Short #5: Life of a Gamecock
Write a story about a fandom…
Clayton was born in Sumter, South Carolina to Harper and William Marion on a warm spring morning. And the first photo of the moment shows the boy dressed in a white onesie, a big garnet and black block C on his chest and the word “Gamecocks” above it. Months later, and before he could walk, he’d already begun to spend fall Saturdays in the gravel parking lots across from Williams-Brice Stadium. And not long after, when Clayton began to talk, William liked to brag that among his son’s first words were “Go Cocks.”
And so Clayton was indoctrinated into the world of all things Garnet and Black. He could never remember making a choice to be a Gamecock, mostly because his loyalty to the university and its teams was never presented as a choice. His great grandfather played for the school back in the leather helmet days. His grandfather was president of Sigma Epsilon. And his father held two degrees from the school. And like all the Marion’s before him, William met his wife to be at a fall mixer.
What did not give Clayton incentive to scream and sing and hope were the teams’ performances. Throughout the years, season after season, Clayton learned to whisper the hopeful words all Gamecocks recite after each and every heart break: Wait ‘til next season. It is this disconnect of loyalty from performance which empowers the poor bastards to suffer failure and loss.
For Clayton, his loyalty began to fray his freshman year in Columbia. After watching the football team sustain an unusual run of success the previous three seasons, the Gamecocks slipped back to mediocrity under the guidance of a has-been coach. The has-been quit halfway through the season which ended in another defeat to their rivals from the upstate, the Clemson Tigers.
Later that evening back in Sumter, Clayton and his best friend Chandler drowned their disappointment in a twelve pack of Natty Light. And they examined the game and the season as all fanatics do, searching for blame and hope.
“We’ll get a good coach, Clay. Wait till next year,” offered Chandler, half cynically half serious.
“Huh?,” shot back Clayton.
“Whadda mean, huh? I said we’ll land a good coach.”
“No, the other thing.”
“What? Wait till next year? Come on man. You know that’s our motto.”
“Yeah, I know it. Wait till next year…” Clayton let the words hang in the air for a long second before continuing. “Thing is, next year never comes.”
“Dude, stop. Don’t be a sad drunk.”
“I’m not, I–”
“Yes, you are. I’m not gonna sit here and listen to this nonsense. You know I’m right. You’re just gonna regret it in the mornin’.”
Clayton looked out his bedroom window, into the black November air, took another swallow of beer and turned back to Chandler, “Aren’t you tired of losing?” Chandler knew it was a question deeper and more sincere than any produced by alcohol.
“Yeah, man. I am. I get it. But we don’t change who we are because we lose. I believe we’ll win one day and it’ll make all this suffering worth it. Think about it. Wouldn’t you love to rub it in your cousin Brandon’s face, that smug orange hillbilly’s face. It’ll happen. And you’ll be glad you stuck with it when it does.”
Chandler’s faith and logic made sense, from a fan’s point for view. And Clayton lacked the energy to continue the debate. “Yeah, man. It’ll be awesome,” he finally relented. And the friends went down the stairs to munch on leftover Thanksgiving turkey and stuffing.
True to their nature, within weeks of the end of another terrible campaign, hope began to sprout on the Carolina campus. A new coach revived the spirits of the faithful and Clayton allowed himself to dream once more. He even engaged in a bit of trash talk with his cousin Brandon at the lake one July afternoon. From under the shelter he yelled, “Don’t feed him momma, not till he takes off that tacky orange hat.” Then, turning to Brandon he asked, “Why do you insist on wearing that crap around here? You know we’re all garnet and black.”
Brandon smiled and stepped to Clayton's side, close enough to make him uncomfortable, “What? Don’t like being reminded who runs this state?”
“Pff. If we had y’alls cupcake of a schedule…”
And then, for the rest of the afternoon, the boys exchanged the tired salvos heard often between rivals, where nothing is settled or meant to be.
When the fall semester started, hope filled the campus and students. A new coach will do that. And by October, the Gamecocks were a miserable 2-4. And though he said nothing, Clayton began to ask bigger questions about his loyalty to a school and a team, questions a man isn’t allowed to ask. After the loss to Georgia, he began to find reasons to skip home games. The UMass game started too early, he told his parents. The following week he decided he was sick. And for the Tennessee game, he invented a girlfriend- a lie that satisfied both parents and friends.
What made that particular season awful were the needling, shit-talking texts from Brandon. Clemson was winning, and winning a lot. And Clayton knew the rivalry game after Thanksgiving was going to be a blood-bath. And, just as he’d always done, he’d have to watch the slaughter like the faithful idiot he was. This bothered Clayton and the questions lingering in his mind became loud and demanded to be answered.
Hoping for a better scene, Clayton opted to watch the game with Chandler alone in his living room instead of the family gathering on the other side of Sumter. The two made pimento cheese and ham sandwiches and polished off a six pack of cheap beer prior to kickoff. Chandler predicted an upset for the Gamecocks. Clayton nodded but made no such prophecy.
Then the misery commenced. After the first quarter, the score was 21-0, Clemson. 35-0 at the half. And ended with a final score of 56-7. The game wasn’t as close as the score. As the final second fell off the clock, and two friends sat on the couch in silent despair, the TV flickering on their faces.
“Glad I brought this,” quipped Chandler as he revealed a handle of Jack Daniels previously hidden in his backpack. Clayton grinned for a moment and nodded his approval. Soon they were passing the bottle back and forth, diving deeper into a whiskey stupor.
Chandler knew better than to talk about the game, and put his drunken mind to work searching for safe topics of conversation.
“Whadda wanna do tomorrow?” he asked.
“Tomorrow? Hell, I dunno. What do you want to do?”
“Let’s get back to campus early and go to the river walk, the Cayce side. It’s better. Less people.”
“Yeah.”
“And maybe I can meet that girl you’re seeing?”
“Girl I’m seeing?”
“Yeah. The one you sat with for the Tennessee–” Chandler caught himself and went quiet. In less than a few seconds he’d broken his own rule. And though he knew to avoid talking football after defeat, he could not have anticipated what came next. Clayton began to laugh a deep guttural laugh. He doubled over then snapped his head back. At first, Chandler was relieved, then Clayton answered.
“There’s no fucking girl, hommie. Never was. I made her up so I didn’t have to go to the game.”
Chandler was stunned as Clayton continued.
“Matter fact, I’m done.”
“Alright Clay, chill out.”
“Fuck you, chill out. I’m serious. I’m tired of being loyal to this school. I didn’t choose them and they sure as shit ain’t doing a thing for me.”
“Careful now,” Chandler warned. “You can’t take some things back.”
“Ok, mister wannabe attorney, let me ask you a question or two,” Clayton said as he stumbled to his feet and paced back and forth like a courtroom lawyer.
“When did you decide you were going to be a Gamecock? When did you decide you were going to that school? Can you remember?” Chandler had no answer. Like Clayton, he was always a Gamecock. He didn’t see it as choice, rather a way of life- as part of his family as Christmas or barbecue. The following silence between the friends was long and uncomfortable. The questions Clayton asked were about more than football or a university. They were about a culture and the only way they knew how to live. Finally Chandler responded.
“You’re right Clayton. I didn’t choose this. We didn’t choose this. It was passed to us by people who love us as it was passed to them, I think. What were they supposed to do?” Clayton felt and then dismissed the compassion in his friend’s question. “Just because I was born a Gamecock doesn’t mean I have to stay a Gamecock.”
“True. Very true. But what’ll people say Clay?”
“That I’m smart and can tell a winner from a loser.”
“Not around here they won’t. You know that. They’ll question your integrity, your honor.”
“My honor? What is this? War? Are we at war? Are you telling me 80,000 idiots show up to that shitty stadium seven Saturdays a year because they are too scared to admit it’s a waste?’
At that exact moment, both boys' eyes grew wide at the sound of creaking floor boards. Though they couldn’t tell which one made the noise, it had to be made by either William or Harper. And Clayton felt a shock rippled through his chest as he waited for the worst. “Rough game tonight, eh?” panned William from the direction of the noise, coming closer as he spoke.
“Yes sir. Lousy game to end the year on,” Chandler responded as quickly as he could then immediately regretted speaking first. Clayton panicked and kept silent. Then William took another step into the room. And now both boys could see Mr Marion’s face in the flicker of the blue TV light. And he was somber as a cemetery as he stared directly at his son.
Indeed, the old man had heard his son and he was angry, yet he understood. There’s nothing easy or fun about being devoted to a team so undeserving as the South Carolina Gamecocks. William knew the frustration of devotion more than his son did. And William knew his son too. He knew when his son had thought long and deep about a thing. And so he stood in the dimly lit room with two drunkards, and searched his heart for wisdom.
“Yep,” he began. “Today was as bad as it gets. But before I get to outta here, let me set you straight on something. For some people, it’s a tradition or an identity. For me, I love my school because I decided to love my school. Whatever comes. Same way I decided to love your mother and you. Even when you’re drunk and cussing in my house. And I’m going to keep on loving my wife and my son and my school. No matter what. Because, I’m committed. You hear me?”
“Yes sir,” whispered Clayton, his heart now beginning to slow, though still thumping in his ears while Chandler remained as still as a statue.
“Good. Before you get to bed, pour out the rest of that bottle and drink plenty of water. Being a Gamecock is a rough life. The bottle won’t help.”
