[Possum Bait]

At Whitley, right now the mood is tensely sullen. Not morgish, but definately a place of waling, nashing of teeth and general dispair with regard to all that is football.

Not to paint the picture overly bleak, because the fans seem to be adjusting at least coping with the reality of another dismal season after all the early season hope and hoopla. The faithful are beginning to settle into the pleasantries of the autumn spectical that is high school football. The facilities themselves are beautiful second to none. The grass and ornamental decor rival that of the most prestigiuos cemetaries. The air is filled with the smell of popcorn, grilling meats, freshly cut hay and the late autumn aroma of oak, maple and hickory preparing to sleep for the winter.

The fights between parents, detractors and defenders of the coaching staff and their strategyor lack there of, the constant bellows towards the officials regarding poor vision and the rule book, fights amonst the players on the field, on the sidelines and in the huddles. The unmistakeable noisy hum of nasty looks, gossips, moans, cheers, foot stamping, head shaking and second guessing fills the air. The type of fair that one comes to expect in these small mountain towns on Football Fridays.

Just out of the stands at the north end ofthe staduim there are usually plenty of local politicians at the lower end of the stadium plotting, coniving and shaking hands with the electorate. At the south end, the police, rescue squad, and a fair gathering of tobacco chewers stand at the fence and speculate on the future of upcoming players and the possibily of outgoing coaches.

But, the food, Ah, yes the food, the food is good, very good, infact has to be some of the best football grub in the mountains: hotdogs, burgers, steaks, beans, BBQ, fresh sqeezed lemonade. Just behind the food court there is always at least two very competive touch football games being played by elementary kids within eye shot of the stands.

The PA is usually blasting some really good classic rock tunes (lots of Segar and ACDC for some reason) any time play is stopped on the field. During play, if you chose, you can tune in the game on local radio. Whereever you look, from east to west you see a headphones over hanging male faces. Not for sure why males seem to best love the headphones, I suspect it involves the fact that a favorite (or unfavorite) player may be pointed out for good or bad play. In which case te earphoned fellow can relish in the fact that he his thought had been shared by the radio crew. Yes the radio crew, small towns love their radio crews, no matter how embarrassing the actual game is you can always count on the homie radio team to paint a brighter picture and cast out hope for the future.

I suppose when the rubber really hits the road, it is the eternal hope that next year will be the good year, along with each years parade of new faces, wearing old numbers, with familar last names that keeps us returning to this old campus for the Friday Night Ritual of high school football.

I love it.