The Empty Stadium

 This is part of the Poetry Project for my Creative Writing Class this semester.

            American architecture seems to differ from its European counterparts in many ways. But one seems to be most obvious: a grand, American structure derives its greatness from the people it can hold. The Pantheon, the Parthenon or Notre Dame would probably seem even more majestic if one could be entirely alone inside them. But Americans build structures for people. Just as the European continent is sprinkled with Cathedrals big and small, the American Heartland boasts a football field in almost every town.

            And the greatest of the fields—the stadium—can be a wondrous structure that can house tens of thousands of spectators. When the game is being played the air is rife with the smell of hot dogs and roasted peanuts. 40 thousand strong cheer and scream with every ebb and flow of the game. Their voices come together to form a whisper, a buzz that dominates the mood in the stadium. All wearing the same colors, such a mob is certainly a sight to see.

            But Football is only played once a week. For the other six days the stadium is empty. When winter truly falls and there is nothing left to be decided on the field the stadium enters months of silence. Though some of my fondest memories took place inside the walls of this stadium, when I enter alone I discover a foreign land.

            The green lake of grass is still there, but it seems less natural at this time of year. Like football, AstroTurf is a creature of the fall. The seats are all the same color, like those who sit in them during the season. But whereas the sea of red seems amazing and comforting when worn by people, when worn by seats it just seems corporate. There is no distinct smell, but that winter smell that permeates the entire valley: of melting snow and growing grass. The silence would seem ideal for the funeral of a dignitary. The seats mournfully gaze upon the empty field.

            In a few months, the hibernation of the stadium will cease. The fans will enter and the place will become whole. But for now it is just a sad, empty stadium.

Lurch, Lumber, Strut

 This is a section of my Poetry Project I handed in this term. Just putting it out there.

              This week I was walking up a flight of stairs when I heard someone call out to me. I turned and saw Josh Kariya, the little brother of one of my close high school friends, new this semester to SUU. I had not seen Josh in 5 years, but I could have picked him out of a group any day. There aren’t many half-Japanese, six-foot-three, football players running around the state. What surprised me was that it was him who recognized me. When Josh last saw me I had close cropped hair and was clean shaven, not to mention a little more svelte. Yet he did recognize me from a distance.

            “I thought I recognized the Nate-Smith lumber,” he said almost immediately.

            I knew exactly what he was talking about. It’s the style of walking I’ve had ever since I started growing into my body at age 12: hands in pockets, head cocked to one side, leisurely pace. The word he used was lumber. And the way I walk, along with the word Josh used to describe it, tells a great deal about me. It shows that I have always been bigger and taller than most of my peers, and thus took to slouching. My head cocked slightly like I’m in a low ceiling room. You might guess that I’m deep in my own world by my leisurely pace, and you’d be correct. And my hands stay in my pockets to try to convey comfort and ease, which is usually the exact opposite of how I feel.

            Thus, “the Nate-Smith lumber”.

            There are a thousand words more useful to describe the way a person walks. An air of confidence follows those who strut. Youthfulness and glee are usually apparent in one who prances. Business and stress mark the man who bustles. Serene beauty follows her that glides.

            I like to watch the way people walk. Do they swing their arms? Do they sway their hips? Are they comfortable or not? Do they have somewhere to be or not?

            The Greeks supposedly have 100 variations of the word love in their language. Yet one wonders how many variations they have for the word walk.