Food, Water, Protection - I'm still in the game.

A BEAR OF A NINER

"No! We said 'no' and we meant it."  The kids stand three in a row.  "You watched football all day Sunday.  No more football!"

"But it’s Monday Night Football, free entertainment.” I plead my addiction.

“Go to Buck Henry’s.”

“Yeah, go to the sport’s bar.” Erin echoes.

“Buck’s closed because of food poisoning.” I protest.

Grant plops on the couch, remote in hand and Junkyard Wars replaces colliding helmets. I cry foul.

Timeout. I retreat to the garage, grab a flashlight and marvel why I didn’t think of this earlier?  Found them--tent, lantern, sleeping bag and portable television. 

I check my watch--plenty of time before the coin toss. I stop at the deli and buy a rotisserie chicken, chips and halftime treats. Supplied, I head to the local campground.

Cheaper than parking at Candlestick, I hand the ranger my fifteen dollars.  I drag my three-man tent, empty of man, into the area, and set up my tailgate party.  A quarter to six, I unpack my dinner and review Quarterback stats. Perfect.

No kids, no Bobs, no homemade catapults. Kickoff time, I unroll the sleeping bag and plump my pillow.  With a twist of the knob, the television screen flickers. Rabbit ears flop to the right and I tighten a screw---reception.

Snow in San Francisco? 

I jiggle the antenna. Static sprinkles.  A defensive back makes an interception, the crowd cheers.  Blinded by the whiteout, I move the six-inch set from corner to corner.  I scamper outside and scout for an open spot, pointing the television east, west, north, south.  A blizzard blasts from all directions. 

I hear the announcer, "What a game!  Only once in a lifetime do you get to see a play like that!"

I only have one lifetime.  What did I miss?  I shake the box for an answer.

Buttoning my jacket, I ward off the November chill and look for an opening between the trees.  I climb up a small knoll.  From my perch, I can see across San Francisco Bay.  A blimp hovers over the stadium.

Cross-legged on the ground, I aim the antennae blimp-ward and squint at the screen.  Dominance glares in the player’s eyes and a word forms on the coach’s lips. I know that word. Bad coach.

"Touchdown 49ers!"  I lie back, kick up my heels and celebrate.

Without warning, a large plop of rain lands in the middle of my forehead; a second splat nails me in the chest. I sprint towards cover as pellets of rain ping off my jacket.  Miscalculating, I slip in the muck and skid right hip down.  

The television blares, "Injury on the play."

I spit mud, repeat the unsportsmanlike words and limp back to the campsite. Safe in the tiny cubicle, I check my situation. Food, water, protection--I’m still in the game.

Wrapped in the sleeping bag, I listen to the plays.  Darkness swallows the campground as the rain beats harder.  Game tied, I huddle for warmth, questioning my sanity.

Outside a twig crackles.  I bolt upright, turn down the volume and focus.  With a raspy snort, a dark form rubs against the east-side of the tent.  I move west. A paw swats the tent; my house of canvas trembles. 

I clutch my flashlight and outperform Jimmy Stewart, "Please, God, I want to live. I want to live."

The canvas covering lists.  I brace for the fall.  The rain pounds on the roof yet the tent holds strong. I peek out the flap. The offender not in sight, I grab the lantern and run – ten, twenty, thirty-five yards.

The ranger steps out of the kiosk, perplexed.

"There's a bear in my camp."  I point frantically offside.

"Lady," he calms, "there aren't any bears in this park."

"Then a mountain lion." I humor him and add, "It tried to eat me."

"Not unless you taste like chicken," he gestures towards a raccoon eating a chicken breast.

”That’s my dinner.” I say.

The ranger watches the raccoon lick its paws and shrugs, “Not anymore.”

I melt into the ground with embarrassment, wondering if chicken even tastes like chicken.

"What're you doing camping in the rain anyway?" He shelters us under the kiosk’s roof.

"Watching football," I squeeze rain from my sleeve.

“Family anti-football?” 

I kick my foot in a puddle and simply nod. I haven't a word to add. 

"We can watch it at the ranger station." He offers with a sympathetic smile.

A rustic building, sits nestled by the entrance of the park, smoke bellowing from the chimney. 

"Fair warning," he guides me with his soft touch and winks, "Smokey’s visiting from Chicago.”

I trudge through the mud and rain, a loyal 49er. That’s one Bear I can handle.       

THE END

*Award-winning* author Cynthia Borris, NO MORE BOBS, resides in Northern California. Humor columnist for Valley Lifestyles magazine and a numerous CHICKEN SOUP FOR THE SOUL contributor, she is working on her next novel, TO SERVE DUCK. For speaking engagements, visit website. She'll bring the coffee and laughter but not the Bobs!