An old friend invited me to a football game; Purdue University, Dave Ostendorf’s alma mater, was playing Indiana State on Saturday, August 7th. Dave had purchased a number of tickets and offered three to me. Karyn, his bride, said that she was amused to hear my message of reply on their home phone. “My social circle is quite a bit smaller than I thought,” I said, “so there will be a party of one: me.”
“It will be a full day,” Karyn had told me. “We go from about 10 a.m. to 7 p.m.” The football game was to be one of a number of attractions on the outing, and each of her three children — Elaine, 11; Nick, 9; and Rich, 5 — was bringing a friend. To that mix of Dave, Karyn, and six kids, was added Karyn’s brother, Uncle “Rob-Rob,” and me.
I know this family: I worked with Dave and Karyn in St. Louis and I have previously been a visitor amongst their tumbling crew. I arrived at the “O-Zone” at 10 a.m. that Saturday, where backpacks and coolers were loaded into two vehicles. Uncle Rob was shifted to the Ford Taurus with Karyn and Elaine to go pick up Elaine’s 10-year-old friend, Olivia. In the “Man-Van” were Nick, his friend Bradley, 8, Rich, Dave and me. After adding Rich’s friend John, 5, we took a leisurely drive to Lafayette and on to West Lafayette and the stadium.
After loading up on carbs at the nearby Subway, the ants went marching two-by-two into Ross-Ade stadium and up toward the shade of the “jumbo-tron.” Elaine and Olivia followed Dave to the top of the stands to sit beneath the big screen, while Uncle Rob supervised the first stage of the march toward the concession stands. The play on the field was secondary to the maneuvers in the stands: this thirsty bloc of kids, this hot chunk, cooled off in a sprayer, slopping back up the hill of the stands, small groups of small kids needing accompaniment, with older ones needing instructions, and the girls, aloof and together and observing the play.
The end of the game meant a last cooling spray for the kids before a trek across campus. We marched above ground, through tunnels, into and out of study areas lined with pictures of former Purdue athletes, down to the rec room where the sound of pins falling in the bowling alley was overlaid by the “wocca-wocca” of Pac-Man, the “vroom” of racing games. (I was frozen in wonder before the sea of pool tables.) After getting lost underground (and almost losing one smurf) the kids splashed through one last fountain before we climbed into the cars to journey to Columbian Park, the last romping place.
At Frozen Custard, across the street from the entrance to the Columbian Park Zoo, I watched, alert as a goalie, as a whirl of kids consumed fried foods and topped those with custards and other dairies. A good day was made more perfect when little Rich worked me into the hug-rotation. “I have hugging kids,” Dave noted. “They get that from their mother.” Karyn smiled.
Nick had asked me if I “write for a newspaper.” I assured him that I “produce 600 words per week for them.”
“I’ll bet you’re glad you came,” he said later, “because you got 600 words.”
“Thank you for taking me, Mr. Ostendorf,” said sleepy Bradley.
Sometimes, the measure of a good day lived is not written in broad strokes, but in wet steps, shrill shrieks, a spontaneous hug and a sleepy voice of thanks from the back seat.