The Brandon Game

 

They say fortune favors the prepared, but in some cases merely proximate suffices. Never did I feel that MetLife stadium in the “Meadowlands” of New Jersey was some kind of windfall, especially with the play over the past decade of its residents, the football Jets and Giants. But fortune looked kindly last weekend when Army and Navy pulled in and played their annual battle royale, and my wife and I jumped at the chance to finally attend this great game.

A normally unremarkable train ride to the game was highlighted by, of all things, the marketing folks at the commuter rail line, New Jersey Transit. Hardly the model of military precision, they managed to hand out some seriously high-quality fabric face masks with the game logo for use on the journey. I’m not much of a believer in masks outside of the operating room or on Halloween, but if I had to wear one, it was something I could do with pride. It was, for lack of anything else, a uniform for the day.

The modern spectacle of today’s sports industry requires an entire army (pardon the pun) of entertainment before you even get to your seat. “Fan Festivals” of music, community demonstrations, and quasi-athletic demonstrations are de rigueur for any pro event (or Alabama football), begging the question of why you need to even watch the actual game. Army/Navy is no different, but with a very, very special set of skills. No Chevy dealer here selling a lucky raffle ticket for a used Camaro. Right after the metal detectors you come to an armored Humvee with a .50 caliber mounted gun. Alas, the good Army folks wouldn’t let me take it back to Manhattan to help clear the human detritus of drunken SantaCon revelers. I mean I am a taxpayer, so why can’t I take it for a spin? Befitting the military medical corps, there was a first aid demonstration nearby. But this wasn’t anything with your high school health class CPR dummies. The mannequins had battle injuries; one with a foot missing and another with his liver falling out from a stomach wound. Small patrol boats, helicopters, and plenty of other Defense Department goodies were strategically arranged like stocking stuffers at Macy’s during Christmastime.

By the time we made it to our seats, we were in full patriotic mode. Cadets and midshipmen were scattered across the field and military brass were walking around engaging in prodigious inter-service back slapping. Then again, that is Pentagon signaling that the latest weapons system is now another billion dollar over budget. But heck, everyone was in too good a mood to care.

Even half time wasn’t like any other game I’ve been to. Of course they played Lee Greenwood’s “God Bless the U.S.A.” Except they had Lee Greenwood on the field singing the song. With a 50-yard-long American flag. And coordinated fireworks. They even had some DOD suit swear in a recruit class that had just finished basic training. It must have been a head trip for some recent high school grads getting cheered by 82,000 people after being called, well whatever they call you in basic training, for the last two months.

But what I was really looking forward to was the President walking in just before the coin toss. You see it every year on the news. Except he wasn’t there. Perhaps Madame VP would take his place—I mean there’s no law the President has to be there, and maybe he was busy jetting around the world making our planet a safer place.

Nothing.

Maybe there would be a video message encouraging a good game and thanking the players and assembled military personnel for their service.

Still nothing.

In the big picture there was nothing wrong until the periodic “U-S-A” chants started. The problem popped up with another chorus that accompanied this cheer, “Let’s Go Brandon.” It was then clear that the administration knew that this was going to be a PR nightmare. The typical video from this event is of the strong Commander-in-Chief (or VP) striding confidently onto the field, waving to the crowd and saluting servicemen. But what was going to happen this time? Joe shuffling along, looking lost and fiddling with his mask? Kamala in heels, pantsuit, and mask, addressing the crowd with that weird, giggling screech of hers? It was a reminder of the recent Afghanistan disaster waiting to happen.

After what was a few hours of spirited, if not somewhat mediocre, football play, we returned home, emerging from the desperate bowels of Penn Station in search of a cab. Unbeknownst to us, there was championship boxing starting in an hour at Madison Square Garden, and the ticket scalpers were circling in force. “Tickets, who has tickets to sell/who needs tickets” was the constant refrain. While attempting to exit the obit this hellish gravitational pull, I still had my mask on, probably subconsciously trying to protect myself from the sidewalk smell of human excrement and even more belligerent SantaCon revelers.

As one scalper passed us, he interrupted his rap to yell at us, “Who won the game?”, as he must have seen the imprint on my mask. “Navy, 17-13” I yelled back, thus fulfilling my civic duty and providing critical information about spread.

And then the one truly sad thought of the day hit me. A sad thought about our country. Did anyone at the White House even know the score? Did they even care?

 

© 2021 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved.