We rode the old school bus to Geneva, Alabama, on a Thursday afternoon. Coach sat in the front and turned the radio up so we could hear smooth Philly soul through the AM static by Kenny Gamble and Leon Huff. Two by two, we sat in the long, rolling shadows of an orange October sunset listening to The O’Jays, The Chi-Lites, The Intruders, The Spinners, Wilson Pickett and The Manhattans. The smell of dried sweat sealed in athletic tape mixed with Atomic Balm and drifted on the breeze through the rattling windows to form an aromatic, football funk that, if taken directly in a single sniff, could knock a buzzard off a honey wagon (thank you, Scott Mackey).
We beat the Panthers that evening like we would beat every other team for years into the future on our halcyon streak of 58 straight high school regular season victories, setting an Alabama state record. But this was before that seriousness started, before winning became expected and stressful, leaving coaches and players with memories that weren’t always as fond as the excitement of the moment. This was still junior high school and we loved riding that bus out of town because most of us never got to go out of town. These little trips across South Alabama to visit half-empty stadiums were, sadly enough, mini-vacations for us; our chance to see the world, even if that world was just another version of our own rural existence and the vacation involved smash-mouth football and blood and bruises.
After the win, during the trip back home, we were serenaded in the dark by The Stylistics and the Three Degrees and the Moon Pies flowed like victory. One of our tackles had smuggled a box of the Mooners onboard for our after-game celebration, and we savored the marshmallowy smell as we bragged and recalled hits and runs and touchdowns. As we drove through the small town of Opp, our most intense rival, we sang loud so they’d know we’d be back soon to take their team to the pigskin woodshed as well.
I noticed it was a full moon and that shining revelation unleashed upon our adolescent mobile Moon Pie feast the unfortunate idea of mooning our intense rivals along their own Main Street. With one entire side of the bus windows filled with black and white Bulldog butts, we sang along with Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes, “If you don’t know me by now, you will never, never, never know me, ohhhhhh.”
It was funny until someone noticed that one particular rival we’d mooned was an Opp police officer. And he wasn’t about to let that many butts escape his jurisdiction without a little official kicking. He climbed in and fondled his .38 special like he might have to use it to quell an insurrection and lectured us on the Alabama indecency laws. Our coach assured him those same butts would be dragging come practice tomorrow and he reluctantly released us and strutted back to his dented, blue-lighted cruiser. We ate our Moon Pies in silence the rest of the trip.
Ever since then, when I pass a team bus on the highway, I hear the falsetto of Harold Melvin singing, “If you don’t know me by now…” and along with that memory, I get a powerful urge for a Moon Pie.
