Personal Narrative: The Rivalry Game

The rivalry game has a special place in each of our lives because we have not earned the lunch pail all season, and we are starving for our lunch, making anaerobic practices seem worth the hard work. A coal miner woke up to the frigid temperature of Pennsylvania winter, he had a runny nose filled with moist residue, and a large contusion on his upper right thigh from the previous day's work. He drowned the soot out of his rustic lunch pail, in a sink with only cold water, activating the miner’s taste buds and salivating in anticipation. The miner placed his hearty lunch delicately into the sturdy pieces of sheet metal, knowing his reward was protected by countless hours of sacrifice. He strapped on his winter damaged, smudge covered, boots, grabbed his lunch pail, and carried out the promise he made to himself and his family, he will never forget his pail. Three years ago, my mind and vision dazed with yellow and black spots signaling

for air. I rose from the black hole and green grass while faintly noticing a metal box. I was told the box was a lunch pail from my coach’s grandfather, who carried it while working in the depths of a Pennsylvania coal mine. If you forget your lunch pail, you did not show up to practice, you thought it was hot outside, and you thought you were going to lose because you were down by two goals with five minutes left in the fourth quarter. I’ve spit up flourescent blood after surrendering my lung, weeped when my knee twisted with hopelessness, been defeated by pride, but the lunch pail will always prevail the hardships. As I dove into the dog pile, with a thundering scream and a gold plated trophy, I realized I earned my lunch.

A contest I will always remember.

A game alumni, students, and faculty all have marked on their calendars. Every year, a season is deemed successful with a section final win against our enemies, Benilde St. Margaret’s. We are the Vikings and they are the Packers because we go to battle in the regular season, but whoever wins the section final wins the war. We are fighting to protect our coveted rights as the most premier lacrosse team in Minnesota. Literal blood, sweat, and tears are poured onto the field at the beginning and the conclusion of the game. A previous loss to Benilde, on my eighteenth birthday, lit the flame in my stomach for a more connected and confident team leading to success for the rest of the season. The media forever playing devil’s advocate with the Blake boys lacrosse team because apparently everything is handed to the privileged, not earned. The blazing sunlight of the game baked our emotions into motivation, pushing the team to retaliate on the field in order to prove the Blake Bears are the CEOs of

Minnesota.
A few weeks before the section final, on May 10th, a day where candles were lit and wishes to be made quickly transformed into melted wax and zero requests. The feeling that I laid everything out on the line, turned into regret and melancholy as I looked at the scoreboard. As I heard the birthday song screech into my ear drums, I made a promise to myself that I will never lose to Benilde again. Losing by one goal made my birthday cake taste sour, looking ungrateful for the vibrant day my parents worked so hard to make perfect. I took one bite of the frosting and spit out the grotesque flavor because my angered stomach could not deal with falling short. Flashbacks of my errors, in the game, flew through my throbbing brain, making my speech belligerent while I opened my presents. Blake had not lost to Benilde in 3 years, creating realization that the team and I let down lacrosse alumni, teachers, and students. In June, as I ran the warmup lap, seeing the red and white on the opposing half of the field brought reminiscence back to my displeasure when I saw blooming flowers die instantly. A previous promise I made to myself was now in third gear, producing adrenaline in my bloodstream. My veins pumping, thick, energized blood into my entire body increasing the desire for success. The only way to get the bitter taste of my birthday cake out of my mouth was revenge through a win. It was time to grab my lunch pail, and go to work.
Everyone in the community supports the team as they spectate to see who wins the final battle of the year. Kelly green and royal blue worn by faculty, students, and alumni permeated the stands creating smiles, fist pumps, and laughter. The uproarious Blake fans, led by a lacrosse alumnus, sent a signal through my spine creating an awareness of how important this win meant to my friends and teachers. The echo of the crowd felt like a family falling victim to house robbery, they desired justice, and for me, The Blake School craved justice and the right to be the most superior lacrosse team in the state. Repercussions of nervousness stemmed from the echo into my body because I just made eye contact with the girl I wanted to impress. The pressure entered my stomach, forming rambunctious butterflies, while sweat dripped into my eyes blinding me from the ultimate goal, a wooden plaque with gold, picturing a group of smirking winners. On the field, our ears were distracted with heavy bass of the Electric Pow Wow, leading to war cries by each member of my team. The war cries were a mix of the Confederate’s historical rebel yell and a laughing Chewbacca. Paralleled through our war cries, the rebel yell, when fighting the Union during the Civil War, created a necessity for retribution. For Blake lacrosse, the war cries increased tension and electrified the field of battle with amenity because we changed a neutral location into our home. The creator's game was now engraved in our souls, spawning a mandatory duty to carry out the orders of our coach, by playing fast and loose, in order to win the game while silencing the underlying subtext between Blake and Benilde.