Dale H West Menu

Letter originally written in the fall of 1983. Story surrounding letter was writtin a few months later. This is a true story, and this letter was actually sent to my friend.

The Football Letter

"Our intellectual and active powers increase with our affection. The scholar sits down to write, and all his years of meditation do not furnish him with one good thought or happy expression; but it is necessary to write a letter to a friend, and, forthwith, troops of gentle thoughts invest themselves on every hand, with chosen words."
- Ralph Waldo Emerson "Friendship"

Not even two weeks have passed since my birthday party. I got a letter from her last week and we are going to meet each other at this upcoming football game. Burlington versus Spaulding. We are playing at my home field; Burlington. It is a miserable night for the band. None of us are taking this thing very seriously. I think we'd like to just be a pep band. Our marching routine falls apart on the field. We look like a bunch of fools. While we are in the stands, most people are wearing their uniform hats backwards so they look like Buster Brown. Somewhere over on the away team stands she is playing the trumpet. I try to see if I can pick her out in the back rank of her band, but I can't. Their band is sitting in formation in the bleachers, playing away. They look damn sharp. Half our band isn't even in their uniforms, and the other half is wearing the uniform in a way it was not intended to be worn. Some have only the pants on. Many people are lying on the bleachers and we are not in our sections.

The Spaulding band gets our on the field to do their half time show. They are pretty good for a Vermont marching band. They sure put us to shame.

After half time I sneak off the bleachers and go into the school. There I take off my band uniform and get dressed into my normal clothes. Marple, my teddy bear, is sitting in my locker waiting for me. I take him out and stuff my band uniform in the locker. Coming back out of the school I try to make sure no one from the band sees me and I walk over to the other side of the field where she is waiting. At least I hope she is waiting. I haven't heard from her since her letter last week.

As I approach the bleachers, I scan the band for that familiar face. No luck yet. I start to climb the bleachers, looking, looking. Ah, there she is, all the way in the back row with the rest of the trumpets. Some of the brass section is in the row in front of her. She hasn't seen me yet. Keeping my eyes set on getting to the top bleacher, I kick something. Looking down I see a bottle of Sunkist spilling all over someone's winter jacket. The orange liquid is dripping down, off the bleachers to the frozen ground below. By the time everything registers in my mind, someone had grabbed the bottle and righted it, placing back on the bleachers. The bottle is nearly empty now and the owner of the winter coat picks it up and tries to wipe the soda off it before it soaks in. Too late though. I look back up to the top row of the bleachers and she is watching me. Apparently she witnessed the entire embarrassing event. I turn to the owner of the winter coat and apologize profusely who takes it fairly well. I would offer to pay to have the coat cleaned, but I cannot afford it. I mumble something about cleaning it under my breath, but the winter coat owner says, in a not terribly convincing tone, not to worry about it. I think to myself it is fortunate she does not know I am from Burlington, or she might not be so generous. Setting my sights back on the top row of brass players, I climb the rest of the way up the bleachers, only slightly more conscious of where I am stepping.

She seems glad to see me. She is laughing, I can tell, but she is trying to hide it. Even with the flurries coming down on the field, I bask in the warmth of my new found friendship. The game goes on around us, people stand and cheer, snow comes down, but I see none of it.

She has her teddy bear along. I pull Marple out form inside my coat, and the two bears visit. She says her bear is the official mascot of their brass section and that he spent half time in the bell of one of the sousaphones. Quite and adventuresome bear. It is a good thing loud noises do not impair the listening abilities of teddy bears.

We don't talk about anything earth shattering. I am introduced to a lot of people in the Spaulding.

"This is my best friend, Dale."

I know I will never see any of these people again, and I promptly forget their names.

The game ends. I was not paying much attention to it in the first place. I don't know who won or what the score was. I will have to read the paper tomorrow to find out. I have been so engrossed in her company. I have basked in every word she spoke. It doesn't even matter what she said, I wanted nothing more than to be near her.

Her band had to file neatly off the bleachers, so I wandered down to ground level on my own and was carried to the road with the crowd heading away from the field. I did manage to see her one more time before she had to get on the bus. We exchanged some kind of "good byes" and she mounted the steps to the bus and went out of sight.

At home I said hello to my mother and answered her questions with little enthusiasm, intent on getting quickly to my room.

"How was the game?"

"Fine."

"Did you have a good time?"

"Yep."

In my room I search through my desk for some paper. I manage to find a tablet of graph paper. A pen from one of my drawers will do the job, too.

Throwing myself diagonally across my canopy bed, I start to write. Everything I am thinking and feeling is scrambling to get out of my brain. I can hardly hold it back or write fast enough. Only and hour ago I could have said all these things in person, but I didn't. I have to write to my friend, she deserves nothing less.

October 28, 1983

"I'll write," you said and with a wave you turned and left. I responded similarly and went on my way. Once I chanced to turn my head back over my shoulder, I couldn't see you anymore, but I knew you were there and I smiled. "I'll write," wasn't what I wanted to say. I left you with and empty feeling. Something had been left unsaid, the same something that had been left unsaid so many times before. This unspoken truth must be that which has held us in suspended animation as Time paced trenches between us. Time and distance separate us, but when we come together our spirits are unleashed from their frozen state and we meet. So tonight again I shed a part of me and hang it on a remote hook in my mind until we meet again. Should Chance have it that we never meet again, for Chance is a fussy creature and does nasty things, you shall always be my friend. If I stop here and say no more, I am leaving again without saying those possibly forgotten words. Someone must have said them sometime. Shakespeare says "Parting is such sweet sorrow" but good friends, remember, never part for what I have hung on that remote hook is the part of me that is all I have of you and you are always in my mind for that. Even if we shouldn't write, we shan't change except to mature in our present state. When I write, I write only in your absence and say things I should say, but probably wouldn't say if you were here. The truth I have avoided in saying in my oblivion is no more than "I love you." Now I shed a tear, one that should have been spilt on the bleachers instead of that Sunkist, but I was afraid, maybe of exposing myself. Is this why I exist? To suffer in the lack of happiness: The brief moments of happiness, perhaps too brief, that I find in speaking "mind to mind" openly with another so like myself, are soon passed. Maybe it is best we are far apart. I will never grow tired of your company but I would never risk your friendship on such a trivial greed as having you always here. It just makes those precious few moments ever more so preciously priceless.

I pause for a moment. The letter had filled up one page of graph paper. I tear it off the tablet, and reread it. I am crying inside, and another tear escapes. I want to keep this feeling with me, so I copy the letter over on another sheet of paper.

There is more to tell her than we got around to on the bleachers, so I write several more pages about school and the weather, my ride home. I read the whole letter from beginning to end, tuck it into an envelope and address it.

I tuck the letter under my pillow and get in bed. It has been a long night. And soon I fall asleep, exhausted and filled with a bitter sweet content.