Another trip to Hawkeye Nation

In what some people would call supreme irony, my wife is an avid sports fan whereas I can take it or leave it. While I enjoy sitting in Wrigley Field and watching the Cubbies and yes, I admit that I have become a Cubs fan; it will never be with the fervor that she espouses. Nonetheless, I do hope they get back in the World Series one of these days. On top of the Cubs season tickets, we also have season tickets for Hawkeye football and basketball. Therefore, we get to go through security quite frequently.

Today I am “girding my loins” for another Hawkeye football excursion tomorrow, the biggest thing I am dreading is the inevitable search of our belongings after we show our over-priced ticket. I won’t bore you with the sundry things I carry in my fanny pack, but apparently the rent-a-cops and security wieners are fascinated by its contents. Never clear on what they are looking for, they poke around until they are satisfied that they have pissed me off totally before letting me pass.

For those of you who are not familiar with Hawkeye Nation, they don’t allow bags bigger than the size of a standard piece of paper (8 ½ x 11) – okay, I can appreciate this “standard” but the painfully obtuse method of measuring for go or no-go is without a doubt the dumbest methodology I have ever endured. A quick fix would be to follow the example of the airlines with a box of the requisite size to use a simple go/no go process of if it fits it is good to go, but noooooo, THAT would be too simple and far too user friendly to be implemented. Instead each of the security people have a sheet of paper torn from a notebook to check bag sizes. A clumsy method at best.

I watched one woman unsuccessfully try to bring in a purse whose dimensions were within the required dimensions, however, it had fringe that exceeded the sheet of paper rule and despite an attempt at reason she was rebuffed at the gate with a threat to “call the police.” Of course, this arbitrary standard is not necessarily adhered to at every point of entry so it is quite possible that this frustrated fan went to another gate to gain admission. If not she was probably not a very nice person after a hurried trip back to her car.

Do not attempt to reason with the Per-Mar or university security people. These minimum–wage earners are likely to follow their orders as if they came from a burning bush. Just two weeks ago I made a point of putting my items into a clear plastic bag in an effort to get through “security” a little more quickly, thinking that despite it being larger than a piece of paper that its translucence would obviate that failure. Boy was I wrong. The people in the cheap yellow jackets said I could not use this plastic bag because it wasn’t from the Hawk Shop! I had to remove my bottles of water and carry them in without the benefit of a bag.

Last year I had one of those lightweight bags that were originally designed to carry sneakers but have become a ubiquitous giveaway especially at sporting events. Anyway, I was told I couldn’t bring the bag inside the stadium. Okaaaaay, fair enough, we emptied the contents into various coat pockets. But as I started to stuff the offending bag into a semi-empty pocket, I was told that I wouldn’t be able to bring the empty bag in either. Never mind the fact that I could have walked 20 feet and purchased another one just like it from THE HAWK SHOP! Luckily, this time, common sense prevailed and another Per-Mar guy told me to just move along

Having been in airport security I can appreciate the necessity of bag searches when warranted but when it comes to entering a sports complex, the reason behind the searches is never clearly explained. One time I tried to enter Carver-Hawkeye Arena with a pocketknife. I’d forgotten it was in my bag and since it does look a little wicked, the bag searcher’s head about exploded upon seeing it. He started quoting off all sorts of non-existent Homeland Security directives about it being a weapon, etc so rather than argue with him, I walked out and back into another door – with the pocket knife stuffed securely in my jeans pocket. Hey, it was January in Iowa; I wasn’t about to walk the mile back to our car. Troublemaker that I am I went on to my seat, used the knife to peel an apple and watched the game. Later, unsure if the yellow-jacketed one was correct my wife did a quick web search and discovered that in fact it WAS NOT big enough to be considered a weapon by any law enforcement standards after all!

As regular visitors to Wrigley Field, we often pack a lunch and snacks for our trips to watch the Cubs, the security folks are always very courteous and understanding about bringing food and drinks into the ball park. I can’t recall a time being turned back for an offending item. Once the searcher found my Swiss Army knife, hesitated only a second before asking me not to stab anyone with it and let me go on my way.

So, is it weapons, alcohol or food? In Hawkeye Nation, they have a vague prohibition about bringing food to a game. While it is irksome to have some booger-eater pawing through my bag for God knows what but to have them decide one time that a food item was okay and the next time that the very same thing doesn’t meet their idea of a “snack” is absolutely infuriating. If the college would ratchet back the outrageous prices they charge for food maybe po’ folk like me wouldn’t try to smuggle in dinner! I won’t even get into the criminal prices they charge just to get into the games!

Last but not least, it is the smug superiority of some of these rent-a-cops that really gets me!

Here’s another example of idiocy in action. One night standing in line to enter the arena, a U of I security guard very rudely asked me what was in my pants cargo pocket. Not being on my toes, I made the mistake of telling him the truth, “a bottle of water,” and turned back to the business of getting through security. No one else said anything and I continued on my way. Shortly afterwards I saw this troll pointing me out of the crowd to “real” cops. All I could think of was here it comes! Boy these guys were textbook cops, spreading out so they were in a semi-circle around me and confronted me about the bulge in my pocket – like I said I wasn’t on my game that night so I again replied that it was a bottle of water. When asked to show it to them I pulled it out and by gosh it was what I told them it was. Using their massively analytical brains they noticed the other cargo pocket was bulging too and I produced yet another bottle of water. Okay, so far so good right? Na-ah, Old Barney Fife and Goober Pyle proceeded to dress me down about not complying with instructions and that the next time someone tells me to show them what was in my pockets to do it! Of course I tried to explain to these two mental giants that the rent-a-cop didn’t ask me to show him anything, he asked a question, I responded and went on my way through security and if it HAD been such a problem that maybe the boob should have stopped me BEFORE going through security! The shorter cop kept saying that I was supposed to comply with instructions to which I replied that I had complied and that he never asked to see what was in my pocket! Arrrrgh!

As I said, I understand the necessity of safety measures having been involved with airport security but my Gawd! Make the insanity stop! Tomorrow is another day and another Hawkeye football game; wanna put a wager on me getting hassled again?

Walking Among Giants

In the grand scheme of things I suppose few of them made much of an impact. None of them cured a disease, threw the winning touchdown pass or in a few cases were even successful in business ventures, but they were truly giants and I am proud to say I walked among them. Simple men with simple tastes, they were mostly family men who in their gray years doted after grandchildren with the love and tenderness that sometimes was missing from their attention to their own children – making up for past mistakes, I suppose.

They were farmers, ironworkers, carpenters, and laborers of all sorts. Giants like my father, my grandfather, and other hard working, rough-hewn men of their era, they worked tirelessly to provide for their families and in turn strengthen their country. They labored every day, rarely pausing except for Friday nights to cheer on the home team, Sundays to give praise (and maybe do a little fishing) and then started it all over again come Monday morning. As a child I was in awe of them: their rough clothes, work-scarred hands and how big they were! My lord, they were huge! When they weren’t working you could find them at the grain elevator, hardware store, or wherever giants congregated to discuss the news of the day: how the corn was lookin’, how the boys were doin’ overseas, or if this really was the year the Cubs were going all the way. They towered over the very land they nurtured and it seemed to my adolescent mind that I was walking in a denim-cloaked forest whenever they gathered; their conversations eventually turning to tales of “the olden days,” the days before marriage, children and long hours of work.

Many went off to war as young men (boys really), staying away just long enough to serve their country, but quickly returned home to start their own families and their own lives with their uniforms packed neatly away. A few of them were even hell-raisers in their younger days; how do you think I learned about cow tipping? They talked about running hoop nets in the river baited with ungodly concoctions guaranteed to bring in the “big ‘uns” or how they used to go to a particular house tucked away in the woods where they would play a few hands of whist and maybe take a nip (or two) of corn liquor come Saturday night.

As the giants went about their labors there were usually kids following in their wake fighting to carry the tool bucket or to be somehow involved in the giants’ efforts. A giant’s idea of “quality time” was getting the job done and teaching us the value of hard work and, in turn the worth of a man. We children scrambled for attention and it didn’t take long to figure out which giant had a pocketful of hard candies to reward the hardest working helper. Of course, an angry giant was a fearsome sight to behold and woe to the errant son who heard the epithet, “Wait ‘til your father gets home!”

Most times we looked up in admiration and awe at the efforts of the giants. It seemed as if they could move mountains, build anything and explain the most difficult problems. But sadly as we grew older we usually participated with less enthusiasm, only listened half-heartedly, and our admiration waned even as we began to stretch our own wings in the hopes (even if silently) that we could measure up to the giants of our youth. Over the course of time we moved away, fought our own wars and discovered that our giants seemed less threatening and more human. Like a favorite tool on the workbench, they have somehow lost the shine of use and have taken on instead the patina of the ages. They appear a little smaller in stature, slower in movement and finally have become in our eyes what they always were – men who loved their wives and children with all their hearts even if they might not have been able to tell us at the time.

Cherish these men if you still have the chance and even if it is too late and your own giants are gone, try to remember the days when you were held in awe by their stories and were fascinated by their wisdom. And as one by one, we lay them to rest, their ranks thinning with age, we discover that we have become our fathers; somehow, I cannot help but wonder if they didn’t know it all along.