Pack It Up Kids—We’re Leaving: Lessons
Learned
from an Unlikely Football Fan
Many things are unique to the Northwest, particularly Oregon. Think of our sweeping landscapes like the transitional forests of the Columbia River Gorge that give rise to organic apple orchards, red rock lava beds that meander into underground caverns, and craggy wind-beaten beaches. In Oregon we boast more bikes per capita than any other locale. We claim to be the microbrew capitol of the world and a hotbed for unemployed twenty-somethings. All these things are true for me, but in my mind there’s nothing more fundamentally Oregon than Oregon football.
That’s right I said football. Think about it, Autzen Stadium is the largest venue in the state—period. On any given Saturday during football season a slew of face-painted fans parade down I-5 waving flags in route to the mecca. Frat boys stumble across the footbridge reeking of booze at 11:00 a.m. It isn’t just game day that produces such frenzy. For days before the game commentators postulate on position changes and the size of the opponent’s offensive line. Postgame recaps play out on the airwaves with comments like “If only he’d caught that pass” or “That was the game changer.” Football receives prolific media coverage statewide, even in the offseason draft picks and coaching shake-ups make front page headlines.
My indoctrination into Oregon football began at a young age. My dad, an unlikely fanatic, first purchased season tickets when I was in second grade. After graduating from Oregon with a masters in English in 1969 he went to work teaching honors high school English in Vancouver, Washington. The ‘Couve, as it’s come to be known, was an interesting spot for a Duck fan to settle, as Vancouver in those days was on the wrong side of the river and firmly cemented as Husky country. My father is a consummate professional. He wore a tie to work every day until his retirement last year. These were not average ties though, his tie collection included ties with Shakespearean quotes, ties with comic strips on celluloid, psychedelic ties, ties with holograms, a tie featuring a clock with hands that actually move, and of course a vast assortment of green and yellow ties. He earned the respect of a generation who gravitated toward saggy pants and low-rise jeans. As a teacher and father he was free-wheeling with his red pen, expecting top-notch results from his students and me. My term papers had to pass the “dad test” which as a teenager I dreaded. Today I understand that without his careful fine-tuning I wouldn’t be the writer I am today. His students also appreciated his rigorous standards, softspoken nature, and the stack of chocolate bars he kept in his top desk drawer.
It’s still a mystery to me how my father who serves on the board of Friends of William Stafford and quotes sonnets, morphs into a crazed football fan come August. It’s like something out of The Incredible Hulk. He rips off his tie and slacks, slaps a neon yellow cap on his head, and it’s game time, baby.
We first began our jaunts to Autzen in the late seventies. My parents, brother and I would pile into our red Ford station wagon and drive two hours south every Saturday. I enjoyed the road trip because it meant homemade brownies and apple slices for the drive. Crowds were slim in those days so my brother and I brought along friends. Tickets weren’t a problem, my dad would simply ask for extras at the gate. It might be shocking to hear, but in those days it rained at Autzen stadium. It rained a lot. Not to mention the signature Northwest winds that would whip through the empty stadium, blowing programs and discarded soda cups onto the field. My mom would pack a stainless steel thermos with hot chocolate and we’d share drinks from the little cup that screwed on the top. The best part of any game for me was a trip to the hot dog stand. I loved the smell of the concessions, stale warm popcorn, cheap coffee, and spicy nacho cheese sauce.
Those years were the beginning of the Rich Brooks era, which meant whole sections of the stadium sat empty. My brother and I would race in between benches and run up and down the cement stairs. No one yelled at us to sit down because they couldn’t see the game. My parents weren’t overly concerned about losing us since they could easily spot us from rows away. If games happened to fall on the first Saturday of hunting season Coach Brooks would make an appeal for fans to please come out to the game and postpone they’re huntin’ until Sunday. Oregon Club meetings in Portland garnered fifteen or twenty fans, which I’m sure meant my father had ample opportunity to voice his disappointment with the coaching staff.
My father used an echoing Autzen Stadium as another stage to voice his objections with coaching decisions. Unless a powerhouse was coming to town he’d start most games off optimistic. His enthusiasm ran thin a few plays in. He’d shout in a raspy voice, “Really, third and six and you run up the middle again?” I believe it’s quite likely I was originally introduced to profanity at Autzen. By halftime my dad and our seatmates would concur that adjustments would be made. The team would come back out ready to play. Unfortunately most games they didn’t. Through the third quarter my dad’s bark would weaken, his shoulders would slump as the reality of the loss began to sink in.
And then it would come. My dad fully exasperated would turn to us and bark, “Pack it up kids, we’re leaving!” The first few times this happened we all acquiesced, grabbing rain gear and yellow pompoms from below our seats. We quickly learned that “Pack it up, kids” was really just an idle threat. The thing is, we never left. We stayed until the bitter end, waiting for the sound of the final buzzer and the sight of Duck players loping across the field with heads down to shake hands with the winning team. We stayed through a rain-drenched 0-0 tie, countless losses, and a handful of wins.
It wasn’t until much later in life that I realized how deep my father’s dedication was to seeing something through to the finish. My parents married young and quickly began a family. They weren’t world travelers but carved out a comfortable life in a 1920s Tudor house on the corner of West 33rd Street. Our backyard with its towering evergreen trees and fuchsia rhodendrons became the site of many neighborhood parties. These weren’t simply backyard barbeques. There were Midsummer Night’s Dream parties complete with old scroll calligraphy invitations and guests dressed as Oberon and Titania, and Dyer Olympics where our friends competed in the Chicken Limbo, ate fresh handmade raspberry ice cream, and left with trophies in tow. Parties were enchanting, backlit by torches that lined the perimeter of our yard and a gaggle of neighborhood kids racing with sparklers.
My parents continued their treks to Autzen throughout our teenage years. My mom’s wardrobe expanded to include pale yellow duck earring and pullover sweaters. She studied the program and patted my dad’s knee when the running back fumbled the ball. Whether by force or free will, both my brother and I opted for Oregon when college acceptance letters rolled in. Day trips transformed into weekends spent in Eugene, treating our roommates to dinner and strolling through campus. We continued the tradition over the years as our family expanded, including spouses and eventually grandchildren in treks to Autzen.
As my parents entered their midfifties they should have been planning for retirement and traveling the world, but were blindsided when my mom began exhibiting erratic behavior. She forgot coworkers’ names, missed appointments, and struggled with basic daily tasks like responding to email. After a battery of tests over many months, doctors determined she had young onset Alzheimer’s. Alzheimer’s was something none of us ever considered—that happened to old people, not to someone as young as my mom.
Many call Alzheimer’s the long goodbye. Not so for my mother. It ravaged her body in just a few years. She lost language, stumbled on soft carpeting, and became a shadow of the vibrant woman she’d once been. My father scrambled to find care for her ever-evolving needs while working full time to cover the cost of her mounting medical bills. It quickly became apparent that she required more care than we were equipped to give.
The day we placed her in care will be permanently etched in my memory. We drove up the long circular driveway of the care facility in a red Ford Ranger packed with her clothes, a collage of family photos for the wall, and my mother shaking in the backseat. The house smelled of fresh bread and industrial cleaners. I wanted to flee. My father stayed. He steadied her quivering body and guided her on a tour of her new space.
Visiting her was a struggle for me. Her moods were unpredictable. She was manic, usually paranoid, waiting wild-eyed at the front door. Medications were in constant flux, leaving her comatose one day and frantic the next. Some days I’d stay for lunch and cue her to swallow as soup dripped down her chin. Some days she was lovely. We’d sit on the couch and hold hands without speaking. Some days I couldn’t force myself to see her.
My father never left her side. He never missed a visit. He was weary by the end of her illness. Sometimes short, most often sad, but always present. His dark green Oldsmobile would pull into the driveway of my mother’s care facility every afternoon at 4:00. As soon as the last student left his classroom he’d bundle up term papers and essays and drive straight to see her. She’d shuffle out to greet him and her face would beam with delight the moment she saw him. On good days he’d loop his arm through hers and walk her around the block. On bad days he’d pull out his red pen and grade papers while she muttered under her breath and paced the hallways.
In the last weeks of her life, my family was sequestered in her tiny bedroom. Hospice nurses assured us it would be soon. It wasn’t. The days dragged on. My dad opted to stay. While we took breaks from our vigil for dinner or fresh air, he closed himself in, keeping camp in a metal folding chair next to her bed. I made every attempt to avoid looking at her bluish skin and gapping mouth. My father caressed her bony fingers and spoke in quiet tones. He mopped her forehead with a wet washcloth and whispered poetry in her ear. His allegiance was unfaltering. He knew what he was in for. And, like so many painful Duck games he was in until the end. On a crisp fall night at 2:00 a.m. .when she took her last breath he was by her side.
These days, Autzen Stadium has taken center stage on the national football scene with billboards in Times Square and annual Game Day visits. Hunting on a Saturday in the fall is unheard of. Tickets sell for triple the cost of face value online. My father has witnessed the creation of a football empire from the sidelines for the past three decades. The unlikely football fan has seen his Ducks make it to stardom. I don’t think the winning or losing matters. Regardless of Rose Bowl berths or winless seasons, I can say with confidence you’ll find him in Section 14, Row 46. I’m glad he never packed it up. I think he is too.
