Victory Songs

Football season—crisp mornings, turning leaves, marching bands, caramel apples, and hot cider. Tucked away in football’s glorious past is the Lansing Michigan Catholic School Junior High Football League. There were six schools that fielded teams. We played on Sundays in September and October.

Priests and dads organized the league. They gathered the equipment, much of it cast off from Michigan State, reserved the fields in city parks, limed the fields, set the schedule, hired the referees, and coached the teams.

The play in the league was uneven. Some schools had a larger enrollment and fielded larger squads, and, as such, usually had a few better players than the smaller schools. I played for Saint Thomas Aquinas, and, in my 7th grade year, we had two kids who went on to play college ball and eventually appeared in two New Year’s Bowl game in same year—one kid started for Michigan and played in the Rose Bowl and another kid caught a touchdown pass for Nebraska in the Orange Bowl.

The games were spirited, if sometimes ragged. We drew a decent crowd of family and friends who cheered us onto victory and consoled us in defeat. Winning was more fun than losing, but losing wasn’t the end of the world. What mattered most was that we were together, we were a team. We belonged to one another for the time we spent on the field.

We would dress out in our uniforms at the school around noon on Sundays, we had all been to early Mass, and we'd either board a bus for a trip across town or hustle across the street for home games. The bus rides to the games were contemplative yet pensive.

STA had a victory song that I leaned when I came to the school in 6th grade. I don’t know how long the song lasted after we left because the Catholic League did not last much longer. It was a boastful drinking song. Where it came from is a mystery. Of course no one on our 7th and 8th grade team drank.

The victory song was most fun after away games. After a victory, the singing would start as the bus pulled out of the park parking lot. All bus windows would be down. We sang long and hard and until we were hoarse.

There’s a moment from those games that has stayed with me all these years. We were playing St. Casimir, a hardworking parish dominated by Polish and Irish and German families, a family friend was playing quarterback for St. Caz—his mother’s obituary was recently published on this blog. In the second half he threw a pass that I intercepted. My timing was perfect, I was headed against the flow of players and broke into the clear along the sidelines. A St. Caz player had the angle on me though, and he lunged for my legs and sent me spilling, ass over teacups, out of bounds.

I rolled and spun and came up, fine for the experience, and gathered my bearings. I looked up and saw the quarterback’s father within a few yards of where I came to rest. He face was set, his lips pursed, and his stare was blank. I’d know him all my life, so I was looking for some recognition. Had I offended him by intercepting his son? Was there something wrong with me?

Fall is coming to the grand, beautiful Sonoran desert. Summer is finally loosening her infernal grip. Mornings are crisp again, the way they should be this time of year. I went and bought a flat of sky blue petunias, the first new plants of my fall / winter garden. I spent some time planting and weeding this morning and thinking about this story. And then it struck me. I understand the look on the the father's face. He was thinking of my dad and how my interception would have put a few more watts in his bright smile and little extra bounce in his already spritely step, and the quarterback’s dad was missing his pal who left us all far too soon.

Oh yeah, I’ve never forgotten the lyrics to the STA victory song, you can sing along too. The tune is “As the Caissons Go Rolling Along.”

Give a cheer, Give a cheer
To the boys who brew the beer
In the cellar of St Thomas School.

They are brave, They are bold
For the liquor they can hold
In the cellar of St Thomas School.

So, its guzzle, guzzle, guzzle
As the beer goes down your muzzle
Shout out our order loud and clear
More beer!

And if Rosie* wants a beer, Say Rosie* have a beer,
In the cellar of St. Thomas School.

Repeat ad nauseum.

* Rosie is Sister Rose Gilbert, the stern and compassionate principal of STA who never met a kid she couldn’t make smarter.