyone was so caught up in the game.
The Giants on the field were caught up in the game, intent on the
multi-million dollar paychecks waiting for them and the screams of thousands
of adoring fans whom they could really care less about as long as they keep
buying tickets. They were satisfied knowing that their pictures would be on
televisions across America and that their heroics would be discussed for
weeks, months, even years to come on ESPN. Their faces would grace the
covers of Sports Illustrated. Nike would call for a deal. They would
just keep getting more.
The fat man, the juggernaut whose ignorance of those around him caused my
grandfather physical harm, was caught up in the game, guzzling beer and
praying that the action on the field would serve his fantasy football team
well. The crowd was filled with people like him, people who were so caught
up in entertaining themselves that they forgot about the world around them.
I looked to my grandfather. He turned to me, smiled and gave me a wink. He
wasn't caught up in the game. Here was a man who never asked for anything
for himself, someone who gave everything he could give so that his family
could live happily. He was just happy to be here with his son and grandson.
I couldn't help but smile too. I wouldn't succumb to the game either.
This wasn't what my grandfather had fought and worked for.
This was no destination.
I decided then that I would tell the stories of the real Giants who lived in
times that are now frighteningly close to disappearing over the razor edge
of history. I would not allow people like my grandfather, who fought bravely
defending freedoms many of us today have forgotten or take for granted, to
be resigned to the status of living ghosts. And, never, would I ever again
attend another professional football game.
Trackback Pings
TrackBack URL for this entry:
http://neovox.cortland.edu/mt/mt-tb.cgi/527