Mustang power

I am not one to watch football, and I have never been full of spirit for my old high school. But I have to admit I certainly got into the game last Friday between the Gilroy Mustangs and the Hollister HayBalers. The rivalry goes back 53 years to the very first Prune Bowl, as the annual game has been dubbed.

Trust me when I say people take the rivalry seriously. Working in Hollister, I often get razzed by San Benito High School graduates for being a Gilroy high grad. In fact, I picked out several of my coworkers on the other side of the field, and I am sure I was the only one sitting on the visitors' side of the stadium.

This year was the last Prune Bowl since a new high school opened in Gilroy this year and there will be some new rivalry created between the two schools. It will probably be dubbed the Garlic Bowl. So there was a lot on the line this year.

The trophy has been in Gilroy for two years, but the team hasn't had the best run this season. There was a new batch of coaches, the star quarterback graduated last year and some seniors quit the team mid-season, from what I hear. With only a couple wins under their belt, Gilroy's players went up against the Balers, who had lost just one game all season.


We arrived at Andy Hardin Stadium just after 6 p.m. after parking in a secret lot that only locals know about, and we found a front row seat in the bleachers. The JV game was half over and the Mustangs lost by a few points. But as anyone knows, only the varsity game counts. The varsity Mustangs came out strong and scored quickly. The game kept the crowd on the edge of their seats as the teams took turns in the lead.

The weather was cold, as it always is in Hollister, and we were still unprepared for the chill even with a handful of blankets and hoodie sweatshirts. But it was a good enough game that we were willing to sit through it to the end even as our cheeks turned bright red from the cold and our teeth chattered.


I still can't say I understand the game, but there were some plays that even I knew were awesome as one of the Mustangs intercepted the ball and ran all the way down the field for a touchdown. The crowd collectively stood up and cheered, "Go, Go, Go." And it was as though the players could hear us. It was the first game all season that the cheerleaders actually seemed to get into, leading the audience in chants. It was the only time in my life where I could kinda understand the reason so many people get so into football.


In the last quarter, the Mustangs were still down a few points. Minutes from the end of the game, they scored the final touchdown and kick, taking the lead. The Mustangs won 35 to 30 and secured possession of the VFW trophy for perpetuity. It was a good game and it was exciting to watch my home town win. But I guess I feel a little bad for the Balers, who I know really wanted the win, too.

But don't think this has made me into a football. The last three years have been enough to last me for at least a decade.

I love a rainy night

There is something about a good rain storm that makes me nostalgic for the few months I spent in Ireland when I was 20. When the hills around Gilroy and Hollister start to turn green in winter, and there is a fog in the morning, this area looks surprisingly like parts of Ireland.

I studied abroad in Northern Ireland in Coleraine at the University of Ulster for three months one fall. While it might seem like it's been raining forever as the storm continues into its 16th hour here in the Bay Area, it rained every day I was on the emerald isle. I went nearly 90 days without a sunny day.

In Ireland, no one uses umbrellas or raincoats. The rain is heavy and wind so strong that these barriers to the weather offered little protection. For most of the time I was in Ireland, my outergear consisted of a pea coat and a variety of sock caps, especially after I did the unthinkable and shaved my head.

My memories of Ireland are scented with damp wool and stale cigarette smoke, and the smell of whiskey on a cute boy's breath. Most of my weeknights were spent at the student union pub with the quick friends I made. We'd shrug off our jackets and huddle together in a booth, and my friends would drink Guiness while I sipped cider or Bailey's Irish Cream or vodka and orange juice. After I gave up drinking toward the end of my adventure (because I had a crush on the only boy in Ireland who didn't drink or smoke), the bartender took to calling me O.J. for the orange juice I ordered all night long.

I had a love-hate relationship with the rain in Ireland, and there were times were I missed the sun as much as I missed my family and friends. But sometimes it felt like the weather was something that drew my new found friends closer to me, as we huddled together in the booths at a restaurant or a pub and drank to warm ourselves up, or the night my crush took my hand as we walked home from a party because as he said, it was cold out.

There was something exhilarating about heading out in the rain for class or to the grocery store or just for a night out with friends without worrying about how wet my clothes would end up or what my hair would look like without an umbrella - certainly not an issue after I cut most of it off. It was a time when I felt braver, and freer, and more innocent than I do now.

Now that I am older and less spontaneous, I worry about the flooded streets I will encounter on the way to work, about my heels becoming slippery in a puddle, and about the electricity going out on my busiest day at work. So I'm glad I'm in California, where I know the storm will pass, to be followed by plenty of sunshine.

In Bray, Ireland, circa fall 1998, with my pea coat and my minolta 35 mm slr.