The Coal Bucket Classic
Shamokin has some bad luck.
Mt Carmel has the bucket for along time.
It hard to stop winners.
-Julius Christophus
Demetrius,
Mount Carmel student
The Mount
Carmel Red Tornadoes first played the Shamokin Indians in football on October
28th of 1893. They kept it up
yearly until 1928, carrying on again six years later. In 1951 it was christened the Coal Bucket
Game, putting at stake a black metal bucket, made for coal but filled with
flowers instead. The Coal Bucket Classic
is on the shortlist of longest standing high school football rivalries in
history. The game used to be every
Thanksgiving, and has since become subject to each team’s schedule, a local
holiday regardless. This year will be
the 111th year the two teams play.
During
the week leading up to the game, the neighboring towns trade acts of friendly
vandalism. Signs are made and torn
down. The stores run short on eggs. Without fail, someone goes too far. A car is keyed, or some kid beat up too
much. One year, the effigy of a mascot
was lit aflame on school property.
Another, a rock monument was permanently defaced. Kulpmont is the line of demarcation. The town used to have its own school, and
proud sons still wear Kulpmont Cougars jerseys to Coal Bucket games, but now
they are the A in MCA, part of the Mount Carmel Area along with the kids from Locust
Gap, Marion Heights, Atlas, Aristes, Natalie, and Wilburton.
Jasmine is a
Kulpmont girl. This morning she had to
drive to school from Kulpmont to get on a bus to ride back to Kulpmont for a
pep rally at a nursing home there. Old
folks dressed in red cooed with adoration, while those in purple cursed
insults. One wrinkled old thing confined
to a wheelchair spit in Jasmine’s face. Someone’s nana, such venom—the lady pointed
to her purple afghan right after, so Jasmine knows it wasn’t just old age and
medication like the lady in the scrubs said it was.
Some of
the spit had landed in her nostril, and the thought of the smell is making
Jasmine want to gag as she listens to Mrs. Fritz’s list of things to do before the
pep rally this afternoon, the rest of her Spanish class entertaining themselves
with rising success. Every few minutes
Mrs. Fritz opens the door and yells them quiet.
Everyone knows that cheerleading is more important than Spanish right
now. As cheer coach, Mrs. Fritz is stage
manager to the whole thing. She’s the
one to arrange the nursing home rallies and get all the senior girls, team
captains, and a skeleton band to show up to school before the sun’s up to make
it actually happen. Then there’s the big
pep rally this afternoon, which is televised to the town and so has to be good,
then the parade right after, and making sure all the girls eat something so
they’re not passing out on a jump in the middle of the game.
Mrs. Fritz
remembers the tickets she said she’d get for her sister’s brother-in-law, so she
opens the door of the classroom and calls out Tyler, who comes lumbering,
claiming he didn’t do nothing. She gives
him twenty bucks and says office, four
tickets, go, and he is gone for the rest of the period, making sure to save
the task until the end, so he has something to tell any wandering teacher that gives
him a hassle. Nothing’s happening in the
halls, so he stops by first lunch to show off, but is chased away by the bitchy
hall monitor with the tramp tattoos. He heads
over to the auditorium, by day the ISS room, the pen for in-school suspension.
The
only kid there is Lacy, who asked to be sent to ISS so she could read, her
class doing nothing and too loud about it, the teacher agreeing. Instead of reading though, she is copying
parts of an essay she wrote for English class into her journal. They were asked to write about the Coal
Bucket Classic and what it means to the town or to them—a way to keep them busy
while the teacher graded tests, she knew that, and knew he wouldn’t read them
so wrote whatever, but there were a few parts she liked, and she likes to copy
words, so she writes down:
They say that years ago a bucket of coal
was the main source of energy for this area and I think little has
changed. There is so much energy
involved, whether good or bad. There is something about the feeling. All of
your senses are involved. It’s the crisp evening air of early fall, the ephemeral
glowing stadium lights, the smell of French fries and onions seeping up from
under the stands, the sounds of the school bands and yelling fans battling just
as much as the players on the field.
There is so much energy.
In one small town, in one small stadium,
in Bumble-fuck, Pennsylvania.
. . .
It’s a
dress down day, like every football Friday, since the cheerleaders’ uniforms
would break six dress code rules otherwise.
All day the kids fidget like they are waiting for a snow dismissal. Teaching is hopeless. The only goal is containment until lunch, then
corral the kids in the gym for the pep rally, the biggest of the year. It is a noticeably enhanced production. The school even hired the local morning radio
guy to emcee the event and toss WVRZ T-shirts into the bleachers. The fervor rises as the coming weekend takes
hold of the students. Some teachers
assume stern poses, wearing invisible riot gear, while others make lazy waves
with their hands that say hey, be a pal and just calm down. Someone throws a wad of paper, then ten
people do, then somebody throws a shoe.
Boys stretch across the rows to swat punches at friends. Insults are shouted, and will be repeated for
weeks after, the school itself a running joke.
A gang of beefy seniors in the back bleachers shouts down the
cheerleaders, calling out “YOU SUCK” in loud, forced-low voices. A smug teacher fingerwags and says “now,
gentlemen…”. The girls continue to
smile through their routine dance to a minute-long megamix, moving in ways that
make the 7th graders in the front bleachers blush.
Out on
the wood court floor, Janie is oblivious to the heckles and the blushes, having
a hard enough time just dancing. She is
exhausted already, and still has the parade and the game to go, but is still charged
and buzzing from the excitement the night before. She and two other sophomores, none with
driver’s licenses, drove into enemy territory to steal signs, wearing Halloween
masks. George Bush, Richard Nixon, and
Hillary Clinton riding together in a Civic, Nixon’s face folded up at the nose
to smoke a cigarette. The first two
signs were cake, so they were feeling lit up and lively as they pulled up,
headlights off, to a door decorated with “Scalp the Tornadoes” markered on posterboard
in jagged block letters. “Go Tank #46” was
written below it, and a couple of balloons were taped to the corner, nearly
falling off because Shamokin cheerleaders suck at making posters, unlike the
Tornado girls. They got out of the car
in whispers and made a nimble sprint for the sign, stealthy except for the
giggles. The door opened while Janie
pulled at the sign, so it came loose quicker than she expected. Stepping
back, she saw Tank, the 300 lb wall of meat senior lineman, standing in the
doorway. He had to angle himself
sideways to fit through the door, so they got a few steps on him and were in
the car with doors locked by the time he got to them. He punched the car’s hood just as the engine
came to life, seeming like he just did them a favor. Janie ground the rear tire into the curb reversing
to angle an escape, and somehow Tank managed to lift one stubby trunk of a leg
high enough in the air to give the side mirror a good kick, busting it loose as
they took off down the street.
Tank
and another guy chased them in his Bronco.
The girls hid in the Burger King parking lot, with the employee cars
back by the grease dumpster. They were
safe a good twenty minutes, lifting up their masks to breathe and smoke. Everything was calm when Tank’s meaty palm
slapped the rear window, ringing the car like a bell. Janie screamed and brought the car to life as
Tank pounded on the roof of it with his ham fist. She quick put it in drive, not thinking, and
bounded the car over the cement curb with a big bang and metal scraping. The chase went on, flying ninety down 61,
then off a loose gravel side road towards Sagon, nearly killing themselves and
the car. Once the boys were out of
sight, Janie parked the car in a dark spot and they sat there shaking, still wearing
their masks, just trying to breathe.
The
routine wraps up with some hands-in-the-air flourishes, and Janie has flubbed
nothing. In fact she is graceful despite
exhaustion, having only slept three hours before she had to show up early for
the bus to the elderly rallies. A few of
the girls give waves and kicks, and the crowd claps accordingly. A low boo from the back bleachers begins to
overwhelm the applause. The seniors
chant “JV’s better” as the girls clear the floor, still smiling, unflustered by
this, knowing it’s just another tradition.
Next
the coach comes out and gives a good natured speech, thanking everyone for
their support, reminding them to bring non-perishables for the food drive—the
side that fills their truck first wins, but by giving we all win, don’t we? The coal bucket is brought out, and being the
new teacher from out of town, I realize it’s what I’ve been signing in next to
for the last two months without knowing it.
It’s unimpressive, really. It’s
just a cast iron bucket filled with plastic flowers.
. . .
The
texting started the before the pep rally did, when Drew first heard Vo-Tech
wouldn’t be allowed to attend, the school not wanting to run the busses back
and waste the gas or worry about it on a day there was already too much to do. Samantha’s mom was out of town and the
greatest weekend ever was going to start as soon as they slipped out of the pep
rally. He was going to cook a chicken
dish he practiced in class, then the game, and after that two full days of
playing house. The first few texts were
a mix of emoticons and expletives, both inventive, angry about the change of
plans. Then Drew explained to Sam the
plan for all the Vo-Tech kids to wear purple to the game tonight. Then came the better plan—with Bobby, who had
the plan and the car, Drew would ditch Vo-Tech now and go to the Shamokin rally
instead, for spite. Drew tells Sam he’ll
meet her on Fifth Street before the game, where she’s going to egg the Shamokin
band bus as it rolls into town. The
chicken can wait; they’ll just eat fries at the game, soaked in salt and
vinegar.
Drew
and Bobby make it to Shamokin High School with twenty minutes left of the
rally, sneak in easy, and Bobby manages to get a Shamokin cheerleader to paint
his face purple before they leave. Next
step is to steal Mount Carmel signs while everyone is at the parade. Drew makes Bobby and his purple face wait in
the car, and manages to get five signs with no objections.
He
leaves the signs in the car when Bobby drops him off on Fifth Street, and somebody
in the crowd spots Bobby’s purple face, egging the windshield as he drives
away. Drew finds Sam standing by a guy
lazily holding a sign that says “PUSSIES WEAR PURPLE”, and they wait together
for the Shamokin bus to come. When the
bus is in view, a chant begins as eggs are readied. “BLOOD! BLOOD! BLOOD! RED! RED! RED! WE WANT THE INDIANS DEAD! DEAD! DEAD!”
Eggs
and plastic bottles are hurled indiscriminately as the bus comes down the road. Renee quickens her steps on the
sidewalk. She thought the bus would have
already been through. Sam hurls an egg
that arcs just over the top of the bus then explodes into Renee’s shoulder,
sending yolk all over her hair and green sweater, a color she chose for
neutrality because last year she was given shit behind the Shamokin bleachers
for wearing a red scarf, she just wearing it because she was cold, just waiting
in line for some pierogies, just wanting to sit back down out of notice of such
creatures. She had hoped this year would
not leave her feeling disgusting. Sam sees
Renee covered in egg once the bus passes, and gives a gasping laugh, grabbing
Drew’s arm to show him. Renee sees this
and bursts into tears, hurrying away before they can say anything.
Sam
and Drew are early to the field for the game, but go in anyway and lay the
blanket Sam brought on the bleacher in the back right of the student section
behind the goal post. From there they
can see the tailgaters start to gather at the spot up on the hill overlooking
the field where fans can see the game while getting a head start on
drinking. Drew’s surprised the whole
town doesn’t go up there for the game, doesn’t know why he doesn’t.
The
cheerleaders are hanging all of the stolen Shamokin signs along the fence they
are facing, which separates the bleachers from the track. They are like trophies or shrunken heads, hanging
on either side of a long banner that reads GO BIG RED! with red twisters at
each end. Janie puts the Coal Bucket
down behind her on the grass at the edge of the track. The town files in as the band plays, and
before it’s kickoff, five Shamokin JV cheer girls in street clothes have torn
off with the four foot banner, shafting and shouting suck it to the MCA girls
who, holding pompoms, can’t effectively shaft back. An old couple making their way to their seats
are nearly knocked over by five teen girls running, only to have an MCA
cheerleader yell “Suck it, fucker” in their direction as she fearsomely shakes
her pompom, making them feel even older more scared than they are.
. . .
With the
bleachers near full, ten thousand people make thunder together, but the noise
dies down noticeably as Jill is handed the microphone to sing the “Star
Spangled Banner” from midfield. Her
voice has an infinitely practiced high and innocent sound, the same bird tone
she had as a child, when she sang in school talent shows and family
get-togethers, working through the rough spots at recess before debuting them
for her parents after supper. Her voice
seeps through the microphone and is echoed by the tinny reverberations of the
stadium’s PA, followed by the rumblings of the crowd’s mix of singalong and
inattentive talking. Jill’s skin is
tingling. Singing is what she loves most,
and here she is, doing it, in the middle of everything she loves—the people,
the game, the cheers and shouts and the gush of it all.
“It
may sound stupid but it’s great that people can love something so much that
doesn’t return any affection.”
When Jill said
this, she was referring to the game and how much people love it, but she’s also
talking about herself, about singing, about this moment here on the field. She went to the game every year growing up,
whether home or away, and liked to imagine herself right where she is now,
doing what she is now doing, singing Star Spangled for everyone. She says “love”, and means it despite how
weak a word it really is, just an empty space big enough to fit all the real
feelings it ruins to explain. The people
love the game, the love a hope and a longing, the comfort of the same old
thing, and the jolt of another try. They
have made for themselves a momentous occasion.
Momentous because they want it to be, or need it to, and so have made it
so. Every band parent putting hot dogs
on a roller, every cheerleader adding careful glitter to a poster she knows
will be stolen and destroyed, every egg-heaver letting fly as the enemy’s bus
rolls into town, all charged up like a battery, and here it finally is.
And somehow it is
already disappointing. The moment’s
here, but no one wants to let go of the anticipation and face that heartsunk feeling
after, like an unwrapped present. It was
going to be anything, but now it is just this.
There are only minutes left before the ball is kicked into play, when it
will be caught by Bryan, Mount Carmel’s second string quarterback, who will run
the entire length of the field as fast as he can, breaking a school record, and
Mount Carmel will continue to score until it is 44-6 at halftime. The Indians will never have a chance. They will lose as they have for fifteen years
straight, and the pomp and preparation will remain unfazed by the losing
streak, or the winning one. The song
finished, Jill will think of the times she sang it better in practice, the
crowd will go back to shouting, and though everyone will tell her after what
they always tell her, “You were really good”, no one but her will know how much
of her heart she put into it, and how could they, hearing only the tinny echoes
of what she was feeling. The moment is
here, then gone, but that waiting feeling hangs on. For what?
Always next year.
But no one’s really
that disappointed. Jill is energized,
the noise and applause is affection, however fleeting. The crowd is having a good one, indulging the
holiday rituals. Rob is having the time
of his life working one of the cameras from the sidelines, part of the student
crew that films each game, broadcast live on a local public access channel. He pans in on Jill as she walks off the
field, beaming, and he is beaming too.
They had the same History class last year, and Rob spent one amazing
marking period lost staring at the soft hairs on the back of her neck whenever
she wore her hair up, before all the seats were changed and he went back to
doodling. He keeps the camera on her
well after she has walked off the field, then catches himself and zooms out.
Andy is relieved
when the camera pans back for the game to start, tired of waiting. He is home taking care of Gram. She moved to Mount Carmel from Centralia once
the state started the buyout, bought a house on Walnut. She was cold shouldered by old neighbors for
years after, called sellout for the move.
The house will be Andy’s once Gram dies.
He remembers seeing his Mom only once, at the Divine Redeemer block
party when he was eleven. She was
passing through, spending the weekend with old friends. Gram didn’t tell him who she was until nearly
a year later. Andy likes to watch
football, but doesn’t like going to the games for the same reasons he doesn’t
like going to school. He is waiting to
join the Air Force, and will be one of those guys in the stands who remind the
middle school kids sitting nearby to take off their hats for the national
anthem, and afterwards will shake their hands to thank them. For now he pulls his recliner closer to the
TV, Gram already asleep in hers. On the
screen its places everyone, then one
swift kick and it’s up in the air.
The game has
begun.
. . .
Bryan
is fucking pissed. Dropped to second
string his senior year, for his last Coal Bucket, he just wants the game over
so he can get hammered. It is starting
to drizzle. He needs to do that stupid
application so his mom won’t hassle him when he’s hung over tomorrow. He should have just brought it with him,
since he’s only going to be running tailback every fifth play, or jerking off
at safety, waiting for a punt, since even Shamokin knows Shamokin has no
passing game, and won’t be trying anything long. And then he’s got figure out how to pass his English
class, get his teacher to write a recommendation that says something other than
“Get out”.
He
sees the players on the sideline hold their helmets up and snaps to as the kick
is coming. It’s a nice kick, admirably
lofty, and he has to peddle back to the end zone to catch it. He looks forward with the first step and it
looks too easy, gaps are everywhere, and he’s right—he’s to midfield by the
time he reaches full speed. Just like
that—touchdown, six points on the board, and a school record. He shoves the ball to the ground kicking and
punching the air around him, his whole body clenched like a headache.
Almost
immediately after Bryan reaches the end zone, DJ also runs the length of the
field, with only shorts on, painted half red half white head to toe, hair in a
mohawk, carrying a Tornadoes flag along the track and nearly into the
cheerleaders. He is soon exhausted,
having to do this twice more in the first four minutes of the game. The Mount Carmel offensive attack is
punishing with such good field position from the Shamokin’s punter’s punts not
lifting for squat. Their QB’s passes are
wild, all over the field. All they have
is a brute running game, a shove match of inches. The piles are big and the play is
dirty—loogies are hocked and spit through helmet metal. The announcer can only make out numbers
enough to credit tackles to “a host of Tornadoes” or “a score of Indians”. An MCA fullback with charcoal paint over half
his face is taken off the field when he punches a Shamokin kid in the helmet in
a scuffle after a tackle.
A
group of five Mount Carmel 8th graders bring the stolen four foot
banner back, all mangled, and help the cheerleaders hang it back up, blushing
with pride. Two of them will stay back
this year in school, repeat the same classes next year, however they do, so they
have a better chance of making the team and seeing play, getting a scholarship
maybe. It is something at least ten kids
do a year, at their parents’ request.
Paul
did 8th grade twice, got to see which teachers recycled their jokes,
and now he is Mount Carmel’s best receiver, sure hands and quick. His parents are a little worried about his wanting
to go to school for filmmaking, but he got early acceptance to RIT—and
directing sounds a lot better than years of bio labs to be the doctor his
parents really want him to be. He runs a
cross pattern and draws the pass in tight to his chest. As he is pancaked between linebacker and cornerback,
crunched to the ground as other players pile on, he is struck with an idea for
a movie. He could film it in Mount
Carmel; it would be about Mount Carmel really, about a town where everything is
falling apart and there no jobs and nothing to do. Everyone is struggling but they all stay
afloat by once a year betting everything on the big game, nothing but faith and
family pride keeping them all together.
He
tells Bryan his idea standing on the sidelines later, and Bryan offers the
title “A Shit-Ton of Hope”, because the idea is a ton of shit. Citing his gambling experience, mostly Texas
Hold’em and bets on college games, Bryan explains to Paul it wouldn’t work,
that if the team won every year, the bet would be worth nothing. Both will graduate this year, going twelve
years, or thirteen, without seeing the team lose the bucket.
. . .
The
rain begins to fall again and the bleachers start to clear. Damp blankets are gathered from the metal
benches. Stalwart fans grumble at the
blocked view caused by the exodus.
Parents look for the children they have not seen since the first
quarter, and one by one the adultless villages formed in the shadows beneath
the bleachers crumble. The scoreboard
remains unchanged—not only the score but everything else too—technical problems
plaguing the night. The clock has
failed, and the game has come to a halt as seconds are brought back from
wherever it is they go. The scrolling
marquee no longer scrolls, and has read “ED!
GO BIG R” for the last six minutes, though it has only been two minutes
according to scoreboard time, the rest lost to penalty, injury, or
failure. At one point, a player from
each team is splayed out reciprocally, each holding leg to chest in agony, a
lovely scene if not for the pain involved.
The waterboys are breaking a sweat, running on and off the field with
each delay, while the players stretch and wander, trying to shake the clench of
muscles that insists they keep moving.
The
game resumes, Shamokin still keeping to the ground despite the hopeless effort
of each gained yard. More punts are
exchanged. It is doubtless hearts and
minds are already finding their way out the gate, but both sides go through the
motions with some muddled sense of joy and meaning, even if all that’s driving
it is motion itself. Forward progress,
back and forth and back and forth, being what it is regardless of what thoughts
delude the moment, everyone’s minds off to after parties, bonfires or the dance
in the school cafeteria, to the bars and fire halls to toast the night, or home
to rest for Sunday services. Here’s to
second chances, and hope unredeemed. A
tradition, however the night ends, whatever rituals are chosen for the sake and
the comfort of knowing what to do. The
rain stops for the faithful fans remaining, the cheerleaders are still making a
show of it, and the band is playing louder and looser since their third quarter
break. A tackle is broken and hope
swells. The ball is fumbled, and the
crowd feels the chance in everything.
And
suddenly I can no longer play reporter from my spot in the bleachers. I can only think of the guy sitting near me
with his 5-year-old son beside him, and his 9-year-old daughter, Sydney, on the
bench just behind. They came in after
the half, when the gates were opened, and since have repeated a scene which
goes like this: the girl, fidgety and
curious, wanting her father’s attention, leans in and asks him a question. What
are those orange things for? Did you
hear that cheer? Did you know I know
that one too? What’s happening? Did someone score? Why did they stop? And each time she asks a question his jaw
goes tight with anger and he tells her Sydney,
stop talking. How am I supposed to watch the game with you
asking me questions? Just shut up and
watch. Or he ignores her, which silences
her until she hears him explain to his son some part of the game, and,
encouraged, tries again with another question.
He tells her to shut her mouth, tells her that she should be watching
the cheerleaders, seeing how straight they hold their arms and legs, instead of
yap yapping in his ear. He puppets a
talking motion with his hand, and I want punch him in the goatee until blood
blanks out the numbers on his red jersey.
Meanwhile a group of children scramble around the bleachers behind me in
restless boredom, bumping into me repeatedly, and I feel my own jaw clenching. I need to get up and go. The spell has broken, the scene no longer
lovely with meaning, only loud and rough and ugly.
I make
my escape, but walking along the front of the bleachers I am flagged down by
former student I was hoping to see. We
exchange an awkward sideways safety hug.
She tells me about school, about how her hope to be a music therapist
crashed: college costs, too little time
and too much planning, but also seeing she loves music too much to make it her
living, wanting to protect that flare of possibility she feels when she plays
from the let down of seeing what it is next to what it takes. It means too much to her. She needs it too much. Every delusion is precious. She’s thinking of becoming a teacher
instead.
Tomorrow,
Sydney, the girl whose father I dream-punched until his face was slack, will
come back to the field with the rest of the girls in her squad, with cheer gear
on for practice, and 9-year-old football players too, dressed in their midget
league pads and helmets, to clean up all of the trash from under the benches
and behind the bleachers—another yearly tradition. They start picking things up, filling big
leaf bags with yesterday’s garbage. They
do it quickly, thinking if they get it done fast enough, they’ll have time for
something fun, some lifts or a scrimmage, but there is always another empty
cup, or a fry plate soggy with vinegar and dew.
As time passes, Sydney settles in to all the cleaning up to do. She slows down, almost enough to enjoy it.
