The Trap Play

Don't go down there.  It's a trap!

It is two months before school volleyball season begins. I should say it is two months before the games begin. In reality, the season has already started. For my daughter, it's preseason training. For my wife and me, it's booster club. Like the club volleyball season, it's a time of full calendars and empty wallets.

Everybody knew it was only a matter of time until my wife was lured into a support role within the program. She’s gregarious and likes to be involved in (read: control) things. This season, she is the secretary of the booster club.  By default, this makes me a booster club factotum.  It’s not a bad gig.  Last season,  I worked concession a few hours and returned a thermal delivery bag to Chik-fil-A.  If there is anything else, don’t remind me; I’ve convinced myself I’m up to the task.  

Tuesday night was the first official booster club meeting. My wife had to arrive early, leaving me to find my way, which in retrospect, was a mistake.  With the meeting to begin at 7:oopm, my daughter and I arrived in a toasty lobby without direction.  An answered text directed us to the third floor where it was even warmer.  The meeting was underway, and my daughter and I sat at an empty table at the back of the room.  These are sort of pass/fail affairs, which is to say, you either attend or you don’t.  There was a sign-in sheet, but you don’t punch a time clock. Still, people tend to know who shows up and who doesn’t.  

When the meeting concluded, the three of us mingled to varying degrees. Parents had questions for my wife, requiring her to hang around a little longer. I was introduced to people.  Our daughter waited impatiently.  After a full day of work and two hours at the meeting, my wife wasn’t much in the mood to cook dinner.  She suggested we dine out.  I countered with take-out; I was tired, and my contacts had been giving me fits all day.  I was ready to be home.

By the time I finally got around to leaving, a large group was waiting for the elevator.  I decided to take the stairs.  When I reached the first floor, I could turn right or left.  On the door to the right was a sign reading, CONSTRUCTION.  DO NOT ENTER.  Having never set foot in that building before, I had no concept of its labyrinth.  I followed instructions and went through the door on my left.

This led me outside into the football stadium.  I didn’t see an exit point, so I cut across behind the end zone to the west side where I’d seen a person pass through a gate before the meeting.  Even empty, the stadium was impressive and prompted images of autumnal Friday nights.  I paused under the goalpost, slipped off my shoe, and scratched my foot on the field turf.

As I continued my casual stroll across the field, I saw my wife’s car pass through the parking lot. Evidently, the elevator was quicker, crowd or not.  When I reached the gate that was previously open, I found it chained and locked.  Looking around, I didn’t see any way to walk out. At this point, I became mildly concerned but did my best to remain phlegmatic and keep my execration hidden below the surface.  I didn’t know who was watching.

I’d rewatched Dazed and Confused the previous weekend and made a very loose mental comparison to Matthew McConaughey’s Wooderson.  I wasn’t smoking a joint on the 50-yard line, nor was I reliving past glory. I went to a rival high school.  I was merely a non-student trapped on school property after hours.  I wasn’t harming anything except potentially myself, but the bevy of campus police likely wouldn’t see it that way if they saw me attempting to scale the fence.  Which appeared to be my only exit option. I poked a foot in the chain link to gauge the plausibility.  It didn’t look good. I was wearing a T-shirt, jeans, and Sperrys.  While I honestly believe GapFlex is a Nobel-caliber invention, it’s still not great for climbing tall fences. I looked for another way out.

I’m not sure what the campus cops would’ve done if I was discovered; I’m not a student.  They couldn’t withhold my grades or transcript. I suppose they could punish my daughter by proxy but she was even more innocent than I was.  Besides, she’s already got beef with the librarian over a book she checked out, the location of which is still in debate. I supposed if they didn't buy my story, they might dispatch the city police. I would subsequently plead ignorance, perhaps idiocy, and round up several witnesses who could vouch for me and my reason for being where I was.

To my left was a brick enclosure with an open gate.  If nothing else, it would be a decent hiding place if it came to that.  Inside the enclosure was a few broken track hurdles, some barbell plates, and several old tractor tires–the kind strength and conditioning coaches like to have athletes flip up and down the football field.  However, one of these behemoth tires was propped against the wall.  The bulb above my head illuminated, though it may have only been fifteen watts.

I gained entrance by slipping between a gap in the chainlink gate.   Sweating in the waning June sun, I was in my own open-air Shawshank. I was surrounded on three sides by walls just over seven feet high, but it may as well have been Mariana’s Trench.  Even with a boost from the tire, it was going to be a chore reaching the top of the wall.  Then there was the dismount, but one thing at a time.

Climbing atop the tire was relatively simple if not clean. I was sweating profusely at that point and black dust clung to my arms and jeans.  Standing on the tire, I could see freedom.  It was still populated with volleyball parents.  

To reach the top of the wall would require a full-range reverse dip.  Fifteen years ago, this would’ve been relatively simple.  Tuesday evening it would be a tremendous accomplishment.  Hoping I hadn’t been spotted, I attempted to push myself up high enough for my feet to catch the top of the wall.  Close, but no dice.  The triceps weren’t what they used to be, plus I was working with more weight than I used to.

I allowed myself a minute to sweat and regroup.  I could imagine the scene from the parking lot, with my head popping up over the wall and prompting questions.

Who is that?

What’s he doing back there?

How does he plan on getting out?

I could only answer two of the three questions myself.  I put my hands behind my back and flat on the top of the wall and pushed myself up again.  It was closer this time; my feet were making contact with the edge.  I had it, but if anything slipped, my ass would be Humpty Dumpty.  My boat shoes grabbed the concrete top and I wiggled the rest of my body up.  Firmly seated on the top of the wall, I took a break.  There was no hiding.  Heads turned in my direction. 

Still, the worst figured to be over. At that point, all I had to do was get down.  Below me was a sidewalk and beyond that the parking lot.  There was no soft landing for a jump. I studied the distance and considered the possibilities.  A shattered ankle.  Another sedentary summer.  Vacation ruined.  On the heels of last month’s surgery, a further ballooning Patient’s Responsibility figure.  I decided not to jump.  At least initially.  

I remained atop the wall, looking like a clodpoll, in plain view of a half-dozen volleyball booster club members.  This included the two co-presidents and the varsity head coach.  I was like the proverbial cat stuck in the proverbial tree waiting for the proverbial fire department to come and rescue my dumb ass. By that time, I was only partially contemplating my escape.  I was also waiting for the people to clear out so if I had to try something stupid, I wouldn’t have an audience.

After about fifteen minutes the parking lot scrum began to break up and one of the co-presidents asked if I needed help.  

“I think I might,” I responded with daft nonchalance.

She offered to drive her SUV up on the sidewalk and position it like scaffolding so that I might climb on the roof and then down to the ground.  However, her vehicle was having difficulty hopping the curb.  Another booster club mom had driven one of those obscenely large farm-type pick-up trucks, commonly referred to in our house as “earth rapers.”

The co-president summoned her assistance.  She had no problem climbing onto the sidewalk, and after a couple of attempts, the truck was parallel to the wall.  As tall as it was, it was still a bit of a drop. I dangled my foot, reaching for the roof of the truck with outstretched toes, but was short.  I didn’t want to outright jump onto the roof–I could only imagine the potential damage.  Figuring my palaver exit had gone on far too long, I finally let myself drop, landing on the edge of the roof.  From there a step down to the side of the bed, then the bumper, and finally, the sweet sidewalk of liberty.

The driver (and my rescuer) told me that the same thing had happened to her once which made me feel slightly better.  I expressed my effusive gratitude toward those involved and headed for my car in what could be considered another variation of the walk of shame.  

As I drove home, I noticed a gate to the football field open near the south end zone.  A mere 120 yards to the south was an easy exit.  When I pulled into the driveway, my wife and daughter had picked up dinner and arrived home.  They both took guesses at the cause of my delay.  Neither got close.

It was quite the ordeal and a hell of a way to begin the season.  I did make a pair of realizations, however. When in a building for the first time, stick with the crowd.  Also, don't judge earth-rapers too harshly.  You never know when one might provide you a lifeline.