Jack Lindholm, Contributor to Moving, for You: A Tribute to Empathy
Another Big Ten Football Weekend
1968: September and I’m 10. Dad woke me up early on Saturday Morning. “Do you want to go to the game?” I was groggy and still one-third in the dream state. Thrilled! A trip to Iowa City.my father’s home during his college years, before and after the war. He graduated from Med School in 1951.
A long drive with just me and Dad. Through his favorite back roads in his powerful Imperial. Corn, gold and dusty, waiting for harvest. We talked about cars, and old abandoned places that used to be towns. He knew all their names. He talked about his childhood, his brothers, stories of life in the depression, the war, and college. I loved to hear about his exploits in college, he and his friends “worked hard, and played hard(er).” He talked about medicine: “You know there’s a lot of mechanics in medicine.” I loved being with him when we were at the football game. Magic. Brick stadium, green grass field, black and gold uniforms. The smell of cigar smoke, the echo of the PA system, the early autumn light.
The Hawkeyes lose.
1979: September and I’m 21. I’m in college at the U of I, Iowa City, an art major with a minor in beer. I’m in the marching band. Warm-up at the field house. Harmony, sound, rhythm, alive. Mom and Dad are at the sidelines as we march, a rowdy barely contained riot, in step, to the field. They wave, I wave a white gloved uniformed hand back. Brilliant magic. Bright green astro-turf field, black and gold uniforms, the echo of the PA system, early autumn sunlight, heart pumping, and endless possibilities. This place, now stamped with my imprint. House party tonight, possible erotic connections? Everything is possible, and I am connected. Dad’s world is now mine.
The Hawkeyes lose.
1983: September and I’m 25. I just moved to NYC. I drive back to Iowa City with my friend, Bruce. I want desperately to see my long distance girlfriend and reconnect with the party that’s still going on. We drive past corn, gold and dusty, waiting for harvest. We stop to see my parents and uncle and aunt at the Athletic Club, where they usually meet pre and post game. I see that I’ve left this world, I don’t fit. We drink, we play, a desperate coda to what was my favorite song.
Artificial turf, not so bright, black and gold uniforms, the echo of the PA system, the early autumn sunlight, everything is confusing, and I’m trying very hard. Dad looks at me as if I’m not in the right place.
The Hawkeyes lose.
1996: September and I’m 38. I live in NYC. I’m three years sober. My freelance photography career is tenuous. I’m in housing court with my loft. I drive back to northwest Iowa to visit. I drive past the corn, gold and dusty, waiting for harvest. I stop in Iowa City where mom and dad are staying at the Highlander Inn. We have tickets on the 50-yard line, along with my uncle and cousin. Sitting close to dad’s college best friend and family. The energy is faint, a nostalgic energy, like that whiff of cigar smoke. The brick stadium, the restored green grass field, the black and gold uniforms, the band echoing, nowhere near the power or magic as remembered, early autumn sunlight, everything is fraught. Dad and I both look back at the history we share, my own dusty memories on the shelf next to his.
The Hawkeyes win.
2004: September and I’m 46: I live in Brooklyn, a small loft down by the Navy yard. I’m avoiding the Republican national convention in NYC and so I drive to Iowa. I’m driving the last Imperial Dad bought, a 1973 that’s been restored and now in my possession. Mom and Dad live in a comfortable house next to a farm. Dad doesn’t travel to the games much anymore and has let go of his season tickets on the 50-yard line.
We sit in the den, as a busy farmer harvests his corn in the golden dusty early autumn sunlight. The game is on TV, dimensionally diminished. All the elements, sight and sound, smell and magic, compressed. An almost memory. Dad and I sit on the couch, a quiet comfort and moment of contentment.
The Hawkeyes win.
2016: September and I’m 58: I live north of NYC and I’m in my house, with my wife and our many cats. Outside the window the grass and leaves are still bright green, the early autumn light paints this day. A loving black cat sits on my lap as I find the game on TV. I think of my path, through the corn, gold and dusty, to this place. My father passed away four weeks ago. I was there, before he passed, his life force, an almost memory. Now with the football game playing out in front of me, I begin to drown in the volumes of memory. The floor is askew, and my heart races. The sights and sounds, so familiar, are unnerving. I am unable to maintain. I lay down in bed, anxious, dizzy, heart racing.
The Hawkeyes lose.
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