Photography © Chad Parenteau
Yelling During the National Anthem
Made my way through the pearly gates to my first NFL game— tickets
in the end zone that nonetheless gnawed a sponsor’s pound of flesh
out of my poor fanatical ass. I did not roast and toast in the parking lot, chose
freely not to imbibe–I wished to fully drink in the raw, teeming experience.
Took my seat, blessed with team emblems, waves of beer and hotdogs and
madness wafting over me. Gaped at pre-game warmups, dumbfounded by
the millionaire size of manglers and the speed-finesse of receivers.
At the appropriate time, I stood and put my hand over my heart.
If it had been a simple, straight trumpet rendition—maybe
I wouldn’t have let loose. But the young woman’s vibrato voice found its way
deep into me, a patriotic soul sending, a crystal hum of exquisitely produced
beauty—and I gut-felt the old words. When she asked if I could see it—
I did, my touched mind picturing yet another flag flashing back
into inappropriation, waving in dawn-light as if it belonged
solely to a few conspiratorial bodies who wished to destroy our
butt-shined seats of power—and I suddenly ululated in mournful howl.
“Proudly we hailed” divided me with taking-a-knee reverence,
“twilight” assumed wearied definitions of dark passing. “Bombs”
I fully understood—complexities built into defense, schemes, seam passes
and the powers that tax our loyalty; there, in the middle of orchestrated
chaos and extravaganza I discovered that I continue carrying the biblical imprint
of reading the Book of Revelations for the first time—it’s still there–the gospel
in which apocalyptic Riders thunder forward on Colts and Broncos, charging
past the heated pants of shake-a-big-boom sexuality. Mellifluous words
called me out: “Proof,” in its past tense, offered clear ironic evidence
of luster-loss, a broken will for acceptance, no matter the veracity.
I apparently cursed and oh-said, quite loudly, into the offended
crowded reverence. Entitled ticket holders spit their colors and
worm medicine, lowed back at me with cowed-herd thinking
that such a vocal lout as myself might usurp that lady’s mic-drop moment,
publicly decrying against the thought that we are all still free and brave.
I got caught up. Security cuffed me, hauled me away to a tank. Arrested,
left and right and every-which-way. Because I’m obviously on
the Devil’s team, faithlessly game-disturbing our grand American peace.
Scott T. Hutchison is the author of two poetry collections, Reining In (BlackBird Press) and Moonshine Narratives (Main Street Rag Publishing). America and his dogs make him tired sometimes, but he is determined to keep up.
Chad Parenteau is Associate Editor of Oddball Magazine.