|Jets vs. Colts, October 24, 1976|
I am seated beyond the left hand bottom frame
Can't you just feel the oppressive, claustrophobic overcast sky? Doesn't it seem like the old stadium, now dead and gone, is suspended somewhere free of the constraints of time and space in an enormous chasm of dull white light? No?
I am located somewhere on this side of the field but in the Loge section, with my dad. The Loge was below the mezzanine, merging with the box level at about the 50 yard-line. This was my third pro game and though I could not yet really articulate the sensations of ennui, it was there, gnawing at me, asking if I really understood anything beyond just the obvious, physical sensations of the now, the moment, and, if I did, whether it really mattered a damn.
I don't think little children who are fans of great football teams quite go through this kind of thing; young fans of the Dallas Cowboys or the Pittsburgh Steelers lived in a universe that didn't ask them to be very self-conscious at all. They felt the leisure that comes with knowing you're great. You sing when you're winning. This was the third time I was seeing the Jets lose big, and having attached myself solemnly and wholly to this team, I realized that I had been given a burden that felt like dead weight. Most children begin their lives by asking, what else? where else? why is that? I began by asking, "But why me?"
At the risk of incurring the wrath of an undead J. Paul Getty (he always looked like a zombie, anyway) I'll explain the photos. For years I have been trying to find a way of communicating what I experienced when the Colts came to town. Most children feel a quiet awe at first seeing a field of play loom closer and closer through the confused view of a stadium tunnel. To see the field in full was always breathtaking, even if you could see the ghost of the Mets field underneath.
|I am not in this picture.|