Chi-town round-up

First off, shout out to the grounds crew at the Force stadium. As is tradition, the stands for fans of the visiting team face directly into the sun and it was ridiculously hot out. Poor little Tiny Coach was cooking so I took him down into the sliver of shade by the storage shed (which, coincidentally, also turned out to be the Militia locker room). I was standing there rocking him a bit and trying to balance him, his bottle, my Gatorade and his carrier while also trying to see what the hell was happening in the game, and one of the field guys took it upon himself to bring me a folding chair, which made my life far easier. Classy move, Force field guy! It was much appreciated.

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BSC (reading a friend’s comment on Facebook after the game): “Here’s your ass on a plate.” What does it mean?

me: You know, like “having your ass handed to you.”

BSC: Oh. Yeah, that makes sense. I was picturing, like, those decorative plates that you put in a cabinet that have the royal wedding on them or something.

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As BSC observed [with nothin’ but love of course. – BSC], Kita (#79, DT) posts on Facebook like the Incredible Hulk:

50 us – 23 them. Militia play home next week.

It’s pretty awesome. Kita smash. Also, Smash smash. Ha! I’m hilarious.

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Things my infant son has completely slept through (a partial list)

1. The largest and loudest lighting storm in recorded New England history.
2. His first and second plane flights.
3. The entire second half of the Militia/Force playoff game. [He was pretty confident it was over anyway. – BSC]

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So let’s talk about Conway (#74, OL)’s dad. First of all, the man drove 730 miles from Georgia to Chicago in his Reagan-era Volvo to watch his daughter’s game, and that in and of itself makes him even more bad-ass than those of us who flew with our 9-week-old baby to the game.

Backseat Coach, Tiny Coach, Pa Conway & I went to lunch together, hit up a party supply store for ridiculous hats, and then parted ways as Pa Conway wanted to get to the game an hour or so early, and TC needed to nap first. However, when we arrived at the stadium and went to the Militia cheering section, he was nowhere to be found. No one had seen him, and we got no response to the text messages sent to his phone. Had he gotten lost? Had he really made the entire cross-country trip only to be driving in circles around an unfamiliar town instead of seeing the game? Had he been in an accident? Heatstroke? We could not think of a single non-disastrous reason that would have kept him from standing with us & cheering, and by halftime, even those of us not inclined towards panic were officially worried.

So I headed over towards enemy territory to try to find him in the stands (maybe it was too hot where we were?) and I considered the prospect of asking the P.A. guy to make an announcement if I couldn’t find him, just so we could know whether to widen the search beyond the stadium itself.

Halfway there, who should I see walking towards me but Pa Conway, all dressed in Militia red and grinning to beat the band. “Hi!” he said in his fantastic Southeastern accent. “Spent the first half on the 50-yard line tormentin’ the Force! I was the only one there cheering at the Militia touchdowns, so I stood up and yelled extra loud! What do y’all got going on on this side?”

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You know that scene in Jaws where Brody’s casually dumping fish guts into the water and all of sudden *BAM* RAWWWWRRR comes the shark out of the water with his big ol’ teeth? I have a theory that that’s how Vicky Eddy (#45, LB) approaches anything she wants. We already know this to be true in a football setting (see pulling a Vicky Eddy).
 
However, last Sunday morning we were all at O’Hare waiting to get on our ungodly early flight. Someone – sorry, I’m not sure who – asked if anyone wanted some hash browns. “I’d have hash browns,” said Alpo (#50, C), getting up out of her seat. And then *BAM* RAWRRRRRR comes Vicky Eddy, fully launching herself over two rows of seats to get there first. Poor hash browns never saw it coming.

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I have no idea how to pronounce “Chi-town”. Is it like “shy-town”? Or with a hard “ch” like “Ky-town”? Because if you pronounce “Chi” like it’s actually pronounced in “Chicago” it sounds a lot like “shit-town” and that’s just rude. But in any case: thanks, Chi-town! Can’t ask for much more than good french fries and good football. But now *bam*, rawwwrrrrr, onto the next one. ‘Sup, Indy. We’re lookin’ at you.