Tiptoes of Heroes

Sitting alone in Tiger Stadium, the world seems stagnant.

It seems smaller now, less impressive without the starless Louisiana night hanging overhead. It's late afternoon and the birds are waltzing. They swoop and swagger, drawing figure-eights with wing-tips and making lazy pirouettes on the rim of clouds-- a whisper of wings beating to the cadence of human heartbeats.

Is that the faint pulse of a bass drum, a steady rumble of tenors and snares? I know it's only my imagination, but even the wind seems to stir echoes of Saturday nights, lingering on in every nook and every crack of concrete. Enduring.

Death Valley is a symphony of silence, a coliseum of color.

Below is a richly swept carpet of green, scarred and swirling and patched and imperfect. It reminds me of an old woman, revealing her rough, lined face after washing off a mask of make-up. The ornate words and ruler-perfect yard lines are no longer splashed like battle-paint across the field. It's a treasure map of history-- telling tales of games where men were made and battles were fought.

Shadows creep and flagpoles sway. The chilly, twisting breeze battles with goose bumps on my arms. The floodlights, once the glinting guardians of game day, loom like gargoyles, throwing jagged silhouettes below. As the sun sinks in the west, the stadium is split between day and night, both teasing and haunting in the absence of cheers. It's almost eerie, this silence, ebbing and receding with the gentle flow of chatter. It reminds me of the campus thriving outside, but I'm feeling miles away among the staggered staircase of silver bleachers. I'm in a breathing cathedral, under a china-blue sky. A Mona Lisa, a Rembrandt. A canvas, a living masterpiece.

So, what's left when the crowd goes home? What remains once the hot-dog stands are locked, once the noble anthem of purple and gold fades from the bleachers?

Death Valley becomes a sleeping giant, a throbbing heart in the midst of LSU, only to be awoken once more by the tiptoes of heroes.