Both Sides of the Aisle

Up came the governor in his leather jacket, bomber-brown, flying into unknown territory, off the radar, striding step-by-step on his sortie, gaining altitude to the top of the bleachers, the cheap seats, the fans who stand at the worst times, shouting profanities down, down, down, as though the referees could hear, as though they had surveyed the crowd, as if those voices counted. 

The governor sat down squarely in the aisle, on aluminum steps coated to prevent sliding. He was right next to me. But I watched the game. (Face forward. I always say; don't let them win, don't let them read their own popularity in your expression. I was in my twenties, anyway, and didn't have much to say.) 

He swiveled toward the other side of the aisle: the alumni guys, the complainers, the cynics who kept renewing season tickets and who had an opinion on everything. They cleared their throats in the silence (their collective throats), possibly composing opening lines. Then the governor helped out: "How you guys doin'? Enjoying the game?" They offered to get him a beer, in which he expressed interest but declined. It was the in-state rivalry, so they asked him which was his favorite team ("Oh, come on now, fellas. Don't hold me to an opinion"). 

No one asked about policies or politics. They all watched a couple of downs together. Then he rose, thanked them, and descended out of rarified air. Later, I remember bragging about rubbing shoulders with the governor. But that was about all I did. I'm in an entirely new demographic now, however, and have a few opinions of my own.