When I found myself in the operating room for emergency surgery three weeks ago, I saw a blinding light at the end of a long, narrow tunnel from which deceased relatives beckoned lovingly. Ok. I didn’t see a bright light. There was no tunnel and no dead family members either, but the Baltimore Ravens’ logo was everywhere.
There I was–stretched out on a gurney for the first time in my life. I was scared and in serious medical trouble, but I all heard was: “I can’t believe that guy fumbled the ball!”
My surgeon-to-be wore blue scrubs with his name embroidered above a Baltimore Ravens’ emblem. The bird’s sharp eyes pierced through me, wanting to know: What’s your favorite football team now, hon?
The anesthesiologist’s disposable cap did not conceal the purple and gold Ravens thing underneath. What did I expect? I was in the official hospital for the Baltimore Ravens team. I was in Ravens’ Land.
And this was not the time to mention I wasn’t a fan.
Two and a half weeks later—the very week of the Super Bowl–I had to be readmitted for complications following the surgery. The nurses and their assistants, the phlebotomists who drew more blood than I knew I had, the room attendants: everyone was a Baltimore Ravens’ fan. They wore birds on their hats, birds on their T-shirts, birds on their scrubs, birds on their lab coats, and birds on their shoes. The purple birds watched me from every corner.
The days blended into one another. The nurses and their assistants shuffled in and out–at all hours, wearing their purple this and that. By Super Bowl Sunday, I was like the woman in Hitchock’s The Birds. The very air had turned purple and black.
“Are you excited about the Super Bowl?” said the person who had come to check my vital signs. “This is the big one. We’re gonna get that trophy tonight. It’s our time. Go Ravens!” She gave a big smile.
I nodded and tried to smile, too. I’d attended my share of Super Bowl parties in the past; the commercials, wardrobe malfunctions, and Half-Time Shows were always fun to watch. I had never dedicated a minute to any specific team; I was not a football person. When Super Bowl Sunday came around, I cheered for the team no one believed would win. And that would be that.
“You want to watch the game?” the Vital-Sign person asked me.
“Sure.”
She touched a button on the remote control, and the room came alive with the announcers’ excited voices.
“We got this!” Vital-Sign did a little dance before leaving.
Ten seconds later, I was asleep. When I opened my eyes again, Byonce was on stage. As fantastic as she was, I slid right back into another medicated sleep.
My nurse was in the room now, adjusting the IV drip. My eyes opened a little. Then I heard: “Welcome to the Third Quarter!”
Against my will, I focused on the screen to watch with awe how this Ravens guy ran from one end of the field to the next with the football secured in his hand. Never in my life had I seen an athlete run with so much determination. The too-big guys who like to block other players could not touch this runner whose name was Jacoby Jones. This man was lightening in purple.
When the announcer explained that Jacoby Jones had set a new record with his 108 return kick, I understood why Baltimore was bird-wild over the Ravens.
Soon afterwards, there was a blackout in the stadium in New Orleans. I wondered if Byonce’s electrifying performance was to blame. I wanted to watch Jacoby Jones play, but sleep carried me away again.
I woke up to what sounded like fireworks in the distance. The new stranger in the room stood with a trash can in her hand. “I’m here to clean your room,” she said cheerfully. Shaking with excitement, she added: “We won the Super Bowl, hon!”
“Great!” I whispered. “Congratulations!”
“I knew we would win,” the lady went on. She set the trash can down without emptying it. “I knew my Ravens would bring that trophy home. If anyone don’t like it, they can put a ring on it.” She giggled. “This is monumental! Mo-nu-men-tal, hon.”
Her joy touched something inside me. I was thrilled for her. It was as if she had been on that field with Jacoby Jones, running with the football under her own arm for a record 108 yards. She picked up the trashcan again and held it as if it were the Lombardi trophy. “Go Ravens!”
I didn’t speak the words, but was thinking the same: Yes, Go Ravens!
__________________________________________
Thank you, C., for posing for that picture with your Joe Flacco jersey.