GAME DAY

I remember football games and wrestling matches where we worked so hard, for days or even weeks, preparing. Each practice you focus on the work at hand, knowing that time will run out and the day will come. Then on game day, a process of protocol kicks in. You dress a certain way; start through a check list of game day things to do and wait for the next task to come up, each in its own time. All of that preparation, over which you exercise tremendous control would become history and the game takes on a life of its own. It felt like being temporarily demoted from the chess master to one of the chessmen on the board. 

Thank goodness for taping ankles and wrists, last minute equipment needs and unexpected, even unrelated issues that required attention. Pre-game jitters fuel a fire and if there is no outlet for that energy, it works against all the preparation. That’s when we visualize what the contest will be like. Every time, the vision is of us doing just like we practiced and coming out on top. Then comes the going out and the warming up, the shaking hands and calling the coin toss. All that’s left is for the referee to blow the whistle.

Once it begins, the game keeps its grip on everything. Everything is metered by the clock and by an official who doesn’t care what you want or what you think. So time ticks away and the game plays out. It can go your way or not. Either way, you prefer to initiate action but that ends when the whistle blows. The game is in control now and all you can do is react. A look at the score board tells you where you are and prompts any number of attitude adjustments and course changes. You feel like a horse that has been pulling a cart up hill all week, finally you’re on the down hill side with a heavy wagon behind, pushing you down the road. If you wanted to stop you couldn’t, the wagon would run you over and then drag you along behind. You don’t want to be dragged behind so you push back and try to keep your feet.

Then the clock ticks its way out of time and the last whistle blows. It’s over and it’s your game again. You take the credit or you take the blame. Preparation is one thing: the aftermath another. You either celebrate or commiserate. It all belongs to you again and you begin the cycle all over. 

The whistle blew in August, when I left Michigan. I’ve been here long enough that the game has aged and evolved into an aftermath and I’m preparing again. It’s game day and I’m visualizing, warming up, waiting for a new whistle to blow; ready as I’ll ever be. But the clock isn’t ready yet and I’ve got a few days left to stretch, shake hands and toss coins. But I’m an old hand at this: have it down pat.

Telling Story day isn’t that much different than game day. I’m Telling at Chebucto Coffee House tonight; I’ll play and sing as well. My preparation is almost done and the clock is ticking. I don’t paw the ground or shuffle jitters away any more. I relax, drink coffee and listen to music. If I had a message for the clock it would be: Hey, I’ll be ready when you are.