Essays by Scarlet   Click on any underlined title in the list below to be linked directly to that essay: “The Jaguars, Dad, and My Lucky Shirt” “I Helped the Jags Win Again!” “He Died the Morning I Turned Eleven”     “The Jaguars, Dad, and My Lucky Shirt” I put on my lucky shirt with the hope that it might work. But, it hasn’t always. Shirts are like that, you know? But, I figured it wouldn’t hurt. Perhaps that might be all the team needs, me in front of the TV and in that shirt. Years ago, I learned all about football from my Dad’s knee. Well, actually, not his knee. I learned it from him, as I sat next to him on the couch. I was the son he never had. I learned how you could actually watch two games at the same time while listening to two more on the transistor radio. And, yes, actually, keep up with all of that too. Dad was a high school football referee too. And, I’ve written about how he had to stop working my high school’s games for obvious reasons. Unfortunately, I learned the hard way about those reasons. But, I digress. Dad loved football. So, Saturday’s and Sunday’s were planned out during football season. Chores for both of us were done in plenty of time to get the snacks and the remote ready. I learned the names of the players on both college and pro teams. Well, not every team. We did have our favorites. And, eventually, I learned the reasons why one of the guys in the black and white shirts threw that yellow flag. I was proud of myself for knowing all that stuff until I started sharing it with my girlfriends. They thought I was out of my mind. Didn’t I know that girls do NOT know about football? That’s a boy thing. Girls know about hairstyles and rock and roll dreamy guys and how to wash the dishes. Seriously. So, I kept my knowledge to myself when I was supposed to be acting like a girl. But, as I got into college, I learned that the guys thought that it was “pretty cool” that I knew what a “clipping” penalty was. And, that it had nothing to do with a hairstyle! But, wouldn’t you know? I fell in love and married a guy who doesn’t know the first thing about football or care! But, fortunately, he has learned to tolerate my addiction or passion for the game. Yesterday, I did have on my lucky Jaguars shirt. And, I thought a lot about my Dad who never lived to see our city get an NFL franchise. I wore the shirt for both of us. And, I cheered and paced and prayed for a win. I know that we should all thank Josh Scobee and his wonderful leg for kicking the winning field goal with two seconds left in the game. But, I’m giving a little wink to my Dad who may have given Josh some extra help. And, convinced me that there is luck in this old shirt after all. ©Scarlet All Rights Reserved   “I Helped the Jags Win Again!” It’s not often that I can take credit for helping the Jaguars win two games in a row. But, by gosh, I’m going to do just that. Read how the first game was helped HERE. After last week’s win, I received a comment regarding my lucky shirt and whether I wash it between wins. And, that got me thinking. Actually, it was the first time I ever thought about it. And, since I have normally washed the shirt, I decided I wouldn’t wash it this week. There is a belief for some that the “win” could be washed out, if you get what I mean. So, game time arrives and I’m in my “not so clean” lucky shirt. I’m bragging on Facebook that this should be a cinch because I have on the shirt that helped the Jags win last week. I mean, come on, over the Colts even! Without going into a lot of really boring details here, the game with the Buffalo Bills didn’t start off very well. And, I began to wonder if the shirt still had the power. The score got rather unpleasant and no amount of yelling seemed to help. So, it was time for action. Do I take off the shirt and get rid of the obvious BAD luck it was sending out? Or, do I keep it on in case the team needs it later? I just don’t know how I managed to concentrate on the game and the wardrobe and the comments on Facebook at the same time. But, I did. And, the decision was made. The shirt HAD to go. At halftime, I bragged again that the so-called “Lucky Shirt” was now in the hamper and I was wearing another shirt. But, as the second half started, there wasn’t a dramatic change in the game. So, when the Jags got the ball again, I went into another room and looked out the window and crossed my arms and fingers. After waiting long enough for a couple of plays to be over, I walked back to my television and the Jaguars still had the ball! The next play, they were going for a touchdown! What did I do? You got it. I ran back into the other room! Touchdown! It became apparent that the new shirt wasn’t all that lucky either. And, it would require me to revert back to my intuition about when to watch and/or scream at the TV and when to leave the room. Oh yes, this has worked in previous years. Just look at my carpet. Oh, never mind. I think it’s important here to say that it is a good thing that I stay at home when the Jaguars are playing. I can’t imagine realizing that I had on the wrong shirt while sitting in the stadium. I’d have to make my way through the crowd, go up or down some stairs and into a bathroom. After the wardrobe change, I would have to make my way back to my seat. Well, the luck would be too late then. The other team could have scored and the shirt would be useless. Horrors! And, for you smart alecky guys out there who want me to change shirts while sitting in the stands…. mind your manners! I know what you are thinking. Is there really a “lucky shirt”? Or, is it just all about me? I’ve wondered that too. And, I think we may just find out when the Jaguars play again next Monday night. Of course, my game plan is a lot different for prime time games. And, I might not be able to stay up that late. And, I wonder if I should start with the clean old lucky shirt? Or, do I start with the new, clean and not-so-lucky shirt? Or, does it really matter? What am I saying? It ALL matters! (crossing fingers quickly) There’s one thing for sure though: The Jaguars are lucky to have me, don’t you think? ©Scarlet All Rights Reserved   “He Died the Morning I Turned Eleven” He died the morning I turned eleven. I’ll never forget the sound of my Aunt Mary’s footsteps as she raced down the hall to tell my mother that their Daddy was gone. The screams, the cries and the shock of it all in the minutes before dawn are still with me now. Everyone raced up the stairs to see if it could possibly be a mistake. As I took a peek from around the door, I saw someone holding a mirror under granddaddy’s nose to catch the fog of his breath… there was none. I stood there shaking. I was confused and scared to see my grandfather so still. Is that what death looks like? Every adult around me was acting in a way I had never seen. It was decided that my grandfather’s brother, Bertelle, would come and take me to his and Aunt Clara’s house right away. And, when I sat down at their kitchen table, I found the taste of Aunt Clara’s biscuits to be just what I needed. She probably didn’t know what to do or say. So, we made a cake. Aunt Clara and Uncle Bertelle were what became an integral part of the memory of my grandfather’s death. It’s much better to remember making cakes and eating biscuits when you are eleven. Because both sets of grandparents lived so close together, I saw what I thought was every relative I had in my grandmother’s house the next day. The thing I remember the most during this particular time was all of the food. I wondered if all of those people were going to eat everything. Or, if I would be stuck with the squash casserole and not the three helpings of chocolate cake that I dreamed about. The funeral was in the church my granddaddy helped build and he named it after his mother. Elizabeth Chapel. I sat up in front with my family and a big metal box that represented my granddaddy. They said his body was there; but, he was already in heaven. I didn’t like the word “casket” at all. I counted the four-dozen red roses that were the “blanket” over that big metal box. And, watched the men cover up the hole where my grandfather was buried and put that rose blanket on the ground. He died the morning I turned eleven. He died on Christmas morning. And, even though Santa had visited me the night before, I didn’t want to touch the things that he brought. I was scared. My mother swatted me on my backside with her slipper when her efforts to get me to do so failed. Then, we both cried. She didn’t mean to swat me. I didn’t mean to give her another reason to cry. Years later, she said the worst thing and the best thing that ever happened in her life happened on Christmas morning. And, while I don’t remember one of them, I’ll never forget the other. ©Scarlet All Rights Reserved   Scarlet’s Poetry Page Scarlet’s Continuing Series, “Mo Tee Suh” Website Home Page